Ned had arrived only after New Year.

A view from Kirkwood ridge to the west.

We had planned skiing with Igor at Kirkwood on New Year's Eve. The resort has a fireworks show and a torch downhill parade right after sunset, and thus true athletes and old geezers (such as myself) can be easily in their beds by ten o'clock. We reserved a motel room in Woodfords with Ol' Ron, and on Monday the 31st we set out from home.

That trip take use usually all morning, but a look at the forecast (thirty and windy), we told ourselves we would not mind skiing only in the afternoon. Well; just on the parking lot, an icy wind bit into us with such fury we had to cheer each other up to even head toward the lift. Long lifts were on wind hold, one could only reach half of the slope — and even then we were getting off with rattling teeth. After five rides even I admitted that continuing this way would be silly, and that we would do better getting settled at our motel and meeting Igor (by the way — not even Russians considered such weather suitable for skiing!).

Lots of snow fell in the mountains.

Abundant precipitation manifests itself in our parts by fresh green grass.

Having gradually thawed at the hotel, we discovered from Kirkwood website that the evening's fireworks and parade were canceled — which was no surprise at all. Honestly, even if it were not canceled, I doubt that we would be foolish enough to stand for an hour in the dark under the slop in howling wind and chill. True, the afternoon and the evening spent in a motel room felt a bit boring; kids tried to build and maintain a campfire outside, but did not last even there.

The first day of the year two thousand nineteen was a little bit more bearable. Kirkwood still did not run all the lifts, but the snow got blown into nice, soft heaps. Wind died down a little, and so we returned to the slope even after lunch. I got a surprise in the shape of a text message by Craig, who had let me know that "will bring your horse tomorrow". You see, for the whole autumn we could not find a suitable day when Craig could drive an eight hundred mile round trip, while I would at the same time reside in California (and not, for example, in Europe), and thus could accept Ned. I tried to call him around Christmas, but did not reach him (they were on vacation), and so I kind of gave it up for this season, thinking that we'll simply save money. And now this.

So I began organizing that Pam, the stable manager, could take Neddie over from Craig, for we had already paid for our ski passes and accommodations, Sid had taken time off his work, and so on. Pam agreed, Craig agreed to hand over Ned, and I prayed for everything to work out, and proceeded to organize entertainment in the form of visitors for Ned before I get back from the mountains. I also tried to arrange for Craig and I to get together somewhere on the way — his easiest path from his ends to Bay area led along the 88, the same highway where Kirkwood and our motel is located. Ned nixed this plan, as he had led Craig in the morning on a merry chase around the pasture, and totally refused to take into account all explanations that he was going to go on winter spa stay, and did not let himself get caught. They drove out across the range so late, we were long on the slopes by then.

Tom in Thundersaddle.

Eclipse of the Moon.

I had arranged this complicated transport for Ned also because according to the forecast, next week should bring some bad weather, and it would become impossible to take the horse through the passes then. This way, Craig's trip happened during fair weather — even at Kirkwood, above eight thousand feet, it was so nice that we dared to take off our gloves and take a few pictures. And we could also ski a few locations on the mountain's back side, Thundersaddle and some terrains. On Thursday night we had a dinner in Minden and on Friday we stopped for some more skiing on our way back home. We did not want to risk the weekend, as we got spoiled by weekdays, when you can park right near the lift and there are no waiting lines. And I was, of course, hurrying to see my horse.

Subaru celebrates an anniversary.

Entrance to goat stables.

I must admit that Ned seems a lot less happy to have moved this year. One factor certainly was that he got unloaded to unfamiliar people (while I was up in the mountains), and into a new environment — for this season, I had secured a paddock in the "bowl" — in the middle of the stables, next to his buddy Cash. During three previous winters, Ned lived out on a detached hill over the stables. It had its advantages, like I could release him onto a patch of grass right in front of his paddock, but there were drawbacks. Four paddocks for total seven horses there are directly visible from a busy county road, OUT of sight from the rest of the stables, so one keeps on worrying when some well-meaning feeders cause my horse's colic (no, horses don't really need carrots or apples, much less bread, or even sugar lumps), and how long it would take for somebody to notice the horse fell injured or ill. At the main stables, where lots of horse people circulate every day, folks usually spot injuries, ecstatic unattended food-offering families, fallen fences, empty water troughs and similar troubles. Just inside January I managed to encounter a collapsed mare cast into a fencing (she had survived it — with some stitches), an old mare that lied down wrong way on a sun-warmed slope and then could not get up, and two fallen fences (one at Ned's).

Santa Cruz Mountains.

A Saanen goat did not get discouraged by snow.

I see the other reason why Ned might have not liked the move in the fact he came to our stables really late in the year — and thus had spent too long on Craig's pasture. Ned definitely prefers goofing around with buddies over work and duties — but, alas, at his age it's not very good for him. Ned's has thin soles, long toes and low heels, and needs periodic care of a farrier. So too bad, instead of a winter vacation, he's got a spa stay, albeit with convalescent care, regular pedicure, and exercise.

Just as I finished, with a substantial and pricey cooperation of a farrier and a vet, Ned's feet back into shape, my dear horsey decide that he liked this intensive care, and got himself a crazy swelling on his belly. It started with a bald spot the side of a hand, which spread out into the size of a forearm, framed by a nasty swelling. First I took it lightly, horses get sometimes bitten by various insects, and soon it disappears — but as this was getting worse, I turned again to the vet and chemistry. She could also check out Ned's bed sore — as he gets up on a relatively hard ground, he keeps bruising his hock. The vet said I could try buying some boots or wraps — or I could tape it over with duct tape. So now I have a horse taped together for a few cents, and it seems working. And I bought Ned a heap of cedar chips for a soft lying down in his paddock. Now only a TV set and a few cute nurses and it would really be like in a spa resort. I hope that Ned had thus exhausted his supply of maladies and problems, and that he returns back into a mode of only moderately expensive horse.

A palm tree.

A snowman at the latitude of North Africa.

In the meantime, nature has come down hard on us, giving us above-average precipitation — so much above-average that even politicians began to slowly notice, and it would seem that California ceased to be officially in a state of emergency due to ongoing catastrophic drought. Already last year, it snowed total over 40 feet, a level we had reached at the start of March this year. Naturally, such snow endowment is great, but as a consequence our skiing gets complicated just as with a lack of snow. Maybe more — roads and resorts are intermittently closed, not offering as many opportunities to use our season passes. Fortunately we caught a rather good window at the times of school break, which our children have logically at the end of January, and we had managed to take three days between storms and ski Kirkwood through and through. We had to pick good spots a little, where snow had not melted and re-frozen, or got blown away. It upset us when we discovered a beautiful, powder packed slope on a Thursday — and subsequently on Friday it had a cross-road carved six feet deep — crossing it twice from side to side. I still have not figured out the purpose of such travesty — unless, it was to piss off skiers.

Having returned home from the mountains, our Subaru's odometer read 199,999 miles. No, I did not resolve to drive around the block to spin it up to a full two hundred thousand, for that I was too tired. While we're glad that our wagon has lasted to reach such round milestone, we are a bit worried that it could follow the path of our Shroedinger's bus.

Brownie has his opinion about snow.

Road to Kirkwood.

Snow-covered mountains apparently did not satisfy Mother Nature, and thus she bestowed us with snow right down to our level. Or rather, above some thousand feet of elevation, so it did not snow right on our house, but at our goats, some seven miles south, even a snow man could be built. In the end it all turned into an impromptu party at the stables, with coffee and scrambled eggs. Adults, too, can rejoice over a few inches of unexpected snow! Goaties were a lot less enthusiastic, except for Sheila, the Saanen goat. That breed originates from Alps, and snow does not frustrate them. Sheila, who grew up in California, has probably never seen snow before; yet she was very excited and kept licking it.

Most other schools have their brake later in February, linking it with President's Day (Monday) holiday, and they were less lucky. On the preceding Friday and Saturday, only a single road remained open across the mountain range — Highway 50 — where on a stretch of roughly thirty miles, thousands of travelers had spent between six and nine hours, as closed were both Interstate freeway 80 and Kirkwood's highway 88. Those who had reserved accommodations and ski passes, either in the Sierra or farther east (Utah), had to take the only open route. We were watching the calamity on the internet from the warmth of our home, getting notified by our friends trapped there. Lack of clothing or food was not the biggest problem — but the classic "where to go, when you have to go" — if you know what I mean, when you're stuck in your car in a thirty-mile traffic jam, confined to the road by a ten foot tall snow bank, miles and miles away from civilization. Running out into the woods, where there's fresh powder up to your waist, is somewhat impractical.

Tom's green helmet.

Gang at Kirkwood.

We had waited until Tuesday, when the falling, sticky white stuff subsided, and then even road maintenance pooh-bahs had decreed that more than one pass might be opened, and we drove out to Kirkwood with Sid. No children, for they pretended to have a lot of homework, but my impression was that they had acquired the need to stay home without us. With homeschooling and their mother always behind their backs, turning into a self-reliant person is hard. We reckoned that they deserved such luxury — and that Sid and I, in return, would enjoy a trip without teenagers. We, too, don't have enough time away from children — deprived of grandparents, we could never realize weekends with no kids, and for a long time, we could not even have a solo dinner or a drink together. Now we had finally reached the phase when we don't have to stay close all the time, and it's been pleasant.

We met Honza and Klára up on the mountain (who, unlike our kids, had a school break), and a group of Honza's coworkers, and it was rather very nice. Skiing with friends is always better than on our own. This success made me try again on Friday, this time without Sid, but with our children, who appreciated Klára's company. We finalized it in the resort's cafeteria with hot chocolate, and proceeded to our favorite Giant 88 Burger joint, a tiny shack with five stools in Pine Grove. A well rounded, athletic and social event.

Though heaps of snow in the mountains are positive, down at our place, in the Valley, enduring rains began to be rather tiresome. Although water kept being soaked in by the soil, lately everything became fully drenched and flooded — I awaited my goaties to grow webbing in their hooves, and started considering a purchase of a snorkel for Ned. It became practically pointless to try riding in the woods, containing bottomless muddy pits interlaced with small mudslides, all too much action for seniors, such as we both are. We would need a spring, and getting dry for a change.