Much time goes to decorating the floats and rehearsing — but also to standing around and waiting.

Girls had to prepare their program in randomly selected pairs.

In December we gained another (already fourth) day of vaulting in a week — through winter, Lisa would attend Saturday's practice for individual freestyle on a moving barrel, which brought us to a stage, where I get a tic out of endless driving to and from the vaulting stables. But it's only for three months and it shall end with the last barrel competition in February, which would conveniently fill the gap to the first horse-back competition in April. In contrast to the individuals on a horse, this is many times cheaper (for we don't pay for the horse, do we) and for Lisa is a diversion — it's still VAULTING, but a completely different kind — more creative than a team set, lest physically demanding than a horse, she practices with yet another group of girls, and with a different coach.

Traditional Christmas Parade in Los Gatos takes place on the first December Saturday. For several years we used to attend with Bear Creek Stables, for the third year now we have been joining Lisa's vaulting hobby — Mt. Eden Vaulting Club. And as the previous year, this time again weather forecast looked bad. I had ideas in the direction of skipping for rain, but Lisa threw me a completely disgusted teenager look (the kind where she, like, totally does not get how such a genius child can have such clueless parents) — and so we went. Just the two of us; Sid participated in a role of a taxi driver — dropping us off in town (where it was impossible to park) and picking us up four hours later on the other end of town, where the parade ended.

The actual Parade naturally does not last four hours — its route can covered walking in twenty minutes, and with two hundred participating organizations, the affair is over in between ninety minutes and two hours. Much time is spent, however, on the marshaling place, by decorating and preparing and rehearsing. The vaulting club did not even bring horses, for they are difficult to handle and pavement is slick in rain, but nevertheless it was necessary to decorate a small truck carrying the show barrel. On it, the girls would present short numbers throughout the parade. Individually, and in randomly chosen pairs, which needed rehearsing. Last year it had rained during preparations and then it got pretty during the show; it was the other way this year. We managed to prepare relatively dry, and the downpour coincided with the parade. I'm not sure what was better. The girls performed in the rain throughout the parade on a soaking wet barrel, and we all thought about heading back home soon. Surprisingly, Lisa did not get ill this year, and so it ended well. There was a club Christmas Party following the parade, but such affairs are blessedly informal. And it was the ONLY Christmas party we had to attend this year.

They've shown their numbers throughout the parade.

It rained more and more.

Sunday was the first opportunity to journey out to get my goaties from Colleen, but give the fact that the mountain passes were closed, I postponed the trip to Monday — and used Sunday to meeting my virtual friend Honza. He's a passionate mountaineer, has hiked over several continents, and now found himself for a week at a business conference in California. We at least agreed to a small one-day trip "somewhere". But when I saw his friend, Boris, with a huge camera, we were immediately clear: we were going to Point Lobos. That, of course, after a stop at Target. An airline had lost Boris's luggage, and he needed to buy some basic articles of clothing and other necessities — for at the hotel they'd directed him to Santana Row — which is a shopping area with exclusive restaurants, beauty salons and venues for the posh — as a supplier of socks and underwear, Target suffices by far.

We picked up Sid at home (kids had refused to join a mass trip of boring ancients, and besides, Lisa had enjoyed enough of fresh weather on the previous day), and soon we were of to the coast. I wanted to show sea otters to our visitors, as they (the otters) normally hang out in Elkhorn Slough, but apparently the town cut them off from payroll and they packed their stuff and stopped posing for tourists. In the end we had spotted one male otter (according to rangers' information they are all males; females and young swim off to a more sheltered inland part of the slough), some sea lions too, and thus my reputation as a native guide was preserved.

By then it was time for lunch. We favor Moss Landing's Lemongrass Thai, so we refreshed there and then finished trundling to Point Lobos. The place, again, fulfilled our expectations — Boris kept taking pictures like in a competition, which extended our walk to incredible three hours, until dusk. Days shortly before winter solstice are short.

Point Lobos.

Blue Heron.

On Monday morning I was just getting ready to go to the stables, to clean the goats' pen for their arrival, when Toni, owner of the stables and local goats, called me that horned goat Hazel cannot get up and looks ill. In turn I wrote to Colleen whether she could keep our goaties a few days longer, before I figure out what's with Hazel, to avoid bringing healthy and probably pregnant goats to one that might be sick.

Naturally, once the avalanche gets rolling, there's no stopping it — our "goat" vet (who had studied in New Zealand, where they teach and practice animal doctoring on sheep) was on vacation — surprisingly on New Zealand — and could not come. Toni had called her horse vet, expecting that if Hazel could not get up and has difficulty urinating, it would look like a quick put-down. Of course, before the vet could show up, Hazel stood up and walked it off. Quite in pain, but eventually ate some grains. The vet declared that rumen was operational, bladder empty (goats have trouble with kidney stones) and that Hazel had a slight fever (toward forty — normal goat temperature is between 38 and 39 °C). So Hazel got a shot of banamine (for pain) and an outlook that if the fever came from pain stress (likely arthritis, which is emphasized in winter rainy and cold season), it would pass; if the fever jumps up or Hazel gets worse, there would be more tests.

Oddly, Hazel improved, and when our goat vet arrived on Thursday, she just pronounced Hazel alright enough, as much one such old and arthritic goat can be. And said that we should prepare for times when there won't be individual bad days, when she'd be miserable, but they would just increasing in number and occurrence until we'd consider termination. Hazel HAS been taking pain medication and received shots in the knee joint, but slowly it stops being enough. At least the vet dispelled my worries about infectious diseases, and I could start planning again my trip with my goaties.

Red tree.

Staircase.

It was again a journey for two days — three hundred miles each way, you can't just turn around and go back. Not wanting to get stuck in a traffic jam in either direction, I had to depart on Sunday (to minimize Lisa missing much school) and return on Monday (when weekend tourists had already departed the Sierra). Fortunately, I had worked it into our buying tickets for Cirque de Soleil, and outright lobbied for Saturday show. Šárka had enticed us to buy a group deal for Amaluna, and after previous great success in March, she did not have to work us hard. Yet only after having bought the tickets I properly noticed that the show was taking place in San Francisco. It's not far, mere sixty miles, but otherwise it's like a flight to a different planet. There's a PERMANENT traffic jam going on in San Fran, and practically nowhere to park. First choice would be to take the train. Caltrain's terminal is located some ten minutes walking from the AT&T Park, where Cirque built their tent, but a cursory look at the schedule gave a clear picture — we would either spend two hours on the train, arriving two more hours before the show starts, or we'd be ten minutes late. So I unperked my ears and paid thirty bucks for a parking spot right at the circus. Given that we would stuff our bus with the four of us, Lucy, Šárka and her Klára, the bang/buck ratio did not come out so bad. Especially considering that we would still have to spend another twenty minutes in the same car going to the train station, pay seven train tickets, twenty one dollars each; suddenly the train option seemed nonsensical. This way, it took us an hour to get there in peace, right to the spot, while gas and parking cost about one third of the mass transit expense.

San Francisco complicated things with timing as well. Lisa has a practice on Saturdays until two thirty. So I brought her up to the practice, stayed there with her. Meanwhile, rest of the expedition converged on our home. Lisa and I then drove down from the stables to the freeway, and jumped over to our bus. Then we just needed to endure the one hour to San Francisco, park, enter through the main gate, join the bathroom line, meet our friends from Fremont who came to see the same show — and it could begin.

Amaluna was our second show by Cirque de Soleil. I must say that I liked Volta a little better. Amaluna has awesome solo numbers and more coherent plot, with a romantic twist. Volta had more circus nature, more action and energy. Besides, it features clowns that were really funny. Clowns' plot line in Amaluna was rather schematic. Also, our girls found it unfair that a lizard man Cali was a lot more interesting than Romeo, who nevertheless wins Miranda. In the end Cali gets rid of his lizard tail and transforms (for Miranda?) into a human — and nothing happens? On the other hand — pole dancing Romeo captivated my interest. I never understood what men get out of girls dancing on a pole; now I saw :-).

We left only after sunset.

Boss Peaches wants to know who we are, what we want (and whether we brought any treats).

Driving back from San Francisco, Lisa and I had to make a detour through the stables, for Lisa forgot her phone there. We did not find it, but later we accomplished to contact her coach, who quieted us down telling us that she had locked it up in the saddle room. Lisa had to stay phone-less until her next practice on Tuesday, for on Sunday we went for our goats. I harbored a secret plan: getting out early, skiing in the afternoon at Kirkwood, and reaching Walker only by the evening; overnighting in a motel, loading Twilight and Licorice in the morning, and rushing back home. Seeing the situation on the road, it did not look well. Coleville lies on the other side of Sierra, one has to cross some 60 miles through the mountains, with two peculiar spots — one is Carson Spur at eight thousand feet, descending through nasty turns through an avalanche zone; the other is Carson Pass. In case of snow (like it did on Saturday), one or both may get closed, or are passable only with chains. But on Sunday morning, chains were ordered practically for all the aforementioned sixty miles, and trying something like that with our bus was silly. And so I tensely followed the advances of snow plows, by nine a.m. wrote off my plans to ski, by noon began to hope that we may actually get through, when the chain section shrank to mere twenty miles. By one thirty the chain chunk existed only before Kirkwood, and I decided to take the risk (we have chains, but I really don't feel like crawling under the car), and we went.

By three o'clock Sid reported from home and his computer that indeed the whole highway got opened up, and we tasked him to reserve us a hotel room on the other side of the Sierra — for only now it seemed hopeful that we'd make it. Gaining altitude, I drove slower and slower. Opposite direction, from Kirkwood ski resort going TO cities, was well salted and driven, but only few went in our direction, and spots covered with packed snow did not make me feel well. Perhaps it was well sanded, since I never slipped, but also I crawled sometimes just ten miles an hour, sphincter clenched. From Kirkwood on we found ourselves in the more driven direction, but I really exhaled only down in Woodfords. We had a Vietnamese dinner in Minden, where I shocked the owner by ordering in Vietnamese. Honestly, I need glasses to read the menu, and I did not feel like fishing for them only to find out how they translated com bo luc lac into English this time; I was too tired.

Our original plan was to visit the goaties that same evening, but we gave up on it in the end. It was dark and cold, goats stay in a barn that has no lights, and it would involve hand torches and showing up by eight o'clock in the evening, when they have gone to sleep some three hours earlier — it would also entail rousing Colleen from her evening with family, stumbling around in the dark and cold, waking up and confusing the whole herd of goats. I would actually complicate lives of people and goats alike, just to satisfy my desire to see my beloved soonest. So I gave it up and headed with Lisa straight for the hotel. Yet our reserved Andruss Motel was dark and empty — no live soul around, not even parked cars. I tried to ring the bell, nothing. Finally I spotted a phone number on the door and called the owner that way. He said to be stuck in traffic at Tahoe, but not to worry — we were to "get into number three, it's unlocked, key's on the table" — and so it was. When I got back into our car for something by ten o'clock in the evening, I could see the owner had made it back, and I went to talk to him. Situation cleared up — he had departed before our internet order came through, and so he did not know about us. Thank God for country attitude, where people think it reasonable leaving places unlocked with a few rooms ready, just in case somebody were to make it after all.

Licky and Twy demanded to be taken home.

During this trip, my goats ended up least problematic of all things.

In the morning we made a quick breakfast and drove to load our goaties. Licky and Twy stood by the fence and screamed at me. It's hard to say whether they meant something by it, for very quickly, all the other goats joined the cacophony, and it caused a serious disturbance. I managed to exchange a few words with Colleen, gradually catch both our goats and lead them to the crates. Twilight did not resist at all, she looked as if she know what would happen and was OK with it, even climbed up into the crate without being much prompted. I had to push Licky a bit into the box, but I think that she, too, was glad to see me and things turning back to normal. Now when in count the earlier closed and subsequently icy road, plus our hotel room complications, then our goats were actually the least difficult thing during this trip. They settled in their respective crates and listened with us to an audio book of Artemis. Apparently book reading quiets them down; monotonous human voice indicates that there's no drama. At least that much I gather from their growling at times when Lisa and I had to pause the player to talk about things, like when to do a bathroom stop and whether we'd have another coffee.

Our journey home passed without much drama, the road was considerably more passable than the day before. The greater surprise was our arrival to the stables. I parked and got ready to unload my goaties, when three runaway and bewildered horses rushed in. I had to leave goats be, and pacify the horses with a bowl of food (which they came to check out and then let themselves be taken home). Then I discovered that somebody released chickens into the pen that I had carefully cleaned before, so I had to clean out chicken droppings again, before letting my goats in. Lisa and I got back home only after five o'clock in the afternoon. Lisa had to play catch-up with school, and I eventually "had to" go climb, for after two days behind the wheel I felt completely stiff.

And that put us a week before Christmas, and of our holiday preparations, only tree purchase was done — fetched by Tom and Sid on Sunday. Somehow our Christmas seemed to get out of control. On the other hand — despite various obstacles, we managed to get our goaties back home, which is positive.