Snowy Range: from 10,500 feet up it's not hot, but full of snow..

As we got snow at the start of May, it was obvious that we would have to drive up into the mountains. Especially since our road maintainers agreed to ignore the date and open the mountain section of Highway 130 through Snowy Range Pass (10,800 ft). I admit that I did not even think of packing my Nordic skis along — the highest web-cam on Green Rock (where we had been skiing along Libby Creek) showed bare pavement, and even the Snowy Range Ski Resorts looked heavily post-season on the web. Indeed: we drove up the hundred-thirty among green ditches and blooming dandelions, until we got to Libby Flats — and were suddenly driving along a road dug out of several feet of snow. I asked our court weatherman, how to explain such a rapid change, and expected some complicated climatological reasoning, but he said it was because wind blows snow from the cliff of Snowy Range straight to those Libby Flats.

Well, are you coming?

A proud fisherman presents his catch.

We drove all the way to the Mirror Lake turn-off — where Tom and I put on our skis and trekked onto our already obligatory Nordic expedition. We had been there at the break of May and June of previous year, well, this year it was as early as May 10. But THERE WAS SNOW. Sid put on his snow shoes (no chance without them) and went droning; a couple of people parked next to us on the turn-off lugged a big screw and rods, and went onto the lake ice-fishing. I mention the fisherman because they proved fun — when Sid flew over them with his drone, they showed him their catch. Sid tries not to bother people with his drone's buzzing, but they apparently did not mind.

Tom and I ran up over a small ridge to Lookout Lake and then ventured around it. This year there were no snowmobile tracks, no people, which was pleasant. We spotted a marmot and then even a coyote, but otherwise we had the lake and the Snowy Range cliff with Medicine Bow Peak all to ourselves. Not even weather would harass us; little puffy floating clouds did not indicate a storm. Yet again this year we packed too much clothing, and the tracks behind us were marked with discarded jackets and sweatshirts; I even dropped my quilted skirt. But one never knows in mountains, weather can change in an eye-blink and then one is glad for every layer.

Carol liked the Lookout Lake flat.

The meadow in background is a frozen lake.

Because the surface was not scarred by tracks and consisted of a uniform layer of new but re-frozen snow, it was wonderful. It was our first time in this season that snow would not stick to our skis, we did not fall through, and thus were truly able to run in a Nordic style, rather than stumble in sub-optimal condition while swearing loudly. What did not occur to me during much of the way, however, was the fact that high quality snow was due to our moving more or less on a level and in sunshine. On our last yards, when I skied down to Mirror lake through a thin grove, I did some nice rolling. Among the trees, in shade, the snow was frozen, hence my skis shot forward and I made a backward tiger jump. Twice. It did not dilute our good spirits from beautiful skiing in an awesome landscape.

Everybody got to listen to several speeches.

Tom in a sea of heads.

After alpine intermezzo, we were expected to return to the city and to the society. Tom's graduation was scheduled on the following weekend. He did not want to participate much in it, we were convincing him that it's a closure to a certain phase of his life, and when we were joined by his friends, he eventually submitted. Since we live in Wyoming, where ranchers and railroad workers get up early, the whole glorious affair began at eight o'clock already. For us it meant driving out by six-thirty (so I had to get up after five to fit in taking care of my goaties) — we reckoned that we did not want to pay for a hotel in Laramie and that we would rather drive. Having parked at our kids' university condo, we walked to the Sports Arena. Graduation was organized American-style with several colleges combined, i.e., for approximately seven hundred students on the same day, and finding the Arena was not hard — we simply followed the converging crowds.

Lisa held our seats in the already packed arena; we had to endure several speeches, and then dispersal of diplomas ensued. It was apparent that the university has had much experience with the process, and everything went smoothly. It was over in two mere hours and Tom came up to chat with us in the stands. The arena emptied and we took a family picture; a weight lifted off my shoulders imperceptibly. Not for the graduation itself, but because now one child is on his own. I don't expect to ever stop worrying about my kids, or stop wanting to help them, but our care is no longer as necessary; he has got his basic conditions to stand on his own feet. I promptly began to feel horribly old, and look forward to my retirement.

Hand shaken, diploma voucher received.

Graduate with family.

We said quick good-bye outside the arena, making sure that the whole company knew to meet us again by seven o'clock at a steakhouse in Cheyenne. We figured that trying to arrange some dinner in Laramie, when hundreds graduate that day, would come to nothing — especially since majority of friends and we old parents, after all, live in Cheyenne. We had discovered T-Joe's Steakhouse & Saloon with our ballooning friends and we hold a monthly meeting there. The restaurant has a Western theme and they know to make great steaks. They also know us as regulars, thus we secured a small private room — it was very nice. The party continued for a while at our house — but even our kids' friends are adults now and have jobs and various commitments, so everybody disentangled themselves before midnight and drove home, sober, in their own cars. The graduation met its purpose — at least for me it clearly and unambiguously ended one era.

Winter has ended as well, and so we started to set out on trips in our vicinity, wearing shorts and t-shirts. The positive thing was, up in the hills, spring looked quite promising, with flowers a-blooming, green grass and leaves, and creeks a-gurgling with water. It was especially apparent during our trip to the End of the Road. We followed a path along the (Middle Crow) Creek, which eventually merges with an old two-track, which ends under a large rock with that ominous name. The creek was overflowing and new green grass grew everywhere and leaves were budding and flowers blooming. A marmot sat on a high perch on the rock and jealously watched as we ate our snacks. I associate marmots with alpine habitats, but this one had apparently deemed our hills sufficient; why bother with long winter in real mountains?

Hike to the End of the Road: rocks in Crow Creek bend.

On the End of the Road rock: Carol, Caleb, Lisa.

We, however, went to the mountains ourselves, hoping for the forest road to Lewis Lake to be open, but it was still blocked by a high snowdrift. We parked at the viewpoint to Libby Flats and marched along a small ridge toward Sugarloaf Mountain. For a while we followed an old unmaintained road, but as soon as we crested onto the northern side, we encountered snowdrifts again. Not packing snow shoes — which would probably be useless in this mixed terrain — we waded at snail pace, looking for firmer snow that would not have us sink knee-deep. We got tired rather quickly, but at least we enjoyed wildflowers and the fact that mountains has seen some more precipitation after all during winter.

When trails are unreachable, one must scale the landscape.

Yeti on a snow highway to Sugarloaf.

Down in our plains and prairie, it was less fun — snow delivery in May had been good, but subsequent moisture arrived with multi-week gaps, and that is simply not enough. I purchased temporary fencing and began to stake out sections of our remaining property for my goaties, to divert them from grazing the little that grows on their pasture. I should probably investigate whether I could take my animals into the hills — they would certainly like it there.

While searching for greener pastures, I did not forget about myself. One Friday at the end of May I ventured to Colorado to check out local sword fight group there. Their Friday events aren't based on a club, but everybody is welcome. It's all very informal and open, therefore pleasant for my type of person, who can't commit to regular attendance (especially since it means almost two-house commute), but who would like to participate as family and job and other duties (in my case, the homestead) allow. Enthusiasts from larger vicinity arrive in such numbers that one can duel with people of various experience levels, ages, sizes and strengths. Our tiny club in Cheyenne is fine, but when one practices always with the same few people, it becomes a narrow routine, and one falls asleep on laurels of own greatness, missing unpredictability of other styles. I left Broomfield completely exhausted and joyful, as it exceeded my expectations.

Don's balloon *Day 1* from within.

Psychiatric Ward: Enter with Caution.

Alas, my drive home was already complicated by my being completely drenched in sweat and traveling in my only spare clothes that I packed along — i.e., skirt and shirt and nothing else — hoping that I would not be flagged down by policemen and that I would not have to step out and operate outside the car (like pumping gas or going to bathroom). It got more adventurous when they constricted the freeway to a single lane. I had anticipated hopping for two hours in traffic jams on my way there, on a Friday afternoon. Having to hop in the same jams by ten in the evening, took me aback and made me cross. I truly did not expect Colorado comrades beavering on Friday night to the extent that leaves a principal north-south Interstate thoroughfare limited to one lane. It seems that I shall have to plan and strategize my future visits to Colorado. Perhaps also take into account spare clothing and complicated traffic situation.

Of our other hobbies, there was an event by our ballooning club in mid-June — flying in Walden. We convinced Lisa to take care of my goaties over the weekend, and got up a three-thirty on Saturday morning to make it by six o'clock to Colorado. Alas, a classic situation ensued; after all those preparations we stood with four balloons on a school field and sadly watched the wind flutter flags on a pole. There's no flying in wind, it's dangerous mostly because the balloon envelope has a huge area and when the wind leans into some twelve or fourteen hundred pounds (envelope plus basket, plus propane, plus passengers), it all becomes a relatively uncontrollable object rushing with the air, which does not offer safe landing (people are relatively fragile and don't take lightly to being dragged through the landscape or bounced off structures and other obstacles — not to speak of what happens when a basket with propane tanks hits power lines). Still we managed to at least unpack the balloons and pack them back in — those that had been to an annual inspection (yes, balloons follow the same rules like all aircraft and had to be inspected every year) and consequently packed in a weird way (different than packed under pilot's direction).

North Platte River.

North Platte River: different, greener spot.

Our club would pay for our breakfast, thus we sat with friends in a local restaurant and properly refreshed ourselves. Sid and I had planned an exploratory trip in Walden's vicinity. This small town is located in a wide valley surrounded from three sides by three mountain ranges — Snowy Range, Front Range and Park Range — with three beautiful meandering small rivers flow through it, eventually feeding North Platte River. The latter is raftable on the Wyoming side, so we went to check it out. We found raft and boat launch parking, from which a promising trail followed downstream. It eventually disappeared; we reckon it was just a fishing access path, which is a shame, for the river is beautiful.

Nice Fred the llama.

Three llamas.

We tried access at another spot, where the trail is official according to our map, but we did not go on it in the end. It got too hot and this part of the Wilderness had burned down five years ago during a huge wildfire — hiking in burned landscape was not too enticing. Thus we proceeded to the next entry in our plan — finding a ranch with llamas. According their website, they rent llamas out as pack animals for hikes. As I have been family "mamma llama" since our kids started attending school and brought home a song about a llama, we could not miss such attraction.

There were currently no other customers at the ranch and a young couple oscillated around their homestead, but they let us meet part of their herd and let me lead around and pet a male llama named Fred. When we visit them next time, we want to reserve a proper ranch visit; I would like to see their other animals and learn some more about llamas.

Silhouettes and clouds.

Over Illinois River in Walden.

By then afternoon has fizzled out and we refreshed ourselves with beer in Walden, proceeding to our hotel to find our room. It wasn't ready yet, but chatting with the owner was pleasant, and the gas station across the street sold ice cream, making us last longer. We tried dinner at the local pizzeria, which promised gluten-free option. That would be find, even the ambiance there was nice, but that one pizza took them an hour to make. It turned out the server botched our order and they had to start over — which would be OK, had they TOLD us about it and would not just let us wait and gape. Especially since it was not cheap at all. We met Dan at the pizzeria, who told us that Don (a second pilot in our club, and the meteorologist) had to urgently return back home, but it should be possible to fly the next day.

In the end we succeeded in that, but with only one single balloon. The wind blew in a strange direction, so Todd eventually landed on the western side of town (instead of the usual north), but on a good spot, with car access. Sid managed to capture a good portion of the flight with his drone, and we have a video, of that, which is good. A group breakfast followed again, and then packing and rushing toward home. We had needed such a weekend more than we had thought at the time, for a very stressful following week awaited us at home, requiring much strength of me. More about that next time.