...Hoof is a home of mine... On a seat there is a girl She alternates with me Cracks her whip and Says at the same time I'll be back to the Hoof. When the girl's in the Hoof Then I'm not there anymore Right now I'm not and So I keep singing I'll be back to the Hoof. I don't know what the girl is like She does not know how I am We always only Switch our places Holding our guard in the Hoof.

sings Buty and I must say that our lives are now such Hoof. Before Sid gets back from work in Colorado, I start my afternoon shift. I get home by about eleven in the evening, and by then he's asleep to acquire some shut-eye, before getting up at seven for work. These days I try to get up around seven as well, but if my shift was tougher, I may sleep in, perhaps till eight — then I have to jump up and go feed my poor hungry animals — cats, chickens, goats; bring them water, clean up the shed — and only then I return home for breakfast — but then Sid has mostly driven out. So we alternate and miss each other.

The Journals exhibit a great gap, and originally I was going to brag that it was mostly because we live in boring times. Within the limits of Hoof of my own workload, I was getting out frequently to ski, predominantly Nordic, but I even put in some down-hills. Apparently, in my previous life I had been a Yetti, for I love winter forest and don't even mind running around the same places. This year it was under the seasonal climatic pressure, as no-one knew when my last skiing day would come — proper snow came only late in January, February was uncommonly warm — an El Niño consequence — which buries California in tens of feet of snow, but manifests in our parts through warmer weather, for the precipitation moving from west gets caught on all those mountain ranges between us and the Pacific Ocean. March was a little better, as far as snow goes, but temperatures were not snow-friendly.

Nothing extraordinary happened during my cross-country ski trips, and to describe again how I enjoyed skiing makes no sense. I will immediately break this promise with my trip to Libby Creek — a fellow Nordic skier, whom I met on my secret forest trails, recommended it — it was supposed to be pretty and have no people — but being at ten thousand feet, it had better chances for snow. At home I checked out a map with a marked four-mile loop and resolved to try. I talked Sid into driving out there, he would hike and pick me up again at a trailhead after ninety minutes, because, how long can take me to run four miles?

Bridge over Libby Creek.

I ran across the first bridge, there were markers on a tree, everything looked good. A meadow followed, with markers missing and tracks dispersing into several directions. Some tourists headed toward me from a grove, so I reckoned I'd choose their more trodden and peopled direction. Then I met a group on skis; they assured me that this was the right direction, and that I should not miss a right turn next — saying the loop was better this way. I found the turn, which led to an ascent to a ridge. That took me aback, for I imagined that a trail including a "Creek" in its name would follow said creek in the valley, horizontally. Still I prevailed and climbed up on the ridge with a beautiful view. My problem with markers came back — there are back-country ski slopes down from the ridge, so many track go up to the top — which I tried one after another, to always end over a steep slope full of trees and rocks, which would surely not master on my Nordic skis. Hence I continued along the ridge and subsequently found two more markers. They disappeared again on another meadow — criss-crossed by Nordic tracks in all directions. I followed the most trodden one, which, alas, disappeared in the woods, and one could see people were turning around here. A snow-shoe trail blazed through a thicket, and one could hear snowmobiles from that direction (this whole place is a favorite snowmobile area). I reckoned that I lost my way — my loop was supposed to go left, away from the road and snowmobiles, not back to them.

Unexpected slope.

I returned to the meadow and concluded my time had advanced so much that I'd better followed my own tracks than search for an erratic trail — but then I hit another promising turn-off and voted to try again. This trail led onward along the ridge and in a desirable direction — with occasional markers. And it was level to boot, for I did not like risking a slalom down the slope I ascended before. The markers continued and the trail curved left, into the valley. It had some downhills, but diagonally across the contour lines and with much space, so Nordic-ski friendly. I felt I was catching up with time lost by ascending and stumbling around. I also finally discovered Libby Creek, and thus relaxed. Back-country skiers were having a picnic in one spot, which gave me hope that I was not alone somewhere in a wilderness.

Winter's spiky sun.

A bit father down past the back-country skiers, the greatest betrayal of this trip appeared — another ASCENT. Steep and long. I contemplated keeling over and freezing right there and then, convinced that it was beyond my strength — herringbone climbing in a slippery, complicated terrain, where without my skis I would sink knee deep (and being no better off). The back-country skiers were very demotivating as they ran up the hill on their skins with ease. I tasked them to find Hippo at the parking lot and tell him that his wife was liable to be noticeably late, but it would be too soon to call rescue services; his wife was only old and not up to snuff. In the end they failed to convey my message, because I got ahead of them again on the final flat meadow — where my sliding Nordic skis beat the heavy back-country skis.
Overall I concluded Libby Creek to be very satisfactory in landscape, but for Nordic running very demanding on physical fitness and stamina. I would love to repeat it, now that I have an approximate idea, where the trail leads — but perhaps I'd like to have some company along in case of trouble. Our mountains are rather deserted — and out of mobile network reach, so one cannot call for help.

Ski slope at Snowy Range.

Besides, I should have reviewed a real topo map with contour lines; I should have considered how rational it was to venture into the unknown about a week after I got a tooth extracted. That was a relatively traumatizing experience — it took four appointments and three different specialists — after each of them assured me that my last molar had thoroughly spoiled under a crown and could not be rescued — the crown had hidden the trouble from dentist and x-ray scrutiny. Not only I had to endure an unpleasant procedure, which left me with a hole in my mouth, but my self-awareness received a bruise: suddenly I became a toothless old woman.

Some say we're a "funny family".

Winter's end brings birthdays — Sid's in February, and mine in March. Sid wished a family outing for his birthday, and chose Pinball in Curt Gowdy State Park — that's our favorite trail snaking among rocks — now in winter enhanced by snow. A brunch in Little America followed — which is a local chain of freeway resorts with posh hotels and a famous American buffet. I wished to do Nordic skiing for my birthday — in which only Tom took part — and a lunch at Bunkhouse, where amateur geezers play string instruments. Both actions were very private and successful — and actually some of the very few uncommon occurrences in the Hoof.

At Curt Gowdy we went as far as the bridge across, how else, Crow Creek.

At the start of April I took two weeks off from work so that I would be home for the birth of Bonnie's baby goats. As much as goats are generally unproblematic animals, things can go wrong very rapidly with baby goats. A newborn goat needs to be cleaned quickly — best by its own mother, which is a bonding act, otherwise it gets cold and dies. Within the first hour it must be able to get up on its legs and drink, or else it dies. With our first time mother Bonnie, I was not sure that she'd manage all that. Honestly, if the kid gets born butt-first, it hurts its hips and hind legs so much it won't get up for first few hours, sometimes even days — human assistance is required to get it to the udder. There's not much time — certainly not enough that I could afford be between six and eight hours away at work.

Newborns.

I was picturing how I would rest a little from my work stress — and that I would put our property in shape — prepare vegetable plots, weed and mulch my several hundred bushes and small trees — and perhaps skip off to ski if it didn't look like Bonnie prepares for anything. Well, do you know the saying that if you want to bemuse gods, you should tell them your plans? Hence, one week before my vacation I caught some stomach flu, and once I barely got out of it, a heavy cold followed, which unerringly developed into a sinus inflammation. Antibiotics took several days to have effect, but either way I was barely dragging myself around — hoping that Bonnie gives birth on a weekend when children would be at home and at hand — or that she leaves it till the time comes when I become partially functional again — but that she won't postpone it too much, for I already had shifts planned after my vacation. Baby goats also represent a financial impact, so earning money was desirable.

It's OK, they managed to drink.

Official estimates for birth term pointed to between fifth and ninth of April, (I was off work between second and twelfth); my private guess, reinforced by my experience with Bonnie's mother and grand-mother, leaned toward the ninth. Since about the fifth Bonnie got visibly slow and other goats would noticeably chase her away and bully her, so I began to close her off each night with Twilight (her mother), who at least tolerated or ignored her, and let her eat and sleep in peace. I had my birthing box ready and children helped me clean and ready the shed — pulling in bails of straw and clean bedding, and preparing a portable fence, so that a portion of the shed could be separated for baby goats. Sid re-enabled a networked shed microphone, allowing me to monitor sounds from home, avoiding having to camp at the goats. April nine came and went, and NOTHING happened.

Rory.

On the tenth, I looked Bonnie over from all ends, but saw nothing still. Bonnie was eating and functional, appearing normal. She seemed a bit more nervous in the afternoon, so I did not just rely on cameras and microphone, and visited the shed frequently in person, concluding still nothing. After one such "still nothing" visit I went back home, took off my rubber boots and hat, and checked the camera — seeing that Bonnie was convulsing on the ground — so I flew right back, because goats normally don't give birth lying down; it's seemed rather critical. When I got there, Bonnie managed to get up — with two rather large hooves sticking out of her vulva. All previous baby goats got born head first or butt first, hooves were somewhat new to me — I worried that it might be bad news. Eventually I put on my gloves and helped by pulling — and with joined forces, the baby was born. Bonnie did not even look at it and escaped to the opposite corner of the shed. I cleaned the baby goat a bit, sucked off the nostrils and began to push it toward Bonnie, who still did not show interest. Within about ten more minutes, a second baby goat got born, but it flowed out into the world smoothly and by the book. Still Bonnie showed no interest in them, so I performed the basic maintenance and spent next desperate twenty minutes by pushing baby goats to their terrified mother. Eventually Bonnie recovered from her shock and sniffed the boys (yes, both are boys) and began to clean them. That uplifted the baby goats so much that they began to stand up on their wobbly little legs and search for milk. Bonnie's inexperience showed again — small critters pushing to get under her belly, were too scary for her — she dodged them and fled from them. Some hormones must have kicked in, but Bonnie did not understand her role — it was her, who tried to suckle on my sleeves. In the end I had to catch poor Bon, push her to the wall and try to nudge the boys — who were not so sure either what to look for and where to find it — until all three parties figured it out. My suspicion that Bonnie would need help was correct. I'm afraid that without my intervention the boys would not have survived it.

Fuzzballs.

Unlike my previous baby goat litters, this year I was on my own. Kids were in their university and Sid commuted to Colorado — and so I had to deal with everything. I didn't even have anyone to consult momentary crises with, and I missed a spare pair of hands (although, Sid returned early enough to help me disinfect the baby goats and tie up their umbilici). This year I had no inspiration for their names; the babies stayed nameless for several days. Eventually I recycled Ozzy (which was Bonnie's original name, before we noticed she was a girl) and for the rustier first-born I found the name Rory — which means "red king". Sid recalled Rory Gallagher — a legendary Irish guitarist — which keeps us within the trend of goats being named after famous musicians. On the third day it seemed to me that — especially Ozzy — was horribly thin. And I also realized that the baby goats were acting atypically — they were always hanging on their mama, trying to feed. Normally we had to keep careful watch to notice when a baby feeds; on first days it's a matter of several seconds. Closer scrutiny revealed that Bonnie's udder was completely deflated and nothing flowed — which gave me quite a start. I ran into the fridge, where I has a bit of goat milk, a gift from a friendly goat lady, and tried to manually feed the boys a bit. It was a bit of a fight, for the babies are picky; a pacifier and strange milk does not sit with them. Still I might have forced some into them. One must always consider, what's better — the risk that the babies get unused to their mother, or alternatively that their mother stops tolerating that they always hang on her — Bonnie was visibly bothered and annoyed, she would run from the boys to places they could not follow (like up a bail of straw), to get a moment of peace. I hoped that by bottle-feeding them I resolve both problems in one swoop — the boys get fed and leave Bonnie alone for a moment.

With mama.

On Saturday I resolved to attend a meeting of the goat club — originally I had planned not to, for my work shift started again by four — but I managed to convince another friendly breeder to bring me some milk of her goats. I have a bag of formula at home for the case the natural way would altogether fail, but I wanted to supplement bottle-feed with "real" milk (cow's milk is not suitable, has more lactose than goat's, and goat's milk is naturally homogenized and overall gentler for the stomach). My miniature goats have even more miniature babies — they weigh about two pounds when born, and every ounce lost looks catastrophically on them — it did not strike me as very reasonable to experiment with milk composition. I won't keep you suspended — I fed them a bit from the bottle on Saturday — on Sunday I was welcomed by two merry, fat and hyperactive fuzzballs — and by Bonnie with a full udder. It works both ways — the moment a two-pound baby goat eats well once or twice, it becomes a fat goat. The most important thing was how everybody involved acted — Ozzy and Rory ran around the shed like ball lightning, more or less ignoring their mother — except suckling for their five seconds once in a while, then continued to run.

Colleagues at work (even a few regular guests) welcomed me back — alas, with questions whether I had a nice vacation and had I rested well. This confused me somewhat, because I remembered those two weeks as relatively infernal — sinus inflammation, antibiotics, then a week of nerves and lack of sleep with the goat and babies — I had a feeling that I rather deserved a real vacation for two more weeks, to recover from my "vacation".