All children shot arrows from a bow.

At the beginning of October, brothers Raphael and Joachim, friends of our children's, celebrate their birthdays. I think it's nice of those two to get born with an almost exactly two year offset, and so their parents can organize just one party every year. On the other hand, they celebrate it more thoroughly. In previous year, the party had a Robin Hood theme; this year they put together a treasure hunt in a local park.

Throughout the afternoon, the kids had been assembling a map leading to a find of a treasure chest. Depicted here with winning teams.

The children relay-raced on scooters, carried water in their mouths into jars (a very popular task — when do they ever get permission, nay, DIRECTIVE to spit?). They walked blindfolded, tried to hit a bucket with a ball, and eventually searched for clues with GPS and a compass. I personally found interesting how at ages under ten, the kids are still unable to cooperate or follow instructions (three simple hints, written down on a paper) consistently. A small group would always heedlessly spurt in a random direction (typically following the loudest or fastest member), disappearing in the distance, from whence we had to call them back and reiterate the task's definition. Recalling summer camps of my childhood, I have a feeling that back then, kids this small had always competed in a mass game as a whole detail (under the guidance of someone older), or individually — we were only able to form small teams once we approached puberty. Perhaps the old "pioneer youth" had had it worked out then.

All these children were able to disperse inside Monterey Aquarium grounds.

Our school had organized two field trips at the start of October — a visit to Marine Center in Redwood City for third-graders, and Monterey Aquarium for fourth-graders. I would typically sign up as a chaperon, and get randomly selected (or not), but this time I found myself attending both trips in a short space of time. I had never been to the Marine Center (and of course, I forgot my camera at home). They are quite well prepared for school visits. They started by letting the students pull a fishing net out of the bay, and examine what got caught in it. There was a lecture on plankton, sharks, and a tub full of little coastline crabs and shrimps; topped off by a lecture about garbage and its destructive effects on marine life. In this context I found it absurd that the school had instructed parents to give children their lunches in disposable paper bags. The result was, we all ate our food after the garbage lecture and took back home several bags of refuse. Had the school permitted the children to bring regular reusable lunch boxes, it would have been much more educational.

Under the obligatory waterfall.

The four-grader's trip to the Aquarium was eagerly anticipated mostly by the children; the teachers seemed rather frightened to me. They had my sympathy — the aquarium grounds are vast, with several levels, convoluted, and with many exhibits in near darkness (deep sea critters would not thrive well in full daylight), yet I would not feel so wary about four-graders getting lost. All four parallel classes were there, and we kept bumping into each other all the time.

Hippo and the kids hiked around Kirkwood Lake.

Splitting into small groups was merciful; I had received five boys in my care together with another mom, and that was easy. I took charge and we skipped the first exhibit at hand (momentarily crowded by the rest of the aforementioned hundred children from four classes), and thus we subsequently moved at ease and out of phase of all major clusters. And since it was a weekday outside any holidays or vacations, we had not encountered many other visitors either. The boys had a chance and time to check everything out, there was no waiting and jams, and it turned out a great trip. Still I had had enough at the end of the day.

Still in the afternoon I had to finish packing our stuff for Kirkwood. Our annual, seasonal rental of a condo had been arranged, we only needed to supply firewood for the winter. Thanks to our glorious government throwing a tantrum worthy of a two-year old toddler, closing all federal parks and subsequently ranger stations (yet somehow never disturbing comrade president's golfing schedule — oh no, punishment had to be directed onto those who affect the federal budget about as much as as they control Vermont squirrels' mating habits), we had no way to obtain permits to cut firewood trees.

We had not reached the Round Top summit (background left), only this namesake lake.

We had dawdled about how to work it out with wood, until it suddenly happened — on Thursday I had a lunch with Vendula and Jana, and towards the end of our meal Jana started asking whether we would this year still do a ladies-only mountain hiking trip — and that was that. Jana got a leave from her family, Vendula and I got a promise of our respective families' participations, and I tracked down Suchýš in the afternoon, who had a friend in the Sierra Nevada, whose buddy sells wood. In the end we agreed that Ryan would deliver it — if we were to pay for strong-enough truck and trailer rental, plus gas, it would amount to about the same.

A great view to landscape near Kirkwood, approx. 7,500 feet altitude. Caples Lake to the right.

And so I was packing on Friday afternoon and on Saturday we set out to Kirkwood. We had split up at the "cottage" — the girls and I went for the hike, Pavel mounted his bike, and Hippo with the kids went to see Kirkwood Lake. The guys and the children returned back by four o'clock to pay and store the wood, and I got chased up the mountain by the girls.

Round Top is a rather significant hill near Carson Pass, fortunately accessible over a more or less level trail. Alas, we had started at two hundred sixty feet elevation that morning, and now we found ourselves at seven and half thousand; I was huffing and puffing like a steam engine. In the end, weather came to rescue my reputation, providing an effective excuse not to completely ascend to the (Round) Top. You see, we were not adequately clothed for the existing cold — we had gradually donned all available dawn jackets and gloves, and I had not regretted at any point of the hike that I was wearing long warm underwear under my trousers. Even Jana got eventually discouraged by a look to the ravine leading to the Top, where wind was playing in frosty snow banks.

We hiked a Kirkwoodu slope that we normally scale on a lift.

Having remembered our dining crisis of the previous year, we had reserved a dinner table at Kirkwood Inn, even managed to fit everybody in our bus, thus being able to consume (many a) beer. For Sunday I had planned to climb with Pavel, but we woke up amongst the kids rejoicing, as snow had fallen everywhere outside. Only an inch or so, but it was obvious that the rocks would be at least wet. The access road got closed for all non-four-wheel-drive traffic without chains — naturally, we carry chains in our bus, but we really did not want to slip or rattle with them anywhere, when there was a real chance that the emergency would be over by noon. And hence we ended doing a second hike on Sunday — this time within the ski park. Lisa has apparently turned after granny, for high elevations seem to suit her; she kept running ahead. We split again on top of Caples Crest — Kovars and Jana continued towards Emigrant Lake, and our family headed home — we wanted to use the warmest and best lighted part of the day to drive away with our bus, and avoid darkness and slippery mountain turns.

Druhá Tráva in Los Gatos.

On the following weekend we immersed ourselves in a cultural experience for a change. After two years absence, Druhá Tráva had come back to California, and knowing it ahead of time, we worked out ways to go to a concert. The kids had won out — a sleepover at Bryce's, and to make things easier, we had invited Rumiko and Bryce to have dinner at our house. Then we helped our kids to change into their pajamas, and Rumiko drove them just a few streets away — and we headed to Los Gatos, into a music show with a small concert hall named The Woodshed.

The first surprise came right in the entrance — we had expected at least some familiar faces or somebody—anybody speaking Czech — and did not find them. Really: except for a single lady who seemed to be associated with one of the musicians, everybody spoke exclusively English. It would seem that The Woodshed is a folk music dive for experts, and their concerts are frequented by a loyal clientèle, for the organizers keep inviting interesting bands. Our neighbor in the audience had admitted to be be a dobro player, and came to see Luboš Novotný play it.

While Carol was climbing near Mount Saint Helena, Hippo and the kids ventured to the Big Basin state park, which offers giant redwoods.

The concert was quite professional, and if I may judge, being a layman, Woodshed seems to have a good acoustics and a good sound engineer. The audience was ecstatic, and the last applause turned into a standing ovation; I do think quite deserved by the musicians.

Kids found this natural swing on a trail.

In the following morning I was leaving with Pavel to climb at Mt. Saint Helena, and Sid got up with me, going to pick up and bring back our kids from Rumiko's. I had never climbed at Helena, only jealously watched others scrambling up a bubbly rock. Now I finally got a chance, and I held onto it, talking Pavel into coming along. Helena is located more than two hours drive away from our home, and one has to hike some more to the climbing area, and that's a bit inconvenient. I would like to mention here that my understanding of well defined trail apparently quite deviates from what the guide-book authors had in mind. I think that we would not gotten lost, had they written, close to the road's left turn, watch a rocky bank carefully and try to squeeze between bushes uphill; if it seems more or less passable, you may have found it. Eventually we had found The Bear and had fun climbing. That is, some of us had fatally tired themselves climbing; the Bear is generally overhung, and the holes in the rock sport insidious crystals that incredibly bite in your fingers.

For several hours, our stay was enhanced by the presence of a group of youngsters, who appeared to be of exceptionally high intelligence. They also had been everywhere and seen everything, addressing each other "dude" about three times in every sentence, and being generally loud. By the time it took us to finish five routes, they had completed two, yet had practically topped Everest if you could only hear (but not see) them. I guess I was feeling quite old and sour — but later that afternoon, another group of young'uns has arrived, who behaved normally, not like teenagers on a field trip — so perhaps it wasn't me.

Tom's 10th birthday — with Brownie the hamster.

Tom's birthday fell on Thursday this year. He's reached the age that already resists our pressure to move his party to the nearest weekend, and thus we celebrated in on a weekday. Poor Tom had made sure several times that I was going to keep my promise and not leave in the evening to climb at the gym — it seems that my kids take my climbing even more seriously than I do. My son had picked Shana for his birthday dinner, and later back at home we gave him presents and diamonds (our home pastry). The presents included a trio of scientific experiment kits (a vinegar/baking soda propelled rocket, a semi-gem dig, and a volcano-at-home), a book (which he finished within about two days) and Lego Minecraft that he had picked himself.

Lisa in Rubik's basket, experiencing her first balloon flight.

We did move a party with friends to the next week, for right on Friday following Tom's birthday we left for Coalinga to a ballooning rally "WHAMOBASS". We remember Coalinga from long ago relatively unfavorably (mostly about the absence of any decent restaurant in the vicinity) — but it is an ideal location for autumn balloon flying, and that's a great plus. Naturally right before reaching our destination, we had a marriage crisis — we got mildly lost, I had found us on a map and began to navigate Hippo, whereupon he wanted to stop and study the map himself. I am aware of the perception that women can't really read maps, yet I am convinced that I am a unique exception to that rule and besides, Hippo has been married for thirteen years and should understand that even an exceptional and amazing wife like me, has her limits. Thus I retained my control over the map and forced Hippo to suffer through the last five miles of the way having to only rely on my navigation; he had no other choice than trust me.

WHAMOBASS alleges to be the world's longest continually held annual ballooning rally.

We got up at five forty five in the morning, only one hour earlier than we do otherwise — which was quite an improvement over getting up by four at Reno. Furthermore, our hotel was serving breakfast since five o'clock, so we quietly ate, and some of us could prepare for the upcoming day with a mighty dose of caffeine.

Making it in time to the sports field of the local college, we could watch the official firing of an anvil marking the opening of the rally. The ballooning people simply defy the regular population behavioral patterns and sometimes come with ideas that make happy every child between ages three and a hundred. After the festive bang, unpacking the balloons could commence. Our team's work got only slightly complicated by the presence of children and puppies. Lisa at first rushed toward small cute doggies, but then began screaming when the doggies returned the favor and enthusiastically jumped on her. And the more Lisa squealed, the the more thrilled the puppies were, taking it all for an awesome game, jumping more, thus making Lisa squeal more yet — until somebody else with a greater authority interjected and unknotted the whole bunch.

This time, many local children eagerly participated in packing the envelope.

We chased the balloon on local roads, and during an intermission landing, Jennifer boarded me and our kids. Thus actually came to pass Lisa's very first free flight — Tom had flown already in September, and was an old hand, but Lisa kept exclaiming and waving to people who emerged from their houses in the residential subdivision below us. Jenn landed in a cotton field right behind the last line of houses, and when the main chase vehicle caught up with up, we tethered the balloon and Jenn gave rides to local interested parties until we ran out of propane.

Tom seriously discusses something with pilot Mike during balloon build-up.

A brunch followed at an impromptu campground among the pilots' motor-homes. It was a beautiful day for sitting around and chatting; the kids and the puppies were running around, Tom had broken out his semi-precious stone dig set, and actually extracted several rather pretty rocks out of a sand brick. In the afternoon we collapsed at the hotel for a moment to catch up with the early morning deficit, and then returned for dinner — again in a potluck style.

On Sunday there was only one, shorter flight, and after breakfast we did not hang out — we were bound to check out of the hotel by noon, and before that, pack and bathe. Our afternoon took us along a detour through California Valley with our shooting turn-off, which is so much more enjoyable than dark, claustrophobic indoor shooting ranges.

The kids had a holiday on the following Friday, and so we took Tom's friends first to a lunch at a Vietnamese restaurant, and then ice skating. Luckily, our friends seem to appreciate such relatively exotic cuisine more than some greasy pizza, and all the kids know how to skate, thus it was fun. Iris, mother of Joachim and Raphael, was not skating on account of her injured foot, but at least she held the fort, dispensing snacks and drinks, tying and loosening skating bootlaces as needed, and comforting downed little skaters. I think that in the end, everybody was satisfied — the kids had fun on a day off, and Tom had celebrated his birthday with friends.