Lisa in a pass over Box Canyon.

Sid's separate trip to the same place.

Unfortunately, from mid-February it got warmer and snow was no fun, therefore yeti demands fee reimbursement — she moved to Wyomingu on account of snow! The only advantage was that Sid could go out on his hikes — and I managed to talk Lisa into a hike to Box Canyon. We met at Lincoln, but Lisa arrived there with smoke emanating from her car, the Grinch, which made us uneasy. We left Grinch there on the parking lot and continued with my car, Ned, to Vedauwoo. Our hike was very colorful — in parts we walked in warm sunshine, other times we waded through knee-deep snow. And since the trail from Box Canyon to the pass is not officially there, we had to find our way by memory — wanting to avoid icy or snow-covered portions. Still I ended up indignantly crawling on all four in one moment. We were rewarded by a grand view — and subsequent arranging a fix for the Grinch. I admit that given our number of cars (yes, our family has ⁵/₄ cars per person) and ongoing repairs, I lost track of what it was this time.

A bend on Crow Creek entering Granite Springs Reservoir.

Wintery shiver.

During wintery and snowy spasms I tried to ski both Nordic and downhill at Snowy, depending on my schedule. During one such wintery spasm, Lisa and James were supposed to show up for a weekend, and I did not hesitate and arranged with James that he'd bring his Nordic skis, which he bought the previous year from an associate, to check them out. James conspired not to tell Lisa about our plan, thus not letting her protest in advance, and she thus went cross-country skiing with us. Lisa refuses to ski that is why we had to use this deception to get her out. James had bought the skis as historic artifact — they sport 75 mm bindings, and he got beautiful real leather boots for them — the skis are roughly thirty years old laminated ones (what would I have given for such skis in the nineties!) and they must be waxed. He had wax, too; well. We have apparently waxed through, for at first the skis kept slipping, and then snow started sticking to them. It stuck to everybody's skis — since we went out around noon, temperatures rose above freezing, and the last section of our route was rather demanding and unpleasant. But it was a beautiful day, and James was very brave. He did not get discouraged even by a few beginner's falls.

It was little better in the downhill skiing field, as we set out a few times with Tom to Snowy; a couple times I arrived on Saturdays and took him out during his work break. I must be a horrible softie, but my tired legs typically hurt me after skiing. But it was a heavy, soft snow, and one had to work hard. We skied for the last time on April 12 (they closed on 13th), and by then it was risky business — at fifty degrees, skis would get stack or again speed up depending on how much each particular spot had melted; we wavered on our skis like drunks. Especially I did — my skis are very short, which suits me well for moguls and by being easily controlled (after all, I've got a problem tearing it off with my back), but they're not very suitable for soft snow, in which I sink with my weight.

Snow held even on the ridge.

A few feet lower, at Vedauwoo, snow is hard to find.

But back to March — Dante's spaying was planned for the eleventh. I arranged that they would also chip her, and check why she kept scratching her head. I caught Dante right at her morning meal (we put her bowl in the carrier), there was no problem. I picked her up again in the afternoon, still mildly sedated. A veterinary assistant disquieted me, when she handed me pills that I was supposed to mix into Dante's food, and furthermore drops for her ears — Dante had dirty ears and a mild inflammation (which explained the scratching). I protested that Dante was a feral cat and I would not be able to catch her; the assistant gazed at me like an owl, saying that Dante is a very nice kitty and that she was not problematic. Well then.

Back home in the afternoon, Dante was still a bit groggy, she shivered and even allowed me to hold her. She ate a few granules and then crawled into her drawer under the TV. In the evening, when I wanted to put those drops in her ears, there was a bit of rodeo. She did not eat in the morning, had crawled under the couch, and I could not get her out of there. So it went the whole day, and I called the vet's that it was no good, she does not eat, does not drink, and I can't get the painkiller pills into her, much less target her ears with them drops. I set it up so that if it does not get better by morning, I would catch her and bring her to their office. Easier said than done. Dante grabbed the carpet under the couch with her claws and held fast in place — she would let me poke her, even purred when I petted her, but I did not manage to dislodge her — perhaps she would rather risk having her paws broken before unclawing the carpet. In the end Sid upturned the couch, depriving Dante of a hiding place, and soon we sped to the vet's. They declared that she had a fever and was mildly dehydrated, and I pointed out again that despite not being aggressive, Dante remained an unknown, feral cat, and one cannot simply apply something into her ears or feed her pills — that they have to treat her as an outdoor cat, giving her a shot with a slow release of medication.

With James' assistance, we managed to lure Lisa out on Nordic skis.

Sunny weather is beautiful, but snow is melting away.

The most surprising thing is, Dante does not hold any of it against me — she easily suffered another visit, a month later, for another round of vaccines. She let me put her in the carrier, no tricks with feeding needed. Only at this occasion, she desperately meowed the whole way. Then there were no problems during weighing and treatment: in two months, between her first and third visits, she gained two pounds! From 5 lbs to 7 lbs. She grew a lot and stopped being a skeleton. It seems to me that compared to Hugo and Guido, she is more intelligent — often she pays attention to what's happening around, and learns quickly. We think she grew up somewhere in a household, surrounded by people — she gets the sandbox, knows to operate cat doors, even properly uses a cat house and gym (cat owners already know what a miracle that is) and is generally civilized. The only activity she refuses to do is going outdoors. I put her out on our porch a few times, and she forced her way back while wailing hysterically. Which — naturally besides demonstrating her superior intelligence — would again point to having grown indoors among people — and now she's afraid that we, too, will throw her out.

Last Nordic skiing March 31.

Snow lasted at Snowy Range for twelve more days.

We still hope that inter-feline relationships in our house will somewhat quiet down. Hugo is still afraid of Dante, although there are moments when all three cats stay together in the same room and sleep peacefully. Hugo still keeps going to our closet to hide and sleep, or if it's nice outside, perches on porch bench — perhaps he knows that Dante won't follow him outside where he's rid of her. Guido continues to nonchalantly ignore Dante's hissing and threats — which horribly confuses Dante; she may not understand that our Guido is deaf — so sometimes she tracks and watches him. May the boys will work it out with her.

Besides skiing and feline worries, I turned to sword-fighting this spring. Here I would like to ask some language expert to offer me a suitable, simple word for fight / training with a longsword — and once he's up to speed, perhaps some other Czech word for longsword than this "jedenapůlruční meč" (which translates as one-and-half-handed sword) would be nice.

All this thing kind of just fell into my lap. One day, guests showed up in our restaurant, dressed up in part in medieval costumes — and since I am curious woman, I could not resist and asked them whether any renaisance fair event is happening in town. I was told that it was not, that they simply dress up this way often for practice. Historic sword-fighters are generally called HEMA (Historic European Martial Arts) — and just try to google it out — you'll get sent to hematology..

After surgery - for the first and last time Dante lets me hold her.

Hugo and Guido sometimes play cat games.

For some time it did not fit my schedule and weather (when there was snow, I rather went skiing), and I also had to overcome my shyness to go somewhere and get involved among strangers. In the end my curiosity won — admit it, chap, who founded a historic sword-fighting club by taking his swords practice to the city park, waiting who would get attracted, is certainly interesting. And life is too short to spend it among boring (i.e., normal) people.

However, it's the type of activity for which I am completely "ham-handed". Much of it comes from me being left-handed, and directions "step forth with left foot, lift the sword to your right shoulder and direct the hit to the left upper part of your opponent's head, so that it theoretically passes from his left ear to his right jaw", are insurmountable for me — on one hand they are given in English, and on the other hand I must make a mirror translation as well, until my head buzzes. It gets a bit better when Michael demonstrates and I can copy his movements like in a mirror (there I may have a leg up on right-handed folks), but as soon as it drops into spoken instruction, I'm lost. The next barrier is the fact that we follow the manual by Joachim Meyer of sixteenth century — using (Old) German terminology. On top of that, Americans can't pronounce German "z" (for which Czech has "c"), and muddle through it.

Hugo and Guido hide from Dante in a spot where she won't go - outdoors.

Sometimes they manage to occupy all three the same room.

I think a lot about languages lately. When I count it, English is my fifth (after Czech, Slovak, Russian and French). Since previous year I've been trying German on Duolingo, which is my language number 6. Perhaps worst of them is my Russian; Cyrillic simply "fell out" of my head, and I must subvocalize Russian text like a first-grader, instead of whole words jumping in my head as I look at them. French is interesting; I never knew it really well, but apparently my foundations in it are solid, for when the other day I had French-speaking guests, I was able to reply with basic things in that language — it was simpler for me than trying to decipher what they would want to tell me in their English. Obviously my French did not evaporate completely during those more than thirty years. My Czech is somewhat peculiar, sometimes I speak like a Tartar and curse myself when a specific word or expression would not float to my mind's top — and then I open Czech web sites and learn that Czechs, too, go to a gym these days, they wear trendy clothing (trendy oblečení) and similar gems. Perhaps I'm not being so retrograde. But when I'm tired, I stop understanding even English — it turns into a background noise. Which sometimes happens during evening practice in a workout gym with poor acoustics.

My languages sometimes feel like a drawer with unmatched socks. I reach into the drawer and pull out a blue stocking and a white crew sock; I wonder, what kind of nonsense it is I am speaking — a piece of Czech grammar using a German word with English pronunciation. Then there are homonyms — why chair means Stuhl in German, while Czech stůl means table? Never mind gift, which in German means poison; — while hell is light in German (however, you can rest assured that my favorite Helles bier of Munich is merely pale lager, not some infernal concoction). Sometimes I must think twice, in what kind of language people speak at me, and sort out homonyms into correct meanings.

We practice according to German manual from 16th century.

Yeti got a wooden sword with which she can beat other people. (Photo: Taylor)

So now I attend a club where I try to hit others with a wooden pole (our practice swords are made of wood), which is a great way how to release stress — but by commands often given in English, mixed with a strangely pronounced medieval German, interlaced at times with French (I don't even know if there's an English term for "gorget" — a protective neck padding/collar), while I must transpose left for right and vice versa (after I have been for my whole left-handed life fighting with the rule that "right is your writing hand"). I feel sometimes that I have definitively lost my marbles, or that I operate inside some heavily confused dream. But consider, I am guaranteed to have enough fun for the rest of my life, while unraveling this mystery. And it's a sport that relies on skill rather than strength or speed, and as a recreation it can be practiced for quite a while. The club members are of mixed ages, which is also pleasant — I'm not a complete or the only dinosaur there.

So I tell myself that Fate/Universe/God* (*cross out as needed) has it all well planned. At times when even Tom stopped coming home for weekends (being at work at Snowy), Dante came our way to dispel our boredom and give us someone to worry and fuss about. At the end of a miserable winter, Yeti got herself a wooden sword and friends whom she can hit over their heads with that sword.