We took a short trail from highway 88 in Carson Spur to a viewpoint.

Flowers have withered, the landscape turned to autumn.

We had packed during Thursday morning, I went to check on my goats, and around noot we headed to the mountains direction Reno, Nevada. Our bus underwent an endurance test, for it contained six de-facto adults, with bags for four days out. Fortunately we did not plan to camp, and hence we only carried snacks and not a full menu; we could also leave tents at home. Also, we were forced to leave our camp chairs behind, which we normally take along when ballooning, to have something to sit upon when always waiting; there was no space left for them.

Tree in Carson Spur.

Opening with anthem.

And since we wanted our visitors to see Sierra more up-close than through the car window, we stopped in Carson Spur (7990 ft MSL) and took them out for a walk above Kirkwood. Had I not come up with a shortcut through a slopey meadow (full of very intimate little thistles), the hike could have been much shorter and less dramatic. We just ran up some three hundred vertical feet to snow barriers on a ridge over the highway, and walked back down a path that was also there. After a pit stop at Kirkwood and an early dinner in Minden's Thai Orchid we reached Reno just to fall in our respective beds, setting our alarms to five o'clock for the balloons.

Family scrum around the balloon.

Jeanne and Tom came all the way from South Dakota.

In the morning we met Tom and Jeanne in front of their hotel, were issued a card permitting our entry as a balloon crew; we also got new t-shirts — that way we could leave our old ones to Pepe and Sarah, marking them as a part of our team. Sadly, the race organizers had demonstrated utter incompetence this year, regarding crew parking. For crews of some eighty balloons, they reserved about forty parking spots. Yet every such balloon requires a minimum crew of four people, who need to be ready and able to momentarily depart from the lot into the wider area, to chase, deflate and pack the balloon. Solving this simple math problem would allow said officials to realize that if a full half of people comprising these crews are DENIED the operational possibility, approximately half of the balloons are left without chase crews. Buffoons tasked with parking enforcement kept shrugging and sending us to park in a public lot. Which would be fine, IF this lot were not totally overfilled by a panicked public, who was also not allotted sufficient parking, and so access lanes were always clogged with cars waiting for a freed spot, or alternatively hoping to exit and leave. Did I mention that a balloon chase crew must be able to depart QUICKLY?

The morning otherwise proceeded as expected, tried and tested. Balloons were taking off, crews were busy and friendly, and eventually we erected some gazebos and had a picnic with friends we had not seen for a while. Then a mid-day shutdown ensued at our hotel, after which our kids had to do some school work (it was a Friday), and then we went to our favorite sushi place for dinner. Lisa wanted to stay back at the hotel, but she made us bring her a take-out.

Dawn take-off.

Mass ascent.

Things went similarly on Saturday, including the hassle with parking. Sid made a scene there, and eventually we succeeded in parking on the edge of the public lot so that we could depart with our bus. Rhonda, who was our balloon's sponsor, promised to have a word with the organizers, but the only thing that came out of it was a spot for our bus for Sunday — yet exception for one crew does not solve the overall problem.
We had a picnic again, and then agreed on a all-crew dinner at Pinocchio's in Sparks. It was very nice to be together with old friends from several circles of my life.

We had to get up even earlier on Sunday than on Saturday, trying to preempt problems with parking — Jeanne was to fly Dawn Patrol again; thus our alarms triggered already at three forty five. When we ceremoniously parked and finished stumbling to the launch meadow, it became clear there would be no flying. Gusts of wind raced across the field, something in which you don't like to even inflate the balloon (hint — a balloon gets inflated lying down on the ground, and then the pilot must target the opening in the skirt with a flame-thrower — if the half-inflated balloon, thus a huge sail, get tossed around by a gust of wind, what is the chance that the flame misses the hole in the middle and touches the envelope?). Even the Glow Show which takes place before Dawn Patrol take-off, had been reduced to mere flame flicking from stood-up burners (normally there would be upright balloons in the field, illuminated from within). When I talked with Tom (the pilot, not our teenager), how bad it was with the wind, he said that he had yet worse news for me. They had planned to fly with Pepe and Sarah in the basket on Sunday.

Kirkwood Lake.

Some call staying with lunatics, a vacation...

For a while we loitered in the field, but then we had to admit that this was the end of this year's race — and go catch some sleep at the hotel. By nine we got back together to breakfast, and then we packed again. Perhaps it was as good, for Reno started filling with smoke from Susanville wildfire — when the wind turned, one could smell burned stuff on the air. Lisa with her asthma would not enjoy such a day.
To get ourselves out, we stopped at Kirkwood Lake and walked a loop around it. By this time, we all felt jet-lagged from our disturbed sleep pattern, not just Pepe and Sarah, and even such small walk exhausted us. Still the whole trip proved Pepe and Sarah compatible with our family. They stayed unfazed even when we started singing in the car (they joined us instead), or at other peculiarities of our family. I attribute this to the fact that Pepe has been for years working with theoretical physicists, and considers staying with lunatics, a vacation.

During the following weekdays I had to get back to less lofty affairs. I had a business meeting, a visit to a dentists with Regina's younger son (she remained unable to drive), extending oversight over my own children and their school, and naturally my goats. In this week, a big re-building of their pens began, about which I shall write later (for like every construction, this, too, went over schedule). Still, on Tuesday I took Pepe and Sarah to a small town named San Juan Bautista, to visit a Spanish mission there of the same name. I had written about missions many times; I think that it's one of the things a California visitor should see. In addition, this one sits right atop San Andreas Fault, and a historic exhibit is enhanced by a geology lesson. The mission dates to the time of first Spanish attempts to settle California from the south up. Only fifty years after founding the missions, gold got discovered, and the ensuing rush to the West after a promise of quick riches.

San Juan Bautista Mission.

Mission church - made of wood, breathing warmth, colors.

The mission and museum around it offer a beautiful review of history, from native artifacts, over Franciscan "padres", Spanish and Mexican rancheros, to an Italian hotel owner and English families that survived tragedy of Donner Party. All this I partially know from our previous visits — but some of them I spent overseeing kids on their school trip, and thus also in the company of a vomiting girl and an autistic boy — and thus I had much less time to pay consistent attention to the exhibits and their descriptions. It was pleasant to spend time in such a place whilst in company of adults who did not whine — despite our having discovered that our bag with food "forgot itself" back at home.

Candle making.

Mission garden.

Going through the town museum was a bit erratic, for from stables, a sound of an anvil lured us to the smithy. And there, by the furnace, two smiths stood, who entered a friendly conversation with us. Pepe and Sarah each eventually received an artistically wrought hook, while I got nothing — after all, I ain't as interesting, being a local. We walked through Zanetti's house and hotel — which sports (besides secret gambling den) an interesting bar — from which, according to records, horses had to be regularly ejected, so that other guest would fit — local hot-blooded wranglers allegedly could, from a horse-back, drink at the bar, but also play billiard.

Friendly smiths at the museum.

This bustling stage-coach stop had a luxury of public bathroom.

Tired of history, we drove on from San Juan to Moss Landing, to let the girls finally see Pacific Ocean. Still we first reinforced ourselves by a lunch at a local Thai restaurant, and only then went to check out otters, sea lions, pelicans and the rest of critters in the lagoon and along the beach. An otter showed itself as usual near a bridge across the lagoon channel — I wonder if its on the town payroll, for it seems to me that it's always there. Which is great, as one can take tourists there and show them this marvel of nature with about the same certainty as with the Monterey Aquarium.

The town obviously DOES NOT have weather on its payroll, because they still have not managed to control it; a crazy wind blew at the ocean beach and we did not last long there. On the other hand, thanks to the stormy ocean, heaps of kelp lay disgorged by the surf, and I could play clever and show the girls what sea weed looks like.

Wranglers could thus arrive to the bar with feet washed and hooves cleaned.

Pepe at Moss Landing.

On Wednesday morning Sid dropped our visitors off at a railroad station, to take a train to San Francisco. We have never grown fond of the City, and during the last few years, when everybody there got progressively crazy, we try to avoid it altogether. Especially since SanFran became the refuge of the homeless who live in the streets — including depositing their waste there. If you think that dog droppings in a city are a problem, try to imagine several thousand soilers of the homo sapiens variety. Then add problems and expenses (several tens of dollars per hour) with parking your car — and it may hopefully become obvious why we don't rush to go there. Taking a train is not much faster (when you include the necessary trip to the station on our end; the closest one is some 20 minutes drive away), but it may be cheaper. And most importantly — our visitors and we could get a short break from each other, following independent plans.

Independence continued on Thursday; girls went on a bike trip and I have seen to my goats, checking out the pens, shopping and such. Our program merged again from Friday, with Sarah and Pepe and me — as we were headed for four days in the Sierra.

You can see there are plenty of pictures again — more in the gallery.