Rejected kids need to be fed every two or three hours.

Goat whisperer.

As Bizzard and Tuxedo, two rejected goat boys, needed bottle-feeding in two-hour intervals, our life consisted of sudden jerking motions, when we drove to the ranch to feed. We really did not have to, but the owner was glad to sometimes get back home to her family. And our two children did not get tired of the baby goats; to the contrary, after days when we ordered ourselves a mandatory goat-free pause, they goaded me to go back there.

One can experience lots of fun with the goats. They are naturally curious, and all you need to to is sit down, and the animals would come to check out what the two-legged creature is up to again — and they don't really care if you're just feeding their rejected sibling, writing your homework, or just came to rest in the chair. The goats surround you and demand petting, scratching and general attention.

There were, alas, also some less uplifting moments. Oreo, a boy goat named for his coat spots forming a black-white-black cookie sandwich, stopped using one of his front legs one morning. He was jumping on three legs and the veterinarian said that he had probably pinched some nerve. She did not find broken bones, nor any other symptoms of an illness. In the evening Oreo walked normally again. Yet in two more days we had found him lying cold and forgotten in a corner in the morning — and paralyzed in both front legs. He got a bottle, and Pixie, his mother, kept coming to lick him on his head, but did not know any better either. The vet took all kinds of samples and then we waited for results. Nothing. Oreo got antibiotics and analgesics. The pain injections were the only thing that he responded to, being able to walk jerkily, and show interest in food and his surroundings.

Baby goats are apparently enjoying the children's affection.

Tom and Licorice.

Oreo had never learned to drink from a bottle; we had to spray milk into his mouth, then he would swallow it. The whole process would easily take forty five minutes, repeated every two or three hours, and so we had to take turns feeding him, whoever was available at the time. Besides Oreo, the orphan goats had to be fed as well, and the whole affair was really time-consuming. Especially if you consider regular household chores and the fact that the (human) kids still went to school and had homework to do.

After five days it began to be obvious that Ori won't make it; his ailment had been worsening and he lost ability to not only stand up, but even hold up his head. On Friday, April 17, he had even trouble breathing. I gave him an injection of benamin (against pain), I did not even think twice. Still I did not have the nerve to stab him in his neck muscle, and so he got it in his buttock, but I simply was the only two-legged one around and available. After the shot Oreo gathered his strength enough to protest that I began feeding the orphans and not him, and insisted on being placed in his favorite corner of the run, from which he could see the other goats. I pushed another round of milk into him by noon, and said my good-byes. I had planned another visit on early Saturday morning, but in fact I was hoping it would not be necessary. And so it was not — Ori died on Friday afternoon.

Oreo.

April heat.

All this had been somewhat instructive for me. One lives with the notion that "it's better to end it so that the animal does not suffer", but suddenly a disabled baby goat, who welcomes you when you come visit, changes this whole concept. For the first few days we waited for the test results; during the following days we were waiting for a miracle — perhaps the antibiotics would take. On the last day it was quite clear how hopeless the case was, and still I found it a worse option, a trip to a vet and subsequent killing of Ori (all euphemisms with putting to sleep seem somewhat misplaced and awkward). It would have been more convenient for us, saving us time otherwise spent with the baby goat and the necessity of several trips to the ranch every day. Oreo resisted being put in a crate up to the last moment, wanting to be outside with his herd — so this was the only and last thing we could do for him. We could not do more, but I'm glad we did no less.

I kept Ori's death secret from the children till the next day. Lisa had a theater performance on Friday night, for which she had rehearsed during last several months. She played one of the major characters, and really looked forward to it, and had a stage fever, and I did not want to complicate the situation. Our family took turns seeing the two evening shows, Tom and I brought Lisa in and saw the first performance, while Sid took our place for the second, bringing our tired actress back home. The play was about a bashful dragon, a relatively shallow musical in the production of elementary school students, but again I was quite amazed how the kids managed to get organized and DELIVER.

A crayfish.

Lisa playing Green Pea.

Now I had skipped a bit; let's return to March turning into April. The weather was rather April-like. On one side we had a few really hot days, with temperatures in high eighties, and then suddenly it gets cold again, and our heating turns on and we reach for our fleeces. So for example our swimming pool has been unusable, never getting warm enough. Yet the kids require some splashing, and so we went to check out San Lorenzo River. We were not the only fools at the beach, there were at least two more families there, and one of the boys had caught a huge crayfish. What an opportunity for all the kids, as they could inspect it up-close, and for a while they kept building pools on the river's edge for it, before releasing it again into the stream.

Our Czecho-Slovak company had organized a trip to Pinnacles; one needs to go early in the season, before it gets too hot there, and also before protected bats begin to nest in the caves — then the caves become off-limits. The volume of people at the park was surprising, but it's true that it was time of spring vacations, and Easter as well. We had counted on having to park our cars at the entrance and using a shuttle bus. We did not expect the situation to be as critical as to require a reservation for the said bus. A ranger informed us that since our group had thirteen members, we would have to wait approximately an hour before a bus becomes available. Eventually it all went rather smoothly — a bus had arrived, its driver said he had seven seats available, we had loaded that part of our expedition, and the rest of us would fit in the next bus, ten minutes later. I understand the need to organize things for several thousands of weekend visitors of this tiny park, but I think this time they were a little too dramatic.

Waiting for a bus in Pinnacles.

Forward!

The trip was a success; kids roamed in the caves and on a rock over a reservoir, where we stopped for a long lunch break. Juniors refused to return by the usual round-about way, for we had to go back to the caves, but at least they did not get obnoxious about not wanting to hike. After all, hike is a four-letter word, but visiting caves is something completely different than hiking. Back at the base parking lot, the minor participants received icecream, and the adult ones discovered a sudden affinity to beer. After considering the options (buy a can of elk piss in the campground mini-store), we concluded that we would drive a bit to the hamlet of Tres Pinos, which sports several bars, and get our beer from a tap.
Sitting on a deck with a real beer has eventually stretched out to the point when our pack of children made too much mischief, and would have been generally more acceptable, were it not for our credit card being cloned. The local bar custom is to leave your card at the bar, where they keep a tab, and eventually charge you (but you won't leave without paying), yet on the next day, our account began showing charges in Texas and Florida, leading us to closing it down (apparently, somebody at the bar has managed to write down or photograph our numbers).

Our bag of fleas has spilled a bit.

Garrapata — poppies.

I returned back to Pinnacles with Pavel and Matt on the following weekend, to climb rocks. I have not done so outdoors for a half year, and I was adequately worried how I'd fare. On top of it, this was one of the hot days, which in the desert landscape of Pinnacles tends to get to you. We had arrived so early in the morning that we were spared the hassle with buses and could drive up to the end of the road. Matt had come up with the idea that the area of Upper Crust might be in shade, and thus we had spent a refreshing morning on LESS KNOWN routes. Pinnacles is one of our nearest climbing areas, and we have climbed the most popular things many, many times over. In the afternoon, we moved on to Monolith, where I got myself a treat in the form of finishing a route, where I normally max out my powers, without resting on the rope. Coming back down we jumped on Discovery Wall and tried some 5.11a (Between a Rock and a Hard Place). I did not get exceptional there, but at least I've been through now.

Driving back home, I suggested a beer stop — Pavel was squirming that had work to do, and Matt was not sure, but eventually both chaps admitted that cooling off your fingers on a frosted mug after a whole day of climbing is rather enticing.

Hippo with the children had climbed up Garrapata on this day, for many flowers bloom there this time of the year. It's been less intense now due to the drought, but still they said they had enjoyed the trip.

A butterfly at Garrapata.

Lisa at Garrapata.

Together we then did some beach trips and visited Felton (San Lorenzo River) again — we would combine Lisa's Saturday ponies, or general goating, with continuing along highway 17 across Santa Cruz Mountains. We even tried to extend along Bear Creek Road, away from the freeway. This narrow road takes you through the same mountains, but is full of switchbacks, and thus only for strong minds (and stomachs). Yet given a situation when the freeway is jammed, knowing it pays off.

I had managed to fit yet another climbing session within the month of April, at Castle Rock. I seem to have turned into an old, cranky woman, but cheerful parties of youngsters toting selfie-sticks blasting their loud music, bother me among the rocks. Fortunately for me, Pavel seems to age as well, and thus we removed ourselves to Lyme Disease Rock, climbing (almost) everything what's offered by this spire in peace. In combination with Pinnacles, I have to say that I'm happy being in a better shape than a year ago, despite my recent onset of a bout of common cold. That is — I was, until I felt a crack somewhere in my hand, and as a result I have to tape it a bit, and avoid loading my left pinkie.

Now looking back at it all, we had managed to cover a lot in April, which (I hope) would also explain my gap in writing these journals. I'm afraid that May won't be any different, we have already made our plans for most of the weekends, and I got myself entangled in volunteering around the stables and goats, and I really can't seem to keep up.