The Camel is enjoying sunshine, with clouds accumulating behind him, but still no snow in sight.

Mick also couldn't wait for winter; he likes to wander in fresh snow.

When we were moving to Wyoming, I had expected beautiful winters, as a result of settling at the altitude of six thousand feet. Yes, I was a bit wary, for it might end up like in the joke, where a former fan after the first proper winter only curses the nasty white stuff. Still, my enthusiasm has not left me. Alas, this year's winter just seems to not work out.

In mid-November, Sid and I journeyed to Turtle Rock. There, we gained an impression that a trail might lead through woods, which would let us bypass, or even cut short, access along the official pavement; said trail disappeared in a thicker grove. By then we found ourselves in visual distance from rocks, hence we barged through the underbrush and even crossed a frozen creek (it would have been worse in summer, we'd probably get our feet wet), and that way we reached the official trail. It is dominated by a beautiful rock in that spot, which the rock-climbing guide calls Holy Saturday. We figure that it kind-of looks like an animal, and call it The Camel. Either way, we wished to locate a nice sunny spot, protected from wind, where we could have a picnic. After about two unsuccessful attempts we discovered a climbers' access path under the Camel, scrambled up to the foot of the rock — and subsequently hiked around it to a viewpoint.

This small ascent was interesting by its weather — a picturesque fall day on the south-eastern side of the Camel, a strong wind and storm clouds on the north-western side. Northern slope, our way up to the Camel, even sported snow. In the end we located a sunny spot were it was possible to sit down for a moment and drink coffee — with no other option than climbing back down and returning home. All the while we watched clouds and approaching snowfall, but made it back still in sunshine.

Nobody was at the Pinball, we had to blaze our trail.

First powder fell on my Nordic track, not ready yet for skiing.

We spent Thanksgiving on our own, at home — our efforts to attract friends for visit were unsuccessful, and we were glad of it in the end. Just on that weekend, a winter storm rolled in, and so it would be problematic getting to us (and from us) — cancelled flights, closed highways and similar perks. I began to feel slightly optimistic, for the storm brought a little snow. Apparently it also kept all tourists at home, for when Sid and I went out to Pinball in Curt Gowdy State Park, we were rewarded by a completely unmarked snow cover even along this very popular route to Hidden Falls.

Inspired by snow, I set out two days later to my favorite cross-country area at Tie City. I wondered whether to take my skis along, but then I reckoned that there would not likely be enough snow to tape my ankle and hassle with switching shoes. To my surprise the Nordic highway from the parking lot looked very snowed-in and promising, and I began to curse my excessive prudence, regretting having left my skis behind. Yet a hike along my secret passages revealed plenty of dry spots. There was relatively enough snow, but it was the first powder, and if you stepped through it or slipped on it, you found yourself on naked ground; the base was missing. A passing-by skier, cursing on his way back to the parking lot, confirmed my impression — it still was not the right thing.

First day of the downhill skiing season - note the volume of people on the slope.

We did not begrudge lack of snow on our long trip to Moab, UT.

Our closest downhill ski resort, Snowy Range, opened for the season on December 1. Only two lifts were running — besides a beginner's one, the Virginian, and even that had a momentary technical pause when I finally arrived there. In the end I did not mind, for I dealt with a problem at length that my original card would not re-charge after I had purchased a season ticket online. I also got familiar with various systems of lockers — I had decided that I was too old to change clothes in my car, and that I deserved a bit of comfort. I won't keep you guessing: eventually I shuffled a few times down two or three of the groomed and partially artificially snowed slopes. This day was also an experiment in that after skiing, I drove down to our kids' apartment in Laramie — there I took a shower and continued on to Cheyenne, directly to my workplace. College townhouse of our offspring happens to be on the way from the slopes, unlike our home, which represents a forty-minute detour. I'd rather ski forty minutes longer!

And since Nordic skiing still did not look like much, I ventured up to Snowy twice more before Christmas. Once Tom joined me, who successfully completed his semester and entered his winter break. Skiing got better and more slopes were open; even one "black diamond", but I've given up on it, for it started with an icy step right off the chair. Still, Tom was bound to take it involuntarily again — when we stepped off the lift at one moment, dudes who followed us on the chair stopped us and said that they'd seen us drop a glove from our chair. A closer inspection proved all gloves to be accounted for — but Tom was missing a wallet. He reached it on a second attempt, since it had fallen out just in a spot where the lift spans a section of the woods not accessible from the slopes. With minimum snow present, his venture under the lift was at least interesting. Then Tom, by his rescue action, alarmed local ski patrol. We did not understand the problem at first — until we later in the afternoon saw a skier who crashed rather ugly in the inaccessible woods — and when he emerged from snow and underbrush, he was missing one ski (which probably disappeared somewhere under the snow). I reckon that the ski patrol is often occupied with people who venture into such dangerous spots for the thrill of it, and regarded Tom as a similar expert.

Sid on the edge of Upheaval Dome.

Dead Horse Point State Park offers awesome views of the landscape.

The fact that little snow had fallen, was a giant advantage — all the roads stayed open for our pre-Christmas road trip to Moab, Utah — and we could use our comfortable minivan instead of squeezing into a Subaru. Only three of us went — Sid, Tom and I, but it would be a crunch all the same. Lisa stayed home to take care of the animals. In that, she got a help in James, who started appearing in our family with the fall. Since after our return from Moab, Lisa and James went to see his family in Colorado. They seem to take it rather seriously together.

Back to our trip to Moab. We chose a longer route, along I-80 and then through Baggs, Craig and Douglas Pass, avoiding Denver and craziness along I-70 in Colorado. The shorter seventy goes through or near several famous ski resorts, which get visited by tourists from warmer climates, who don't always master their driving on snow (after all, many Greenies — a.k.a. Colorado residents — don't either). Our shortcut-detour, in contrast, was traffic-free, and we could proceed quickly at leisure. The only snag on our way occurred, when we searched for dinner in Grand Junction — but in the age of interactive maps and navigation systems, we managed.

We got a beautiful, large room at Best Western in Moab, with a fold-out sofa, meaning each of us got own bed (after Tom, almost voluntarily, agreed to sleep on the sofa). We could begin our vacation in the morning, relatively refreshed. We first visited the Dead Horse Point State Park — last time we reached it in the afternoon, and the direction of sunlight diminished it a bit; mornings are better. If was as pretty as expected, all nice contrasting rocks — and with one exception of a noisy group of weed-smoking female students (whom we avoided), the place was deserted.

A typical Utah landscape — cut-up by deep river canyons.

La Sal Mountains.

We decided to turn our afternoon into an exploratory expedition and venture to places where we have never been before. Our choice fell on Upheaval Dome in Canyonlands National Park. We welcomed a ranger's advice to skip circumnavigating trail, and go for view-points only — a much better option. This Dome it's not some hemi-spherical "bulge" — it's a large hole in the ground, about whose origin scientists still have not managed to agree. It looks like a volcanic crater, but there's no sign of volcanic activity or geological configuration. One of the theories is based on salt sediments that have been gradually eroded and flowed away; another pins it on a meteoric impact, and so on. Either way, it's a very interesting place. It fit our idea of somewhere away from crowds. A beautiful trail through rocks marked with cairns, where we met as many people as fingers of one hand, was very refreshing.

On our was back we stopped at Mesa Arch, which is an easy walking distance from the highway and therefore even at this early evening hour, besieged by yipping tourists. This reinforced our decision to avoid Arches National Park this time (which we had visited many times), and to search a somewhat more hidden place for our next vacation day.

What we did not have to look for was a good restaurant. Already two years earlier we explored Arches Thai right across from the hotel — and again it proved good. You see, we don't have a GOOD Thai place in Cheyenne; we have an OK one, but we also like good Thai food. Sid learned to cook various curries and cashew nut chicken, but having it served right in front of your is something else altogether. Then it's also good — and beautifully presented.

Mesa Arch.

Petroglyphs.

We set out in the morning to a different section of Canyonlands, named Needles. We had never been there before, purely because it is rather far from Moab. It isn't always obvious, but distances in our part of the world are positively crazy. Our patience was rewarded. We checked out Indian petroglyphs, then views to The Wooden Shoe Arch (which really has the profile of a said footwear), and went for a "quick" walk along Pothole Point. Its a flat, horizontal rock with thousands of holes and bowls, so one has to pay close attention where one treads — it superficially looks like a quite unmaintained pavement, but if you endure, you reach an overlook to a very interesting little canyon with may towers and spires, with stripes in colors from yellow through pink to crimson. Fascinated, we stumbled around and took pictures for much longer than I would have considered possible.

By then we had actually not yet arrived to Slickrock, which was supposed to be the true destination of our expedition. There, we had ourselves get carried away by an awesome view into another small canyon — which contains another trail that leads all the way to Colorado River — for which we did not have enough time. The shorter Slickrock Loop was beautiful, too — views into canyons and various gaps. A picturesque landscape, combining red and yellow rocks, scattered evergreens and a blue skies, does not ever go boring. Our enjoyment got curbed by a short winter day — all was left was returning to the friendly Arches Thai and back to our hotel.

We've spent most of the following day by driving back home. We had the advantage of daylight whilst visiting Douglas Pass — on the way out, Tom had been driving and it was rather scary in the dark — now we could enjoy pretty views.

Needles' rocks deliver their promise.

Rocks.

I had one more serious reason to return promptly home — on a Thursday before Christmas, I had an appointment for a tour through our local/state Capitol (seat of government). This happened through a typically Wyomese process. The other day I was waiting on a inconspicuous couple, and since the place was far from full, we got to talking — about, where I am from, that I have an accent etc. Then the dude asked me if I ever was on a tour of the Capitol. I admitted not having had an opportunity, and he offered me his card and said that when I feel like it, I should give him a call on his cellphone, and he would give me that tour. I'm looking at the card that says he's one Chuck Gray, Secretary of State. I stood there feeling like a fool for not recognizing him, but of course, I took advantage of the offer and arranged a tour with SOS for the nearest available date after my vacation.

The tour devolved mostly into a political debate, although I admit that the Capitol is interesting. I was mostly impressed by the modern administrative annex being designed by somebody so cogent, that it's arranged to not block a view to the beautiful historic building with a gilded dome. And since this is Wyoming, new buildings connect to the Capitol via an underground tunnel to allow access in our typical Wyomese weather.

By then, we were facing Christmas. This year represented a confrontation of our cats with a Christmas tree. I had read horror stories and watched trying-to-be-funny videos on the internet, where cats topple the trees and cause various damages. I consulted with Pepe and in chatrooms, and since I did not like advice of the type, "we decorate a tree that grows in front of the house", I tasked Lisa and James with erecting a bare tree in our living room on the main floor, where the cats don't go as much and which would stay "under surveillance". We used to put the tree in the basement in previous years, which is mostly inhabited by our kids — but the "kids" are now both at the university, and the tree would only have the cats for company.

Tom — and if you look carefully, Carol on the plateau below.

Culinary experience happening in Moab, UT.

The cats sniffed the tree and subsequently ignored it; we could decorate at liberty. It was Guido who got closest to the tree one day, when he was warming his pelt near the fireplace. You see, we could not have a simple and easy Christmas like everybody else. First, our faucet in the kitchen broke (flooded the cabinet under the sink), which handyman Rick fixed while we were still on our trip to Utah. A day after returning home, we discovered that our central air heating stopped working. HVAC guys had to come THREE TIMES and clean the furnace and ducts, where flying ants had built their nest and died shortly thereafter, clogging them. We were in for a few days alternatively without heat — at least, we still have our natural gas fireplace. We don't use it normally, but it's rather heat-effective; even Guido appreciated it.
At the time when I congratulated myself and bragged everywhere about our cats failing to topple the tree, I caught Hugo crawling under said tree. He began to drink from the bowl providing the tree with a little water. And since I have shortly before that thrown Guido out of our kitchen sink (they don't usually climb on the kitchen counter), I realized I was a sh!tty cat mama — our cats had ran out of water in their bowl and nobody noticed it.

Lisa was out visiting James's family before Christmas, so Tom and I made a trip to the veterinary clinic for Bonnie's ultrasound in her absence. I was not totally surprised when the vet found nothing that would look like a goat embryo, but I was disappointed. I arranged with the billy goat owner that if we feel Bonnie gets in heat again, we would visit there for another try. I was not giving it much chance — Bonnie is a quiet goatie, holding behind, it's not easy at all to discover whether something is going on — and I made peace with the fact that there would be no baby goats.

Historic Capitol is still nice an visible — even between new administrative annex buildings.

New year's walk with Lisa — rainbow rings "sun-dogs" in the frosty air.

Our Christmas was traditionally very humble — we're not the partying types, enjoy peaceful proceedings above all. And being together — offspring is practicing jumps from the nest, and who knows how long will we stay all in one spot. This, I admit, is rather my own feeling; kids probably don't suffer such sentimentality. Yet as long as they're willing to spend Christmas with us, I'm glad. They even sacrificed an afternoon or two and got outdoors with me. Tom went downhill and Nordic skiing, and Lisa at least on a walk around the Nordic track, without the skis.

On Christmas Day we were invited to Doris and Bryan, for a lunch. That was very nice; finally we have a feeling of belonging, and having friends here. Our second emigration has hitherto manifested itself as another hit to our social contact. Not only had we moved out of our old motherland and thus lost our wider family and all associates that one collects throughout one's youth, but with our second big move, we lost friends that we gathered while living in California for twenty years. The older one gets, the harder it becomes meeting new people.
The lunch was interesting also by the fact that Doris had invited — beside their family and us — two elderly solitary ladies. They proved themselves the stars of the gathering — full of humor, wisdom, general awareness; well traveled and full of energy. It was a truly refreshing encounter — it gave me hope that even after reaching eighty, one does not necessarily turn into a poor discarded individual, who can only talk about one's health issues.

We practically did not celebrate New Year; New Year's Even seems to me a completely absurd holiday. Nevertheless, with the beginning of January, I had arranged for another visit at the vet's, with Bonnie for another ultrasound check — to my surprise and joy, this time the screen showed a spine and a formed baby goat — at least one, more likely two. Therefore I dare to declare that year 2024 began on a positive note. Let's hope everything turns out well.