Dante did treat our tree quite delicately.

A winning present.

I mean the title seriously. While writing this journal in mid-February, my internal Yeti has reached the very bottom. It still has not snowed in our corner of Wyoming, which is considerably depressive. It's one thing that Yeti cannot go out skiing. A completely different thing is the relentless drought; at peak winter we found ourselves in critical fire hazard situation, and I fear that my pasture shall not grow a blade of grass, forcing me to feed hay throughout all year. Whether I would save anything of my laboriously planted and cared-for trees, I have no idea. Although I periodically unfurl (and later furl, should freezing temperatures arrive), watering hoses, but I'm convinced it's not enough. "I cannot command winds and weather" (- Horatio Nelson). Thus we shall survive it somehow. Perhaps focus on positive events.

For example, we had beautiful Christmas. Both offspring were mostly at work, thus it fell on me to decorate our tree — assisted by Dante the cat. She, unlike our old and lazy male cats, keeps being playful — and above all curious. I consider it a proof of her bright intelligence. She truly follows us to watch during various household chores. She would sit somewhere on a side to not get in the way, but observes carefully what people do. I was somewhat nervous regarding the tree, Dante wasn't with us yet during last year's Christmas, and having seen various horror stories with cats and ruined trees and apartments, I stayed very alert. Dante, however, admired our tree gently and gingerly — she pushed a straw decoration with her paw sometimes, and drank from the water bowl under the tree, but caused no relevant damage. Maybe she is resolved to play her role of a cute little kitten, so that we refrain from kicking her out into the freezing cold like her previous masters. Yes, we are convinced that Dante began her life as a domestic cat — since her beginning with us she settled in the house, does not care much for going out, flawlessly handles all cat doors, cat trees, automatic drinking bowl, toys — and naturally knows quite exactly when and how it works with feeding. Also, WHERE food is being stored. All that makes us conclude that somebody had to throw her out of their house — how else would she end up ten miles outside the city on a prairies with an obvious domestic training (unlike our outdoorsy barn cats, who had to get used to all that over time).

No goats no glory!

Groovy party.

On Christmas Eve, I had a shift at work, but arranged it so that I would be there in the morning only, and spend the afternoon with my family. I probably haven't written about my new job, so I'm fixing it now. Having suddenly left my position as a waiter, I wondered what next. It would be rather simple to get another waitress job somewhere, but the question was, whether I'd be up to it physically. Also, whether I really want, with my age and health situation, work on weekends and late nights, or alternatively early mornings (businesses that offer breakfast). With Sid commuting to Colorado and kids at university in Laramie, there are logistic considerations around the house, property, animals — and access to offices and so forth. Meanwhile I need flexible shifts at part-time level. This eliminates regular full time jobs with a fixed work time and vacation accrual. While thinking all this, I received information from various sources about a local fitness center that has a small climbing wall, and open positions. I endeavored to check out the climbing wall, found that it was indeed tiny but well constructed, so I signed up there right away. And began to investigate how it was with their jobs. It turned out they were looking for someone to cover Wednesdays and Fridays, nine to three, I hesitated no more. It nicely leaves me time to take care of my goaties, does not include weekends, and does not interfere with regular sleeping at night. I can wear sweatshirt and sweatpants to work, and have a chance to chat with regular customers. Well, and when I wanted to be home on Christmas Eve evening, I was. It's a spa for my nerves.

Our landscape, however, does not look like Christmas at all, with no snow.

The more the wind blows, being really unpleasant..

My noon arrival at home did not interfere with anything, the offspring had probably been still asleep, so I haven't missed anything either. Neither would I be awaited by two excited children, half-hysterical from Christmas and anticipation of presents. Those would accumulate since the previous day under our tree, we had no need to do tricks with secret bells ringing and surreptitious moving presents from their hiding places. The only "child" discovering presents too soon was, again, Dante. Lisa and I managed to watch our annual Christmas children's story movie (Cinderella) — and thus we were able to assure Tom and Sid that everything had a happy end again and the world was alright. This year again I have a feeling that I was likely the least naughty one, for besides presents I asked Santa Claus in my letter, I got a lot of nice and fun small things.

One of the presents, a thermos bottle, laser-engraved by Tom with a goat-head logo, came handy in my HEMA sessions. I transferred the logo onto my helmet face, thus stopping it from being plain black. From now on I won't accidentally swap it with someone else's, and the goat is really pretty. It also serves as my "goat of arms", and now I charge into my duels shouting, "no goats, no glory".

Ski slopes get artificial snow and it's OK.

Yet a few yards lower, it's early spring.

Only I'm not sure whether these typically Wyomese presents that we gave each other, like thermos flasks, hand warmers, blankets, warm underwear and winter overcoat, did not jinx the winter to never arrive. Still, comparing with the previous year, when Sid spent his Christmas break in doctors' offices and emergency wards with kidney stones, while I went to orthopedist's with my back, the most recent kind of Christmas seems rather better.

Returning to Dante one more time — she had to be very nice and not naughty at all, for she got a beautiful "present" — I pulled my new working overcoat from the shorter end of its wrapping, Dante climbed into the empty paper — and has been living there since. I'm curious when the simple holiday wrapping paper falls apart enough to lose form, but I'm afraid Dante is ready for it — if she does not lounge inside the wrap, she makes her bed on top of it.

Another positive moment came when we went to a New Year's party with my long-sword buddies. They had an idea to go throwing axes together. I did not know we even had such interesting play place in town. I took Sid along, who would protest that he's been clumsy doing any sport, but he learned to throw axes rather quickly. I did not know how satisfying it can be watching your axe bite into the target. It impressed me as a very humane way to celebrate — especially when followed by dinner in a Japanese restaurant.

It snowed mildly in mid-January - but not enough to gather snow under trees.

Forest looks more hopeful.

We did not want to let ourselves get crushed by the lack of snow, and for the rest of Sid's Christmas break we set out on trips. The wind was blowing crazy most of the time, so I felt like a Russian matryoshka, packed in many layers, but at least we got outdoors. With Tom, I wen for a change on Snowy Range ski slopes, where I had bought a season pass — and where Tom quit working. He had thought to spruce up his winter break by earning some cash, but his team project got to him. Finalizing his mechanical engineering degree, they are to design and prototype a machine (for packing live aquarium fish) for a real customer; he discovered that he would need to work not only during his break, but most importantly right thereafter — which does not fit the plan to attend school on weekdays and work a ski resort job on weekends. No longer an employee, he forfeited his pass, but daily tickets to this our small resort are not very pricey and are easy to get online.

It even snowed at the start of January. No miracle, and we get a really dry snow here, which is so powdery that you plunge right through it to the ground (and rocks), but it made Yetti a bit more merry and filled with (vain) hope. When we first walked a meadow at Lodgepole Creek with Sid, and then a part of snow-bike trail near Tie City with Tom, I decided to give my Nordic skis a chance. I had checked out that when I stick to trails that are either groomed or at least well walked, I would not drop through onto dirt and rocks. It was a bit suboptimal, but I told myself that one cannot be choosy running first Nordic loop of the season.

Rosehips in snow.

Tom.

If you're waiting for the punchline that it also was my last Nordic skiing — it was not. Two weeks later I made that round twice again. It is incredible how long can a groomed, pressed snow last, but even that proved not enough for temperatures above fifty degrees. Hence I talked Tom into checking out mountains at ten thousand feet, at Libby Creek. There was relatively enough snow, at least in the forest, where it was sheltered from wind and being blown in all directions, but the high temperatures caught us there, too. We thought to make a loop, in whose part we would blaze our own trail, but we had to give it up, as wet snow stuck to our skis. The whole Libby Creek area is not very suitable for Nordic skiing, as the terrain there is rather hilly, where you either rush downhill fearing for your underwear affected by your fear, or you sweat up steep grades, cursing between gasps for breath. Otherwise it was a beautiful day and Yeti got outed at least a bit. So here is the punchline, for that was my last time, as since then it was just warmer and warmer and drier and drier.

Sid's birthday fell on Friday this year, and thus we could get together as a whole family, Tom and Lisa quickly arriving from Laramie. The trouble with a birthday immediately followed by a Valentine lay in it being hard to fit in any restaurant, so we rather had a home dinner. Sid wished to get eggplant bake, which to my surprise even our children ate this time — during puberty they rejected it vehemently. On Saturday then came to great maintenance of our backup generator. Tom has been changing oil in it every year, but this time the generator asked for a major scheduled check-up. And since one of my long-sword buddies mentioned it during a visit with us that he had helped installing it a few years earlier, for he is an electrician, I asked him to assist Tom. Or rather, I asked whether Tom could assist him to learn — and avoid coming up with complications inferred from incomplete and/or mystic manuals, when in reality things are likely rather straightforward.

First Nordic outing.

There was snow at Libby Creek, in ten thousand feet.

For Sunday I had planned to participate in Winter Knights event at our fairgrounds. My original sword-fighting group made their presentation there with duels on both days, while I reckoned that with my arthritis and low energy level, one day would suffice. I went there properly equipped — with gear paradoxically from members of my new sword-fighting group. Most importantly, I succeded in purchasing a used gambeson, which made me extraordinarily happy. No longer would I have to rely on leftover, sweat-drenched, smelly club gear, which never fit me well, limiting my range of motions. My new gambeson is cut the way I wished (with a short "skirt" over my hips); that was a chance luck. A true benefit of my new group was that a skilled team tailor managed to alter it for my figure (the original male owner somewhat lacked certain curves). Besides, new group seems to be more compact than the former.

I worried how I would deal with a busy day full of duels — and whether I could spare a moment to check out a real knight jousting tournament — which was to be the high-point of the event. As it sometimes happens, the problem was quite of the opposite kind. A thick gathering of eager enthusiasts pressed around the barriers, on average younger and twice as strong as I am, so I got to duel altogether four times. Unfortunately, coherent organization was lacking, not only in who got to fight, but even basic things like timing the encounters (officially the duels last three or five minutes) and moderating couples to not hog the ring. I admit I was rather disappointed.

Nash Fork looks actually like winter.

I managed to conscript a left-handed colleague.

The positive side of this chaos was that nobody noticed in the slightest when I up and went to watch the jousting knights. The tournament was a grand show — probably necessary, for to be honest, the actual encounter of the two knights happens in a span of five seconds, so they had to pad it up somehow. But I'm glad I saw it, as I got much entertained and eventually felt that the whole affair wasn't a total waste of time after all.

I thought I would just "lazy about" on Monday, but then I discovered that Hippo's company held Presidents's Day, so in the morning we quickly came up with an idea for a trip. We journeyed to Glendo Reservoir — because the weather isn't very pretty, everything is gray, and I was tired from an action-packed weekend, I did not really mind it being relatively far, which meant sitting in a car for an hour and half. We stopped in a small town of Chugwater on the way, where a local store sells Arbuckles' brand coffee. It is marketed as a historic "cowboy coffee", because it was the first company to sell ROASTED coffee. Until then people roasted their raw beans themselves, which is problematic in that should you burn on bean, you can throw everything out and start over. At times when huge cattle herds moved over the prairie, accompanied by a chuckwagon (a wagon with a field kitchen), pre-roasted coffee was a great novelty. Arbuckles included a mint (candy) with every pack — thus giving the cook a chance to attract volunteers, who'd grind the coffee in exchange for the mint. Arbuckles continue roasting and distributing coffee in modern times, and I could not miss this historic opportunity; now a pack sits in our pantry. I hope it contains a mint!

North Platte River under Glendo Dam.

Our hike led to the tip of the spur.

Glendo Dam lay on North Platte River — which eventually merges with Missouri and subsequently Mississippi. Up here in our parts it's a small river, retarded in a beautiful canyon, whose cliffs now serve recreation. During this season, the campgrounds and playgrounds were empty, and we set out on our walk (you can't honestly call it a hike) absent other company. The path follows the top of the cliff, with awesome views of the lake. The day offered pleasant temperatures in high fifties, strange in being CALM. The only sad thing about all that is the fact this was the middle of February, no snow to be found, the reservoir half empty, while we marched wearing thin hoodies. East of us, people don't manage to clear off heaps of snow, while we pray for every snow flake or at least a drop of rain, and our weather is often warmer than Florida's. Therefore, if you're bored, I implore you to perform interpretive dances to cause snowfall in Wyoming. Maybe you succeed in saving Yeti from a total breakdown!!!