Arrival to the ski resort is a test for a beginner driver.

The view reminds one strongly of California's Heavenly.

How I did already note, winter is mostly my favorite time. I had no clue how much I missed snow and natural cycle of seasons in California (which is reduced there to monsoon season and wildfire season). Sadly, it would appear that the Wyomese had joked about the snow — occasionally some falls down, but then it alternates with days when one can lay down on the prairie wearing t-shirt, and watch the sky while the goats graze.

Some snow came with the beginning of January, and thus we set out for the slopes. Our closes ski resort, Snowy Range, was selling only a limited tickets per day because pandemic, so weekends were often sold out by previous Wednesday. Tom and I fit in Monday, the last day of Christmas holidays. Tom tried his driving skills on snow for the few remaining miles above Centennial — and it's downhill to the resort through two wide turns. Both Ford and Tom coped.

Fortunately indoor is open, we won't freeze. Number of visitors in the resort is limited because covid.

Even moguls are surprisingly soft and skiable.

We had to pick up our tickets at an outside counter; I got a bit worried by port-a-potties lined up in front of the central building, but it turned out that they were made available for those scared to enter indoors, and prefer uncertain balancing over a plastic container with their bare butts in fifteen degrees. I love winter, but I am not a Yeti, and thus I cowardly chose the indoor bathrooms, with heating and running water.

Tom and I rode a bit on the nearest lift, and then embarked on a traverse to the back side of the hill. Like many other places, here as well the back side sports better slopes and fewer people. Now, with the limited quota of skiers, there were no crowds anywhere; I think that about two times, another couple stood "in the line" for the lift in front of us, and we skied at a normal pace. We had lunch at an outside table in the sun, but even so it was cold — and only when I finished eating I discovered that the indoor lounge and restaurant was open — and I have not noticed it on my way to the bathroom in the morning, because here it's found upstairs. We finished a few more runs, but my feet were so freezing, I ordered a retreat and coffee. Indoors.

Cross-country skiing trail.

Tom on his new skis.

It was quarter past one, so we probably missed the rush hour, but even so the interior was filled only to about one-third — and still it contained only a fraction of tables that would fit in, with huge gaps between. The other positive news were regular prices of food and drinks. At Kirkwood, a small tub of fries would set you back eight dollars, a coffee five, and beer ten; here we were back to half that. Actually, everything is half — ticket prices, food prices, driving distance — but also the size of the resort. It reminds me a lot of Kirkwood as it was those twenty years ago, just a small family business. All this is nice — we don't need aprés ski bars and premium restaurants to enjoy SKIING.

As far as snow went, there was relatively little of it, but thanks to low temperatures it remained relatively powdery, did not form ice sheets and even scary-looking moguls remained puffy and ridable. Only here I came to realize what it means when people talk about California Concrete (because snow that periodically thaws and re-freezes really loses all relation to fluffy snow flakes) — and why visitors of California's resorts, who come from elsewhere, tend to be so overwhelmed, and can't handle skiing in the local snow concrete.

Subsequently I managed to take Sid out to ski, and then, when there still was snow around, I went again, just by myself. By then I had learned my lesson and ate only indoors; on that day, ice sheets appeared in over-groomed spots in the wind, so I skied mostly forest runs and harder, un-groomed terrains, where snow kept its softness. Beside that I performed a comical number, wanting to get going on the top of the slope, my foot got tangled into a little tree or some other devil, and I took it head-first down the steepest part of the run. Despite my advanced age (and weight) I somehow managed to switch my legs over my head downhill and brake with the edge of my remaining ski. Surprisingly besides bruised ego and a feeling of having demonstrated utter idiocy, nothing else happened to me.

Easy going on snow-shoe trails.

Tom is still smiling, but by now it's clear we have bitten a larger chunk than we could chew.

Since then, weather turned against us. Very little snow remains; and the interstate gets sometimes closed on account of wind. This year's record has been (so far) 104 mph (167 km/h). Wind speeds over 50 mph (80 km/h) get our freeways closed for trucks and tall, light vehicles — and we have already seen a tractor-trailer lying helplessly on its side in the median. In higher wind speeds and frost, during which salting the blacktop become pointless and snow-banks emerge so fast that snowploughs have no chance, it makes no sense letting people out on a stretch of a road — even if I were a Yeti who WANTS to ski in such conditions.

It's a bit simpler with the cross-country area in Medicine Bow National Forest. On one hand, it's located closer, and we can get out there just for a little while in the afternoon, and it's not a big expedition like going downhill skiing; cross-country skis don't need as much snow. Having endured two sorties, I concluded I'd be better off with new skis, with metal edges — routes are being groomed, they don't offer a consistent track, and most of the people there skate after all, which turns them to ice. And though the routes follow the top of the ridge, they are still up and down, so I even found myself walking up one of those hills to my shame. Alas, obtaining cross-country skis "this late in the season" (i.e. mid-January) was not easy at all. REI was sold out, they had some at JAX, but the clerks had absolutely no clue, what I was talking about, when I mentioned that skis are sold by customer weight and get tried on, and that types of binding differ. Their attitude was at the level of "yes we have cross-country skis, these are red and those over there are white" and their binding type is "normal". Never mind, eventually I found a small shop, which forced me to drive all the way to Laramie (it's not as bad, for Laramie is only nine miles farther than the skiing area), where I reserved my skis over the phone, and where they were able not just sell them, but also installed the right kind of binding while I waited, and I could check them out on my way back home.

Pine Bluffs is a beautiful rocky area east of us.

Light brown eggs are from Jet, blue from Sasha a dark spotty ones from Pepper.

I had to go back to Laramie once again in February — for my parking permit. One pays for parking in the ski area — five dollars a day, or thirty a year. No annual permits were available in January because covid. Considering that someone clearly maintains the lot and restrooms in a civilized shape, I truly don't mind paying for it. Yet the annual permit was still unavailable online in February, and rangers were not working, because covid. Not even picking up the phone, only a voice-mail was there. Surprise: after leaving a cranky note, they called me back the next day, telling me that a permit can be purchased in a fishing store in Laramie. Which makes perfect sense, for if a single ranger were to sell permits to individuals visiting his office, it would cause/spread covid, while if more people get together in a fishing store, it does not cause/spread covid. Gee whiz.

This is what a shell-less egg looks like.

Everybody loves sunny days.

Besides cross-country skiing, the area features trails for the rest of the woodland traffic — snow bikers, snow shoe-ers, and hikers. I go there with Sid, who refuses to ski, and sometimes I wear snow-shoes, when I sense not quite enough snow for skis, or too much ice. Once I convinced Tom to come along with snow-shoes — and chose a trail that I had not been on before. For the first half hour we commended each other, how snow-shoes were the right choice, for some spots had no snow at all, and some had ice. In another half hour I was looking for hammocks, and promised Tom some rest in these improvised lounge beds. After the next half hour, we began to wonder if it makes sense to complete the whole loop or if it's a better choice to turn around and go back. To finish quickly — we had completed the loop, but my original estimate of it being five kilometers (three miles) and some ninety minutes, was completely off. They use kilometers here for cross-country trails, but miles for everything else. Subsequent check on a map confirmed that even the five mile estimate was off, it was closer to seven or eight miles (10-12 km). Which would have been fine, were we equipped for it and had the time — but we made it back to the car at dusk (in unfamiliar woods at 8,500 ft elevation, with temperature dropping rapidly), which was sub-optimal, and Tom ended up with blisters on his heels — poor boy believed my hand-wave that we'd be back in a jiffy and kept on only winter rubber boots, not at all suitable for scaling mountain trails. But he bravely claimed it was a nice hike. He's either really tough, or horribly afraid of me.

Twilight going to the vet.

With our visitors at Vedauwoo.

On the ranch front, what happened during those two months was that remaining two chickens started to lay eggs. However, Pepper had a dramatic start, for her first egg came without a shell. Fortunately it was still in a soft protective pouch, and did not get splattered everywhere. I have never seen anything like this, so I quickly researched if it was normal, and they say it was, chicken beginners sometimes lay shell-less eggs. The next egg was normal — but approximately a month later, another one was shell-less. Poor chicken probably can't keep up — of our three chickens, she lays most, and regularly.

Sasha, our exotic chicken, was supposed to lay in seven months, and she delivered — including the promised blue color. She remains our outsider, being simply a "different" chicken. She looks different (having just a small comb), is smaller, clucks in a deep voice — and other two chickens peck her sometimes. So I made a compact with her, and I give her grains and worms separately, and sometimes sneak her treats to make her feel better. Otherwise our chickens are tame and social. Sometimes they overdo it: when I took our goaties out for a walk on a sunny day, chickens followed us on the inside of the fence and clucked contently, looking for morsels to eat. Then I spread out on the prairie and enjoyed the sunshine — and in the midst of my relaxation the chickens discovered that they can crawl under the fence, and marched out towards us, free. By then I was dialing the hotline and demanded reinforcements from home. Those arrived in the shape of Sid and Tom — and as soon as we started to return to the pen gate, chickens began marching back home with us, completely without problems.

We recommend Terry Bison Ranch to all visitors.

Sid riding a local mythical animal — jackalope.

The second event at our ranch was not as merry — Twilight began to hobble. When it did not improve after several days, I made her an appointment at the vet's. Naturally that in the vet's presence she pretended everything was alright and walked more or less normally, but responded to pain when bending her front left leg. Thus I was issued pills for her, should it get worse, and a diagnosis of either a starting arthritis, or she may have pulled a muscle. I keep hoping for the second possibility — it's not as improbable, with approaching term Twilight gained hitherto unseen dimensions and weight — and before she became lame, she used to jump up on pallets to get a better view. Since then she avoids heights, so it's really possible that she jumped poorly. Alas, it may also mean that this year was her last one when she could have had babies, for it seems that her weight gain is bad for her.

The trip to the vet is worth elaborating — mostly because nothing dramatic happened. Lisa and I loaded the goat into our Ford, and left Tom at home with Licorice so that she would not freak out and feel abandoned. It's not far to the clinic, where Twilight got treated (capable doctor managed to lift her off the truck bed and put her back in; Tom helped us at home), and we got back home in a jiffy. This was important to test, as no one can be sure — having a vet call on us might turn out problematic (besides it costing a lot of extra money), so practicing a veterinary transport can't hurt.

Lisa at a circus school.

Sid on a trail around Turtle Rock.

Our next visitors — our balloon friends, Jeanne a Tom — came in January, having made a detour on their way from Texas, where they have family, to South Dakota, where they live. Our larger house made itself noticeable again — all the logistics get simpler when visitors have their own bedroom and bathroom available. Television turned out as the only problem. We haven't had a broadcast screen for many years now — we don't follow sports, we read our news from the internet, and movies come from disks or Netflix. And Tom (the big Tom, although our "little" Tom might have outgrown him in the meantime) had planned to watch American football and was very taken aback by the fact we don't do such things. Fortunately, internet came to rescue, and we could breathe out.

Jeanne declared that she did not intend to watch, but would wait for the result and spare her nerves — and drove out with me and Lisa to Colorado, to see the circus. Lisa's club had reserved a circus lesson to give the girls a chance to have some fun. Jeanne and I wanted to watch, but the circus school finds itself in such a small space, there's no room for spectators. Still Lisa started liking exercises on silk scarves, and was so enthralled that I eventually agreed to sign her up, and myself, for a beginner's class. Although I am old and fat, I miss climbing and vertical motion. I find gyms, aerobic, zoombas and spinning maddeningly boring, I need something more engaging. So now Lisa and I drive to hang at a circus school. Lisa is strong and nimble, while I resemble a side of beef, but at least it's fun. Like with all sports, it's mostly about figuring it out — first lesson destroyed me completely after twenty minutes, subsequent lessons I've been leaving rather pleasantly stretched — and without crazy blue spots on my legs.

A rolling stone under Turtle Rock.

Even our court rabbit thinks it's really cold.

Of other household events, perhaps I should mention Sid's business trip to Texas. It got delayed many times, for almost a year — it makes little sense to drive from California to Texas, one would need to fly, and airlines operated in a limited fashion, with draconian restrictions. Texas is much closer from Wyoming, and so Sid tried to reach it by car, to see his colleagues again, and to make new plans. He left when it started snowing here, and for the few days while he was in Texas, weather was very frosty here. Fortunately he just made it back before polar vortex hit Texas brutally as well. We have reached a record of negative eighteen degrees, but Wyoming is used to such extremes and infrastructure is ready — from water mains and electrical lines to home insulation, car accessories, and road maintenance. So it was unpleasant, but it was easy to hold on for a few days. In Texas, where a winter day in February means seventy degrees, it naturally resulted in a catastrophic chaos.

I should not over-boast our readiness, though. Lisa had a rehearsal of their vaulting performance at the end of the cold wave. It was supposed to take place in a covered arena, but not a heated one. Thus the girls were practicing in wooly hats and dawn jackets, and we, the parents, were freezing there for two hours. Even at mere ten degrees, it makes not much difference how many layers you wear, when your feet are freezing. Despite winter boots and wooly socks. There I realized that battery-powered, heated socks may not be just a local fun novelty, since there are situation when one REALLY needs and appreciates them.

Fortunately weather got more reasonable and returned to relatively normal levels before Lisa's exhibition, and the girls did not freeze in their thin costumes. Also, we could start hoping that our baby goats won't freeze either, expected by the beginning of March. But about that, next time.