Snow came in mid-April, and combined with frost it looked promising.

Yet exposed spots had turned bare.

I had missed the final phase of my Nordic skiing season on account of sinus inflammation and duties surrounding baby goats. When I finally reckoned that the situation with goats stabilized that I could afford disappearing for a few hours from both home and work, I faced merely the last snow of the season. Trees carried hoarfrost and a few inches lay about, but the cover was obviously marginal. My own stubbornness kept me up on my planks rather than a feeling of winter beauty. So I checked off in my calendar that last skiing happened on April 19, and after another outing toward the end of the month — this time just hiking — I decided to remove my winter gear from the trunk of my car (yes, I drive around town with my cross country skis in my car throughout the winter), carry it all to the barn, and lie my inner yeti down to her summer sleep.

Given the fact that weather was still indicating very early spring, when skiing is over, but hiking not yet on, due to snow remnants everywhere, alternating with ankle-deep mud and water, Sid and I reckoned that a trip appropriate for the situation was in order. Our choice fell on Hobo Hot Springs in Saratoga. It's about two hours away in the car, especially while a shortcut through the mountains is still closed for snow, and one must take the interstate. We approached it as an expedition; stopped for a South-Asian lunch in a western-themed Indian place in Laramie — and then proceeded west.

By the end of April all I could do was hike.

We put yeti to summer sleep and went to hot springs.

Saratoga's hot springs are very nice and civilized. Even Indians respected their value and the area was a neutral ground — no wars were fought in the hot springs, everybody needed and wanted bathing regardless of tribal and national allegiances. In modern times the equality and accessibility principle is maintained. The place is open 24/7 and two concrete reservoirs stand built at the springs — one relatively large, and one smaller, which is often colder, yet this time it was the other way around, and red bellies were amassing in the large pool. Adjacent to the pools, there are large changing rooms with toilets and showers. Everything is very primitive, stainless toilet bowls without seats and open showers — so that everything can be hosed down. Still, the very presence of the toilets and changing rooms means that bushes surrounding the river and springs don't overflow with paper-covered surprises; one can hang one's regular clothes on hooks instead of rolling them in a mud somewhere — and both locals and visitors enter the springs purely to relax.

I needed new strength to cope with Ozzy the following week. I had the boys' horns cauterized, but apparently Ozzy's weren't done properly and his horns kept growing. This meant another trip to the vet's, which is stressful for all involved parties. At the time of writing this journal, the story of the horns is still not resolved, and I may return to it in time.

Bonnie was unhappy behind bars.

I had to open a goat kindergarten to let Bonnie graze a little.

Baby goats otherwise make me happy — because there are just two of them, I can pay individual attention and notice how the goat world is arranged. Our ranger neighbor once showed me how cows organize their calf kindergarten — they drop baby cows off in one spot and go graze — but there's always some adult cow nearby. I held Bonnie and her boys closed up for a few days; I think that a two pound baby goat might be carried away even by a bird of prey, but as the boys (very quickly) grew and Bonnie was ever more unhappy that she could not go grazing, I decided to start taking them out. Our first attempt was chaotic, Bonnie kept bleating, the boys kept bleating, but then I took the boys on my lap and Bonnie accepted that they can stay with me and went to graze. During subsequent grazing everybody took it for granted — I would operate my goat kindergarten and their mother could have a break. Gradually I gave the new family more freedom — like, when I was working on the vegetable plot or was mucking out the shed or the chicken coop, I opened everything and let them deal with it. That was interesting as well, since in the case of my absence, boys stayed close to the shed — and usually, one of the adult goats stayed with them — mostly (their granny) Twilight, but I spotted even Enya or Mick. How they negotiate and get to organize it, and how they understand that while watching for the babies they must not fight with them or chase them away, is beyond me — but obviously this has been clear among the goats.

Boys received basic lessons in grazing - what to eat what to rather avoid.

Over time they'll grow into capable and self-reliant goats.

It was May when I began to experiment with my work shift schedule. I keep trying to tune the system so that my attendance makes sense financially, but also that I would not get totally tired from it. On one hand I have a lot of work around our house besides my waiting on tables — work that I must accomplish on my own, while the rest of the family either has a job, or attends school, each about fifty miles from home. The second, possibly greater problem, is my age and health. I have arthritis of small joints, and with it one needs to move, to make the joints "lubricate" themselves and stop freezing in one position. Yet when I overdo it, I spend the night in pain — and remain unusable for two more days. In practice it means that I can't stand up on my feet, because my toes hurt and I'm stiff, and my hands don't work — either I drop things (which is a problem with glasses or eggs), or instead I crush objects (quite impractical around collecting eggs or dealing with fragile plants in my vegetable plot). I keep searching a way to stay in sufficient motion which would not wear me out at the same time. For about a year, I functioned with shifts on Tuesday and Wednesday nights, free Thursday, followed by shifts on Fridays and Saturdays. There's less work during the week and two days in a row followed by a day off look OK. But Friday and Saturday shifts are very taxing and long, and therefore I spent Sundays whimpering at home rather than enjoying my free day with family. Now I test whether a Friday shift, followed by Saturday off, then Sunday night shift, won't be better. I have more time between two hard days — and it leaves my weekend more or less open — whole Saturday and a great part of Sunday — so that we are not always in the Huff.

Granny Twilight often stays with them.

Our cacti blossomed up on Mother's Day.

Working at a restaurant also means that I hear about various things — for example that Depot Days will take place in town, as local rail fans and rail employees would open the train depot to the public. Cheyenne had been founded as "hell on wheels", a temporary settlement during construction of the transcontinental railroad, but unlike many others like that, it did not die away, when the construction moved on west, and lived on with its own business, rooted mostly in ranching, until it became the capitol of a territory, and subsequently a state. Rail yard and various technical support infrastructure, shops and garages cover a huge area — a bus had to take us from the original station hall, today a museum, to the depot. In the shop we we then could admire the main local star, engine UP X-4014, the Big Boy, the largest steam engine in the world. Multiple Big Boys were made, another one, 4004, no longer functional, decorates a local city park; 4014 still works. This year they were preparing it for a long trip to California. A computer is being implanted in the tender, which would simplify control of the behemoth — most braking and accelerating is best done in advance to be efficient and effective. I was mostly captivated by tubes for pouring sand under its wheels — until now I had no idea that they are a real (and important) engine equipment.
Besides the shop, we visited the museum and model railroads. We had moved here at the time when our Tommy already gained other interests than trains, and thus we had hitherto neglected this local gem. On the other hand it's nice to still have things to discover and to look forward to.

Carol on a hike in Middle Kingdom.

Hombres in a crotch.

Last weekend of May traditionally longer here, we celebrate Memorial Day. Just as traditional is the goat show organized by Wyoming Dairy Goat Association on this weekend. The event is unofficial (does not count as competition), but otherwise follows the same rules, thus giving the breeders — and their charges — an opportunity to test out what it takes to be in a show, and measure up against others. I am lost as to the meaning of such shows, as they seem to me too stressful and self-serving, but I had already noticed the previous year that breeders appreciate if there's a spot in the show where laymen crowds can be directed to go — and where they can pet a goat, cuddle a baby goat — or try to milk or comb a goat. And where someone is willing to talk with them about the joys of raising goats. Hence, this year, too, I volunteered to promote goat farming and brought Licorice, Enya and Loreena to the show. These three are very social and nice, and I had verified that they enjoy being the center of attention of small sticky hands, therefore representing well their species. It would possibly make sense to bring along Bonnie and Ozzy and Rory (especially since I would like to find a good new home for the boys), but I worried that it would end in a disaster. Bonnie is a great mom — she is afraid for her babies, and there was a risk that she would demonstrate a hysteric mother at the show, deranged by unfamiliar surroundings, noise and chaos.

Railfan in a depot.

Outing of a yeti.

Besides my own children, I ordered Lisa's James to attend the show. I did well, for the happening was (again) totally chaotic, and we alone were practically the only people providing the whole publicity circus. I ended up manning the milking stand, leaving our youngsters to oscillate between our goaties and the baby goat pen, while Anne organized pellet bingo and buck kissing (kiss the buck for a buck). On Sunday I conscripted only Tom, so that we could help Anne with goat yoga. Those pictures of exercises with the assistance of cute baby goats look fine, but baby goats also pee and drop pellets, or run randomly away, so must have — besides the exercise leader — also a janitor and goat wrangler handy. Even this we managed well, but I honestly hope that next year the whole organization shall be better — I certainly intend to start getting involved in logistics, to infuse sense into the whole circus better, so that it's not just a well intended improvisation and last ditch effort.

My fattest, longest Nordic skis.

Those two dots in lower right quadrant of the picture are Carol and Tom - from the drone.

Sid did not participate in the show, as they opened road 130 on the same weekend, one that leads through Rocky Mountains, along Medicine Bow Peak. He brought home a lot of pictures and information that people were skiing and snowmobiling up there. This woke up my inner yeti and on my first next free day — Friday — I tossed my back country Nordic skis (I momentarily own three pairs of various widths and lengths, and uses) and took the yeti out. We had a completely beautiful day — and surprisingly, even the snow was fine. Two feet fell during the show weekend, and despite daily temperatures being far above freezing, during nights at ten thousand feet the snow re-froze into large crystals that would not stick to the skis and kept the upper crust relatively solid.

A tourist trail along Lookout Lake is our favorite (I regards it as one of the prettiest mountain hikes), so I know the landscape, in which is impossible to get lost — it's dominated by a notable cliff of Snowy Range with Medicine Bow Peak. I did not bother with a search for the trail in the woods, for I know that it's a summer route, winding among boulders and trees, ascending above and descending to the lake surface — and I headed along the open shore. I tried to keep away from the actual lake — it seemed doubtful to me how reliable the ice was, at the very end of a warm winter. Parts of it, broken near the creek mouth, bearing snowmobile tracks, reminded me of Darwin Awards — and I did not feel like entering the competition. An avalanche sliding down the Snowy cliff discouraged me from my plan to circumnavigate the lake — I did not like the rocks and snow falling all the way to my potential track.

We must turn back, it's getting darker - we're not equipped for a snowstorm.

Below left is Mirror Lake, Lake Marie is further behind - and below the cliff right is a snowed-over Lookout Lake. A storm is visible on the horizon.

I was boasting at home with my pictures — until I realized what was wrong — I went out skiing on thirty first of May. By just one day, I had missed the opportunity to check the box [ ] skiing in June! The fix was easy; I talked Tom and Sid to return with me to the crime scene on the following day, Saturday June 1. Tom brought his skis and Sid his drone (for he refuses to ski cross-country), promising to take a video of us. The first stretch along Mirror Lake was easy, the snow held and Tom and I enjoyed a smooth ride. Then a drone buzz got nearer, and we could hear cracking of twigs and the drone fell silent. We suspected a tall pine tree — and indeed, after a while searching we found the unfortunate drone with a broken propeller. I sent Tom to a hill to appreciate the view of the lake and returned back to our parked car with the drone. Sid blazed in the opposite direction through snow — he would not even put snow-shoes on — and said that he was packing a spare prop blade could fix it.

After this intermezzo, Tom and I could finally set out to Lookout Lake. During our snack break on a rocky peninsula about two thirds into the lake, suddenly a wind picked up and some very dark clouds slid over the range — we reckoned that time had come to turn back. After all, we were dressed for a spring day and not for a blizzard in high alpine conditions. We were just commenting on how we would make it back nicely, when we met Sid again, not far from the parking; he lost the drone AGAIN. He pointed to "those three trees over there" — which stood on a little island on Mirror Lake. He also claimed that he would fetch it himself, but because he sank up to his knees into the wet snow, we offered to be a volunteer search and rescue expedition. We were much faster on skis, just sliding on the surface of drifts that he would have to blaze through.

A track-riddled Mirror Lake.

Rescue expedition found the drone - but it's dead.

We did not dare to cross the lake, so we ran around a bit and approached the island from the side closest to the shore. For a long time we could not find the drone, until eventually Tom spotted it jammed among rocks and roots — and burned his fingers on the camera gimbal. Drone can be written off, but apparently the motor was still trying — and very hot. We ripped the battery out and brought the sad remains to its master. In the meantime snow started falling — and a gang of snowmobile riders crossed the lake — so I started thinking we were too cautious — when one them sloshed through a thin layer of ice and water. He made it, but still.
In the end I have proof that I skied "in June" and thanks to doubling back twice on rescue missions, I skied more than I had expected. Sid, however, is bound to buy a new drone. I must go through another round of putting my skis to the barn for summer. Still I don't know what to do with the yeti: if she got spoiled by the June skiing, I might have to move to Alaska now.