Big Basin is a more distant, yet more famous redwoods park than our favorite one in Felton.

A simple obstacle course at Gary's.

Naturally it did not snow by Christmas, and so we did not even go to Kirkwood before Christmas Eve. I was of course telling myself that at least we would not get stuck in the snow like we did last year — and that by New Year's Eve, when we really wanted to be there, it would surely have snowed. (Note: I am writing this journal by the end of January, and it had not snowed yet!)

Instead of skiing, we visited Big Basin Park. I think it had started a December chain of "first instances". This redwood park is located relatively nearby, but there are some seriously pukey switchbacks on the road to it, and it is a way farther beyond our favorite Felton. The kids and Hippo had been there the other day in the fall, but I had not, for the whole thirteen years I have been living here, and I was curious. We walked only the main viewing loop, but it alone was rather pretty, and I'm glad I could finally see it.
(Hippo's note: according to reliable records (bottom paragraphs) we had BOTH visited there twelve years earlier, but that was back when we did not live with the "German").

Hippo went to work on Monday and I had arranged another horse lesson for the kids at Gary's ranch. The children wanted to ride an obstacle course and I got the impression that the mares liked such a program as well, so it was a success. To be more precise — Gary's obstacle course is no Louiseville track, the horses walk through it, and the goal is to succeed in leading the animals past notorious horse-eating traps. Across a hollow-sounding bridge (a shipping pallet), through a narrow gate, under a low overhead gate, near little flags flapping in the wind, colorful flowers, spinning pinwheels, zig-zag between cones, stop and turn on a specific spot, and so on. Then Lisa wanted to practice canter, for which I was glad — and it seemed that she enjoyed the speed, and thus I can definitely dismiss my worries that Coconut's flight had traumatised her somehow.

Lisa is not afraid of speed.

Christmas.

Sid had a day off on Christmas Eve, and thus we just sailed through preparations; I even found time for my Three Nuts for Cinderella, a Czech movie I can't imagine Christmas without. The children baked another batch of cookies — we have a simple recipe for them, and they manage with minimum supervision. We did not put much effort into Christmas cookies this year. I have developed ever more pronounced intolerance to baked goods, and currently am running experiments whether it's gluten in general, or only leavened breads (or more accurately, fake-leavened; it would seem that modern technology manages to skip the night-long process of rising, and many a digestive tract cannot deal with the "half-baked" result). Kids do not over-emphasize sweets and by making their own cookies, they can enjoy the act of unattended baking and creating, without a substantial risk of a disaster (cookies are very error-proof), which we have found quite fitting for a social pressure of Christmas rituals. We had also found time to decorate a ginger-bread house, which had been left around from last year's Christmas on account of our involuntary snowy detention at Kirkwood. Simply put — Christmas could begin.

We ate our dinner and went for a walk. The children winked conspiratorially at me when I declared that I had to go to the bathroom and I would be right back, joining them outside (they know from last year that it's the moment I move our presents under the tree), but then they tried to outdo each other in pointing out a flying Santa in every SJC-bound aircraft in the sky. Well, one of them had to be real, for when we came back home, there were things under the tree! Lisa got a dress and the blasted make-up set, Tom his R-C helicopter and Lego, which he commented (several times) by saying, "hmmmm, many nice pieces." He builds various airplanes from Lego, and more aircraft-oriented blocks could become useful. We also found some books (the two for me were about horses) and practical stuff. An easy evening.

We were lucky at Tehachapi: long trains were running.

Comodo Dragon in mock temple ruins.

On Wednesday we were invited to have lunch with Regina and her family, which was very pleasant — only we had to force our kids to leave, for Tom got immersed into putting together Ríša's Lego train. We still had to go through instructions about the care for our pet hamster — we were leaving for a week and in the end figured that it would be best to leave our hamster at home, and arrange for our friends to visit him occasionally. Our friends own guinea pigs, and after all, a hamster is a different animal, as care goes. Later, Rumiko and Martin had shown up, and the visits turned into several hours, entertaining friends. It was fine, but it had prevented us from packing on our trip.

We don't usually plan our trips much, but we are clear in at least a general direction. This one we had planned in several rounds, and it still somehow kept falling apart. Originally, we wanted to visit with Pája in the South, but she canceled on account of being already visited by their granny for Christmas. So we charted our route to the Hobbits instead, but two days before our departure, Richard wrote us that Michelle went down with a strep throat. Henceforth we kept our options open while approaching Las Vegas, unsure whether to bother them or not at all.

In the meantime we drove out south, stopping in Los Padres for a bit of shooting, and arriving already after dark in Tehachapi's Blue Ginger for a soup dinner. We got an edge room at our favorite motel, so Tom was happy to be able to see trains from the gallery. And indeed, the trains kept going through the night, and while I complained about their horns sounding and general racket, Tom declared that these sounds comforted him, and he continued running out of the room until I ordered him to stay in the bed; he started again in the morning as soon as he opened his eyes.

Tom and the rays.

Lisa on Camelot's battlements.

Obviously we had to visit the Loop in the morning — not having had enough daylight the day before. Richard called us then that he went down himself with the same strep throat, thus devastating a major pillar of our Vegas stop-over — suddenly we had lots of spare time with no commitments. We could linger at the Loop, leisurely stop for lunch at Peggy Sue's in Yermo. Still we made Vegas before six o'clock, and decided to try our luck with the aquarium.

It happens that I had never been to the Strip before, as we usually just drive through Las Vegas, bypassing its main tourist attractions. This time we reckoned that we could check the box next to the item named "casinos" — and found on the internet that Mandalay Bay offers an aquarium with a tunnel under a shark tank, and the famous Bellagio musical fountain (e.g. featured at the end of Ocean's Eleven), plays every half hour regularly, and every fifteen minutes after eigth.

The Friday night traffic jam in the direction of casino parking garages was juicy, but we had eventually found a spot and immersed ourselves in the maze of the entertainment industry. Sharks Reef was open till ten, good. Although spoiled by our Monterey Aquarium, we really liked Sharks Reef. It's obvious that much of the likable comes from the professional level of Vegas's show-business — a Comodo dragon in the backdrop of faux ancient temple, cheerfully polka-dotted rays buzzing among "half-buried treasure chests", a viewing gallery decorated in the shape of a sunken ship wreck — what more can a tourist want? The only misplaced element was a fiery, evangelizing, amplified institutional ecologist, who had turned his accusing finger on me for having an alleged compulsive urge to dine on shark fins (which I'll gladly remain without), thus personally causing the extinction of these beautiful creatures. So I can understand that cutting off shark's fins and throwing it back in the water is an atrocity, but I believe that there must be more appropriate forms of fighting Asian culinary preferences than scalding speeches to a hapless, mostly white, captive audience of a gambling establishment deep within Mohave desert.

Musical fountains in front of Bellagio.

On a new bridge.

The eco-terrorist had spoiled my experience at the ray pool; Tom did not pay him any heed and proceeded to splash with the rays merrily. Meanwhile, Sid took pictures of jellyfish and "flying" manta rays. Thanks to their shape, these elegant creatures really look like flying in the water. At the end, you get to pass through the advertised tunnel. I had seen sharks like this a few times before — but giant sea turtles were new even for me.

After having emerged from the aquarium, we began threading our way to Bellagio, hoping to spot a suitable place for a modest dinner detour. Alas, the bottom tier buffet prices (adult $32, child $25) made us gasp, and we put our dinner idea aside (they are simply pricing themselves out of business). To Tom's delight we had found a free train shuttle, which connects multiple casinos, and took a ride to Excalibur. This in turn made Lisa happy — for she demanded to be photographed with the kitschy castle. I liked perhaps New York New York best, as its interiors with faux down-town alleys seemed a good idea. An inevitable whiff of public bathroom odors authentically underscored the overall metropolitan atmosphere, although I'm not so sure that it was included in the original architect's design. The children had spotted an ice-cream stand, and thus they got gelato for dinner (as we did not yet know that we would not find any better food opportunity that evening). This seemed unfair to me, and thus Hippo and I ventured to a beer pub. And again, we were confronted there with a hard fact of a gambling world: it's not for us — kids are not allowed to enter a restaurant that serves alcohol, and we were forced to huddle with our disposable plastic beer containers in a corner behind some slot machines. Make your own judgment — a view of a young woman dancing while wearing scarcely more than an empty gaze on a podium between the slots is deemed legal and much more appropriate for children than a view of a bar table. Then there was the detail of the two beers alone having cost us more than a lunch for the whole family in some (other) places. Impressive, is it not?

Hoover Dam — a view from the new bridge.

New bridge and the dam.

Refreshed and invigorated, we moved on. A direction arrow lured us into trying to reach another shuttle train to Bellagio, but its real purpose turned out to be taking disoriented guests through endless shopping corridors on a "shortcut" that was in effect much longer that would be stepping out onto the Strip and padding down the sidewalk; the only gain was another ride on a train. We reached the fountain five minutes before eight, just barely managed to run around it to get us a more or less front view, and the music had started. Hippo had to take Lisa up on his shoulders; I helped Tom climb a garbage bin — so thick were the crowds there.

By then our kids began to fade, and we turned on our way back. The shuttle train to Mandalay Bay this time sported a yellowish liquid rolling up and down the floor (strongly smelling of alcohol; apparently somebody had lost a drink there rather than taking a leak — at least so far), to which most of the passengers reacted with humor, but our kids looked a bit scared. Beggars had meanwhile crawled out onto the Strip sidewalks and turned into stumble-ready obstacles — Friday night had truly began. It was highest time to get out of this madhouse.

In Valley of Fire, we simply went out into the rocks, away from crowds.

To our surprise we discovered an unused staircase.

Before we reached our hotel in Henderson, it was almost ten. Kids refused a dinner at this hour and went straight to bed; Hippo drove back to a Subway (which we had spotted on the way there) for sandwiches. We must have had enough, too, for only later that night we noticed that our room was humming strangely. An investigation in the morning had revealed that we had found ourselves right above a "maintenance" room — whatever it is they do there, it makes you feel like your bed is attached to a very decrepit, yet running tank engine. It forced us switch our room after breakfast, which meant moving our stuff one floor up. With a promise of a much quieter night.

Another new attraction awaited us — at least new for me and the kids. Hippo had already been to Hoover Dam, but many years ago. Since then they abolished visits to the interior of the dam via elevators built for such purpose, and to be let anywhere but the top, you have to purchase an (expensive) guided tour. Then again they have built a new freeway bridge, relieving the crown of the dam of the summary traffic between Nevada and Arizona. What's more, as we discovered on our first stop, the view of the dam from the new bridge is rather awesome.

Then we drove on to the dam proper, where you have to pay for parking, and where you also have to endure a horribly slow crawl in the line of other cars through the maze of a multi-level parking garage. At last — we had found a spot and nothing more prevented us from a walk over the dam. The border between Nevada and Arizona runs through the middle of the dam, and since they each reside in a different time zone, clocks on the respectively located intake towers show different times.

Sunset on red rock truly paints an illusion of fire.

Setting sun also means that we have to return from this mysterious canyon back to the parking lot.

And as the clock on the Nevada side was showing noon, while the Arizona side stood at one o'clock, we reckoned that it was time for lunch. We left this tourist spot behind us, and drove away to Lake Mead, thus the water held by the dam. There, we found a suitable, relatively deserted lake-view parking lot, and had a picnic. Lake Mead reflected the blue skies, which in reddish hues of the surrounding deserts and mountains created an interesting contrast.

Later, we proceeded along the lake's shores, taking pictures of interesting landscapes, including a mini-Ayers rock right next to the road. Well, it's not as much rock as it is a heap of red dirt, but the kids rejoiced and rushed to climb on top of it. Farther on we found proper red rocks, sandstone full of holes like Emmentaler cheese.

We made it in the end all the way to the Valley of Fire state park. Unprepared for heavy crowds after our lonely trip to the desert surrounding Lake Mead, we were also surprised by this park's entrance fee system. It's run by the state, so our annual permit to all national parks does not mean a thing there. That much I can understand. But on the Lake Mead end, they use the self-registration caper, making you put exact dollar change into an envelope — which has a detachable flap; you place it behind your windshield, while you drop the rest (with money) into a slotted tube. What can you do, however, being two hours drive away from the nearest town, without cash, the closer route leading through the fee zone? It's not so clear. Hence we entered the park without paying — we did have the will and the wealth, but not the physical means.

Kids, who did not want to hike anywhere, spent several hours running in the deep sand.

Crest trail to the highest dune.

Soon we left a completely crowded parking lot behind us, and drove on with a vague plan to go for a walk at some less exposed spot. A turn-off to "The Cabins" seemed promising — although it ended with another crowded parking lot. Most tourists managed to climb some thirty feet uphill to the historical stone-made cabins of the Corps of Engineers from 1930's, took their selfies there, and headed back to their cars. We ventured over the nearest rocky ridge. In a side ravine, Hippo found a small arch on a nearby rock, and decided to take a picture. By then we were out of a direct line of sight from the cabins, and to our surprise, the opposite side of the canyon contained some rock steps. Simply in the middle of the desert without human tracks, there was a stone staircase. We let it lure us onto a mysterious abandoned trail — and it paid off. After another turn we reached a deep pool — thanks to the long-lasting drought, rather just a thick puddle, but if it rains, the place must be beautiful — a steep red wall, and a waterfall into a deep well.

This naturally explains the existence of the trail and the stairs, although long unused. The path continued up above the pool — and we found ourselves in a similar landscape like in our favorite Hidden Canyon in Zion. A dried creek bed among bizarre rock formations indicated a relatively obvious direction for our hike, and we let it lead us on. Too bad the days are so short in winter, for the sun illuminated only the tips of faraway rocks directly, and unless we'd want to wander through an unfamiliar desert in the dark, we were bound to backtrack our own footsteps soon.

We had no trouble figuring out what to have for dinner. We know an excellent Thai restaurant in North-west Las Vegas, and so it became our choice — although it represented a trip across the whole city back to our hotel. We bypassed the Strip as usual that night, being glad to get to our beds.

Hippo waving a white flag on top.

I would not have believed that sand can form a stable slope this steep.

On the next day we were up to a relatively long journey, having had reserved a motel room in Lone Pine. We stopped for Zabriskie Point in Death Valley, where Lisa made faces that she had already been there, refusing to enjoy the scenery. The reason was simple — we had promised her sand dunes and she wanted to go there. Back when we were planning what to do in Death Valley, Hippo and I had suggested several different hikes, but our kids rejected them all, saying that there was no way they would go out on a hike. So we promised them they would not, and waited how it develops.

Our expectations got fulfilled — at the sight of dunes, both Tom and Lisa gave a battle yell and rushed forth at a hard-to-believe pace. They stopped only to take off their shoes, and proceeded to run up and down the sand waves, rolling down slopes, jumping in the soft sand, digging and burrowing — all the while we padded patiently toward the highest dune. It does not look it, but the hill is not really near, and when you consider the added effort of walking while you sink ankle deep into the sand, it amounts to a pretty strenuous hike. Fortunately, the children had not noticed.

I was surprised how actually tall the highest dune was, and how steep the sand slope was on the downwind side — the kids naturally loved the approximate hundred feet of sheer drop-off, and continued digging and rolling in the sand there. Hippo and I relaxed and picked our return trajectory. We could see from our high vantage point that it was possible to traverse the sandy maze on a route much shorter and comfortable than one chosen from below. Besides, in practice it turned out that in the areas where tourists had not trodden recently, we could take pictures of natural sand patterns made by wind.

Wind patterns in the sand.

Alabama Hills combine beautiful views and pleasant climbing.

About two thirds of the way back, my feet began to hurt. Not from wearing out sole skin, how I was afraid, and my legs (calves, thighs) did not start aching (for we haven't walked that much again) — it was the bridge of my foot. So I humbly put my shoes back on, and thought a little about how very soft we have become that we can't even walk barefoot for long. Tom and Hippo waited up for me — and since I got into my shoes on one of the few hard, sandless spots — a baked bottom of a clay puddle — it so happened that Lisa got separated from us. She hopped merrily toward the parking lot, and when we climbed the nearest dune, we could not see her anywhere.

We could not see her even after passing over another sandy ridge, and another. By then I was becoming mildly nervous; the sun was setting and I did not like the idea of searching for my daughter within several square miles of hard-to-navigate sand dunes. Fortunately, Lisa had taken the simplest action there was — she waited at the parking lot. You see, my next nightmare would be her, having reached the parking lot, not finding us there, and going back to look for us and getting lost subsequently. Well, all ended well, and in a few hours we were eating pizza in Lone Pine (everybody) and drinking beer (adults).

When Lisa made the top...

...Tom agreed to do it, too.

We slept at our favorite Best Western. Alas, it's generally popular, and it seems to us that they had not yet learned from the past — their breakfast remains the same disaster as it always has been. Their tiny breakfast room simply cannot accommodate all guests at once and the staff cannot keep up with the demand for food, although it's just a self-serve buffet. Fortunately, we still remember food queues and assertive behavior from our totalitarian past; we even claimed a whole table just for us!

Alabama Hills was our morning's destination, with climbing and a picnic. Even Hippo tried to climb; Tom got convinced to finish a whole route. Tom happens to be afraid of heights, but when we practically rope-levered Lisa up to the top (yes, in one spot Hippo simply pulled her up), Tom agreed to try it as well. I think that the mere fact he could do it helped him with his anxiety. Then we just dithered among the bizarre rocks for a while, but it was about time to head north.

In Bishop we replenished our food supplies, and reached Kirkwood in the evening. The plan was to celebrate New Year's Even there like in the previous years. Unfortunately, due to the lack of snow we were left there on our own in the end; even Kovars did not want to waste their time off on such miserable skiing. Our whole new year's break had not worked out for us, as far as friends were concerned. It's not that we would not enjoy our family as the only company, but it would have been more fun with other people.

Cacti at Alabama Hills.

Fireworks.

We did ski on New Year's Eve, I had even set out cross-country. It was more a cross-country hike than skiing; in one spot I had to cross a thirty feet wide stripe of grass, and the rest of the track wasn't exactly beautiful — you had to get around bald spots. Despite conditions being so poor, women-drones checking people's passes were present in force.

Actual celebrations were first class this year. Instead of flaming emergency torches, the downhill parade was organized with LED-based necklaces and light-sabers, but since the staff decided to distribute left-over decorations at the foot of the slope, Tom managed to collect one of the sabers, making it all a big success. The fireworks followed right after the parade; no delays and speeches like last year. And the fire show was magnificent. And the staff was distributing cookies and hot chocolate, while the celebrations (probably) continued later in the bar, but we fell into our "cottage" and taught our kids to play Scrabble. They went to bed at ten, and Hippo and I followed soon thereafter, not waiting for midnight.

Our very early plans counted on me staying behind with the children at Kirkwood till the end of their vacations (i.e. the end of following week), but given the situation with snow, we did not round up any friends, and so we all drove back home. Honestly — after a whole week of road-tripping and a full pile of activities — we shot, climbed, hiked and skied, and had visited many new locations — I was rather glad to return to MY OWN bed.