Licorice's twins Enya and Loreena.

I had apparently remembered correctly the fact that this viewpoint was windy.

Thanks to Lisa having had worked at our veterinarian clinic, now I could leave arrangements of Licorice's euthanasia to her — even just because Lisa is well informed about how the whole process works — that the crematorium would pick up the body at the vet's, so we would not have to deal with a transport during a hot summer weekend, and where to "keep it". I am very grateful for it, not only for Lisa's knowing, but also for her willingness to handle the arrangements and phone calls.

I had probably already mentioned it, but in stress I space out linguistically and stop understanding things properly, much less being able to stutter something out. I don't have this problem with Czech or Slovak, but I started learning English only after becoming adult and it sort-of did not take hold in my subconsciousness. Today's Czech children have the advantage of being surrounded by English, but during our totality even the few movies that made it through the censorship were carefully dubbed, and in school we learned strange, stilted, hard Slavic pronunciation, which did not help us understanding native speakers (or honestly, their understanding our "Czenglish"). In contrast, Viennese German, which as a kid I had overheard during our surreptitious following of Austrian radio and TV broadcasts, sounds familiar to me and I am able to partially parse it intuitively (despite having learned German only a bit and very lately via Duolingo); English remains at a loss. It seems that an old dog won't learn new tricks even after a quarter of century. So this old dog is sometimes held for a fool, when she gazes and opens her mouth emptily like a beached carp, unable to assemble a coherent sentence, or at least words that come from the same language and still make some sense together. During my mental state of having fallen apart, in which I existed around Licky, my attempts to arrange things would fail to be both effective and dignified.

The view was awesome.

It was windy if Frederick.

Lisa kept it all under control, and when we all somewhat recovered, we could set out on Sunday, Lisa included, to Double Black Diamond Trail, and purge our minds of sadness and stress. Since winter I had been requesting from Sid to take me back to the "dark rock with a view, where the wind was strong", and thus since winter we have been scouring heaven and hell (= Sherman Mountains), looking for the view that I had in mind. Alas, the wind is strong almost everywhere in Wyoming, and there is no shortage of viewpoints either. We have so many hills and rocks that most of them have no proper name. I am afraid that my description was not much of a help, but in the end our local expert in hiking (Sid) accomplished to triangulate the right rock after all.

Part of the trail crosses a wet meadow, where even in this dry year a decent swamp had formed. Lisa who came quickly because of Licky, hadn't packed any hiking boots, and wore sandals. We had to find way for her and help her cover the wettest spots stepping on logs. There were great many wildflowers everywhere and the ultimate viewpoint was INDEED windy (there, I was right!) and pretty. On our way back we managed to bypass the swamp; our only impediment turned out a massive group of climbers, who blocked the trail leading by the wall with their hammocks. It did not occur to these young, perspective athletes, to roll out of their leisurely bedding and allow our passing; instead they watched us stumble through the bushes. I felt an urge to call out with Cicero, O tempora, o mores!, which would only solidify my reputation of an old grumpy hag, and I rather kept it to myself.

We had to give up flying and pack the balloons back in.

Sid's trip to Guernsey.

On the following weekend — actually, since Friday, a ballooning festival Frederick in Flight took place. Jeanne and Tom usually come to fly there and stop by at our place on their way, giving us opportunity to have a meal together and chat without the stress around the rally. This year it suited them to stop by on Thursday during the day — but as they had to be in Frederick by five o'clock (i.e. needed to set out from our place by three), while I only start returning from work after three and Sid after five from Fort Collins, Jeanne and I came up with an idea that they would visit us on their way back from Frederick, on Sunday afternoon, when nobody is rushing anywhere and does not have to be there by a set time; we would have a peaceful dinner together, they overnight at our place, and we would have time for each other.

Now that I was organizing and logisticating, I had an idea how to merge Frederick with sword-fighting. We live forty five minutes of (off peak time) drive from Fort Collins, where Sid goes to work. Frederick lay further forty five minutes south of that — and half an hour from Frederick is Broomfield where I go to play swords. Sid departed early Friday morning to fly balloons in Frederick, whence he returned to work, and in the evening drove to a hotel in Brighton (close to Frederick). I went to my work in Cheyenne on Friday, returned home to take care of my animals and to pack, and then drove (during much swearing at Friday's traffic) to Broomfield. I fenced there merrily til nine thirty and then enjoyed not sitting in the car for next two hours, but only twenty minutes to the hotel — and by the time I would have just arrived home, I was showered and wearing pajamas in my (hotel) bed.

Snowy Range panorama.

It is springtime in the mountains, with lots of flowers.

In the morning we did not have to get up at three thirty, only at five, to get to Frederick and the balloons by quarter of six. Sid claims that it did not help him as much, for he headed after work southward to Denver and it took him as as much time as if he went home, but I was very satisfied — with the hotel I saved on night drive home, and then morning drive to Frederick. Ha!

Unfortunately, wind picked up in Frederick, which jerked nastily with stood up balloons, and there was no flying. Somehow we don't have luck with weather there. Or I don't know how to pick a good day — Friday was the flying day, but I was at work then. On Sunday I would have to get up at three thirty and drive with Sid from home, and for that I felt too old and tired — and I made the right choice, for there was no flying on Sunday either. And I truly needed to sleep PROPERLY in my own bed. Also to clean up at home a bit and prepare our guest bedroom, change the bed sheets and so forth for Jeanne and Tom, so they'd have a place to sleep. We took them to a dinner at TJoe's — lately we favor this steakhouse. It is close and staff is very friendly, and we feel there like welcome regulars.

Violet mountain daisies.

Skirt is comfortable for hiking, so I don't care what anybody may think.

Independence Day fell this year on Saturday, to some anguish of those who depend on national and company holidays. On the other hand it had the advantage of letting me invite my fencing buddies to our barn to combine grilling and swords in the same afternoon. Our kids were out somewhere with their friends, and we are old geezers, so after sunset we enjoyed our neighborhood fireworks — and went to bed. On Sunday, Sid and I ventured to Lost Lake. We discovered this beautiful lake two years earlier during our hike from Brooklyn Lake, so we tried it this time on the other side, from Lewis Lake.

We were hoping that by Sunday people would already departing from the mountains, and columns of motor homes in the opposite direction suggested as much, but even so it was packed by the lake; we did not even try to fit onto the trailhead's miniature parking lot and ditched our truck at the nearest suitable spot. Then followed many joys and positive experiences. We more or less knew the trail, altitude above ten thousand feet brought pleasant temperature, flowers were a-blooming and there was only as much snow as to be entertaining, crossing our path (about twice) in easy banks.

Sid, for some reason, avoids a skirt and sticks to his shorts...

Sandy Lake.

Here I would like to mention that I wore a skirt during our hike. I wear skirts to fencing, for I like how I move it them, while much can be hidden underneath — for example, men's American football pants with protective pads. Though we use dull swords, they are steel bars, and when you get hit by it, you can get at least a nasty bruise. Even in a friendly duel, when neither partner aims to "beat" the other, accidents can happen with the speed and intensity of the fighting.

You see, I have a problem with the official protective fencing pants, just like with all other pants — women's pants are short in leg and over the butt, and with my every move they create a plumber's cleavage. Men's pants can be purchased in longer sizes, but they sport a straight cut — i.e., those wide enough to accommodate my thighs and behind are slack in waist, and evoke in my a feeling of wearing a barrel. I reckon that a skirt, under which I hid padded elastic pants, is not only functional, but aesthetically merciful to my company.

Our destination, Lost Lake.

Sandy Lakes on our way back.

When my fellow fencer gifted me her historic fencing skirt with a rope in waist, I suddenly held not only functional attire, but one looking relatively medieval. So, while solving the problem "what to wear to the mountains", I reached for my skirt. I have shorts, but those don't do well bushwhacking (you end up with scratched shins), and I did not feel like sweating in long trousers and fighting their poor fit. Naturally I packed my shorts in the bag, just in case the skirt would prove an ill choice, but the result was surprisingly positive. Long skirt protected my legs from dwarf pines, bushes, sun and mosquitoes, while I did not feel hot. I wasn't cold either, for the skirt blocks most wind. And I could sit down in the woods and not worry that it would rip or stain (unlike some performance wear). The only thing I have to careful about is length — that I don't step on it and fall on my face.

Sid made fun of me saying that if I had a more suitable little hat, I could impersonate a Mennonite or an Amish — and I must say that I noticed a few puzzled looks from other tourists. Yet at my age I don't give a hoot what anybody thinks and that I don't look like a progressive, modern tourist. On the other hand, it gave me a reason to order a t-shirt with a fencing theme, which I can wear along with the skirt as an accessory — to divert a bit from the Amish air.

Sid's droning trip to Devil's Playground.

I got a fencing t-shirt for my skirt.

The important part was that I had tested what to take along on the BIG TRIP, which Sid and I had planned for mid-July. After previous year's Norway we decided to stay "at home in Wyoming" and combine two pleasant things, namely ballooning in Riverton with discoveries in Wind River Mountains. We haven't known them yet, have seen only a small piece near Sinks Canyon, and its a range that remains untouristy, unlike Tetons and Yellowstone. The idea of mysterious mountains, which are hard to access and which offer a chance to be less beleaguered by tourist crows, was very attractive for us. Tom secured time-off at his work to be able to take care of the animals and the homestead, and we looked into maps and started to pack.