Stonehenge.

Our new, tiny, luxury hen-house.

It began with me taking too long to with winter order of plants from our Conservation District, until I missed the whole deadline. Thus I looked for another place where to buy or order trees and bushes, so that I had something to plant on another portion of our prairie. In April I found myself shopping in one of the local nurseries, where they told me that trees would arrive by mid-May. Still I noticed that they were selling various rocks and stones and similar things. Our driveway makes a loop around our well and its underground tank, and pump. Yet the pump head is unfortunately stuck outside the central ring, and consequently in the way of the next careless driver — and we had been pondering for months how to mark or fence off the pump so that nobody ploughs through it. We can't erect posts or plant trees this close to the tank, and there are few surface options — those that our local wind won't take away. Finally I took Sid to the nursery to help me pick decorative stones.

Besides stones, we noticed a hen-house at the nursery. A tiny one, allegedly for only five chickens (we've got three), yet built very sturdily (manufacturer is located in Montana, north of us, and apparently they know something about "weather"), on skids, thus being "easily" moved with a forklift, and apparently designed by someone knowledgeable about chickens and their farmers. The hen-house has permanent vents, and an extra windows that can be opened (extra venting on hot days); roosts, egg-laying shelf accessible from outside, and both small door for chickens and a big door for humans to make cleaning access easy. I started to think that an external hen-house might come handy — we had acquired our birds in a hurry, and they lived in the goat shed, inside our so far second attempt to integrate space suitable for egg-laying chickens — but like all compromises, even that coop in a pen was not ideal. It took space away from goaties, and chickens too did not have their room and quiet. I got attached to the idea of a hen-house — and so we purchased raffle tickets for this one.

Chickens approved this hen-house.

We have a squatter in our goat shed.

Stones arrived at the beginning of May; by mid-May I returned to the nursery to deal about the trees — and still admired the beautiful hen-house — and was hit by unwelcome news — the raffle would take place only in OCTOBER. I left the nursery with a tree order placed, clutching a leaflet of the hen-house manufacturer, because it started to be clear that even if I happened to win the raffle, it would be too late, into winter. After a few phone calls I found myself at the local distributor of said Montana company — and bought a hen-house a bit larger than the raffled one. And I began to eye longingly their sheds, for I also have a storage section inside the goat shed, where I keep hay, and I could use an external one. I have to go carefully though, for Sid is after all an older gentleman, and it could hit him hard — first a hen-house, now a shed... just the coop cost so much that we must hope our chickens will lay golden eggs — lest they never pay us back.

On the other hand — our chickens seem to enjoy their new house. When we used to remodel the goat shed, I always had to carry them and set up to their new place, because they did not understand it. Now they marched into their new house without hesitation, and began laying eggs in their new boxes. Apparently the hen-house is built so well, even a chicken gets it.
I've got on more chicken story. I wondered why, during our walks around the prairie with goats, the chickens follow me and keep close to my leg like well-trained dogs. Until I noticed instances when they leave the "heel" position — that is, jumping out to snatch a beetle or a butterfly, which I spook out of the tall grass — they use me as a bush-whacker!

Wyomese wire-house.

...is useless when it snows at end of May.

Now that I mentioned using someone — our court bunny Jackie had a bunch of young again — apparently somewhere in the compost — my construction from pallets offers many a hidey-hole — whilst I turned the compost over, I nearly forked a tiny rabbit. It did not get fazed, and now that I brutally evicted it from the compost, it found accommodation with our goaties in their shed. When I found it there the first time, munching on hay inside a nicely warm shed on a frosty morning, I though it an accident. A few days later I enjoyed seeing nothing had eaten it yet (small bunnies don't last — we have owls, coyotes and hawks), and that it has to be a very clever bunny, when it manages to find shelter with the goaties. Since then Bobby became member of our menagerie, and we can see it practically every day — either right inside the shed, or grazing around — and if you pay attention, it can be spotted sleeping somewhere.

Tom at Bear Lake.

A view above Nymph Lake

Along the plant front I can report that trifids are thriving — wasteland under our basement turned nicely green, when trifid toddler stopped camouflaging as brown. This encouraged me to sow more of the seeds into random bald spots. And since I had no ripe compost left, I fertilized it with goat pellets. Unlike horse or chicken manure, goat droppings aren't caustic, even fresh. So says theory; practice seems to confirm it — or perhaps trifids are quite hardened and would grow anywhere.

Furthermore I invited myself to our friends Doris and Brayn to check out their veggie patch. Growing something in local conditions (6,000 feet altitude, wind, arid climate, peppered with storms and hail) is not easy. Last snow comes on Mother's day (second Sunday in May) and first snow of next winter can be expected by mid-September — thus only plants with vegetation cycle of up to ninety days make sense. A glass-house won't help you much, as it gets routinely blown away by wind or shattered by hail. Hot-houses get built from durable plastic, or as wire-houses. Wire mesh instead of glass protects your produce from largest hail stones — and rabbits. As much we consider Bobbie and Jackie members of our ranch, I am fully aware of the destructive potential of these cute rodents. Another trick to deny rabbits access is elevating plants into above-ground trays — this has the advantage of keeping ground squirrels from digging to the roots. The few remaining farmer's enemies are: birds, mice, ants, aphids, caterpillars, fungi and various plagues — and weather.

Wild animals abandoned the National Park and seeks culture in the city.

Eclipse of the Moon.

Before I conclude that I had totally buried myself in our property, be aware that we also toured the wide world — namely, Colorado. And right one of the famousest of National Parks — Rockies. We had arranged a sleep-over at Karel's place, a climbing friend whom we still have not met in person. The plan was simple — we would leave home by morning, have lunch in an Indian restaurant in Forth Collins where they make dosas — rice flour crepes stuffed with cheese or masala — that I like and can eat as they don't contain gluten. For the afternoon we expected to reach Karel's place, settle in, discover where to go for dinner and so on. If you can't spot the fault in such plan, know that we did not either. After touring for twenty years to Sierra Nevada we are programmed to allot three to five hours to driving into the mountains, and so we counted subconsciously on spending the afternoon in the car. Even having stopped for lunch, we unlocked Karel's door by two p.m. I'm not complaining, for it was a pleasant mistake, since we could fit in an afternoon visit to the Park. We tried to ask a ranger where to hike in those few hours left of the day. He answered in a flat voice and it was obvious he had had enough on this Sunday afternoon. He recommended Bear Lake, so we tried it. A loop around the lake was pretty, but crammed with people — and too short. So we embarked to Nymph Lake. Our hike got complicated by snow — there were bald spots and air temperature supported shorts and and a t-shirt — and then in shady stretches there was knee-deep snow. But even I managed it, wearing tennis shoes.

Lures of a picturesque town of Estes Park worked for us again — while tourists in the National Park gathered around every squirrel, real wild life in the shape of imposing elks arrived on Main Street by the evening. During our last visit we spotted massive Chuck the elk, and this time we were not surprised, until we encountered a beaver splashing in a pond right next to Karel's house. Now we're afraid Karel may charge for safari.

Legolas balances on top of a snow bank into which hippos plunge.

Bierstadt Lake.

We reserved all Monday for the Park. Having rifled through Karel's guide books, I found a recommendation for a trail to Bierstadt Lake — which can be reached either via switchback from the road, ascending a considerable elevation through a moraine — or by following a longer, but somewhat more comfortable ridge from Bear Lake. Well, that route was truly longer, but mostly because most of it consisted of stumbling through three feet of snow-bank. Plunging in butt-deep was often embellished by a spring brook bubbling right underneath. Weather was still good for shorts, but tennis shoes proved truly sub-optimal. After about two hours of cursing we finally arrived to a beautiful mountain forest lake. I wrung my socks and shoes, and let them dry on a boulder, we ate a snack and wondered what to do. Tourist who had reached the lake over the steep moraine trail, reported it to be completely dry; it would make sense leaving that way. Yet — we had left our car parked up at Bear Lake.

Our Legolas — Tom — came to our rescue. He would not plunge into the snow-banks with his (under)weight like we did, and our group must have looked indeed like from Lord of the Rings, where all wade through deep snow, while elegant elf walks on top. Tom agreed to return across all that snow to Bear Lake and drive the car under the moraine — while his elderly parents descend with dry feet.
Elderly parents felt a bit guilty, especially since on our way down we had a marvelous view of mountain peaks. We were also a bit afraid, since clouds gathered over some of the slopes, and Tom could get caught in a storm or blizzard. We ran down rather briskly, counting on having to wait for our lift for an hour or two — but Legolas truly had to fly over the snow, as he arrived, car and all, only a fifteen minutes later. He did not fully state so, but apparently hiking without impossible, huffing geezers, goes much better and faster.

Clouds gather overhead.

Expecting safari surcharge...

We got back to Karel's — advantage of a house over a hotel room is in not having to check out in the morning — this way, we easily packed in the afternoon, showered, changed, cleaned up a bit, and made it back home in a civilized time — clean, fed and recreated.

We looked forward to returning soon to these mountains — with much of the snow melted away, trails better accessible — but it snowed again on twentieth of May. The following Memorial Day (a three day weekend at the end of May, when most people venture outdoors) it snowed again. Even the responsible farmers who waited with planting till the last moment, lost tomatoes and other sensitive plants. Tourists and vacationers had to scramble their plans of camping and recreation (while the tough ones, unlike us, certainly did not get distracted by crazy cold or snow). We got disrupted in our plans for the social occasion of the year — Tom's graduation. In last moment I looked for pantyhose and petticoat under my dress — as I have not possessed these garments fore years (i.e., we lived for twenty years in California) — and snow was forecast.

Tom's graduation.

Siblings.

In general, once one matures to a certain age, then despite somehow fitting in a dress worn twenty years earlier, there's a risk of projecting the image of a menopausal sprite. I was facing a complex wardrobe puzzle, only to discover on the night before the graduation that I best looked in a black night-gown, which reaches down to my knees, with a few silver accessories and shoulders covered with a red sweater. It looked quite decent formal attire. But if you expect a picture of Carol in night-gown here, you'll be disappointed — nobody took my picture during the whole graduation. The event took place in a borrowed auditorium built in (and not remodeled since) the sixties, with inadequate lighting and most likely original carpets and wallpaper in the color of feline vomit. Thus we resolved to take our pictures rather outside, lacking the background of piled collapsible chairs and plastic tables, fire extinguishers, restroom entrances. But when we emerged outside, there was a snow shower going on and so we hurried into our car as fast as we could.

Back to the event itself — since the remote school that our children attend, officially operates out of the small town of Lusk (population: fifteen hundred!), it took place there — some two and half hours drive away. We went attired casually, expecting to change there, and so it happened that I forgot my petticoat and could not even wear my pantyhose, and went with bare legs and feet in midst of that snowing. Eventually, though, I was glad to wear fewer layers, for after two hours in the auditorium we were all stewing in our own juices.

Yet we did not have time to think about it — the affair moved at a surprisingly fast pace — and most importantly — keynotes were very, very interesting. They should not be; in a normal world, a statement that a school is supposed to teach people to think for themselves, should not be a revelation; we do not live in a normal world or time. Here we are, four hundred years after a sweeping educational reform of European civilization, we're ecstatic when someone elevates thinking over parroting, and lecture over indoctrination.
It would seem then that we had improved ourselves by moving in many more aspects — even those where we had lost hope of improvement.