Inflating balloons at the Children's Hospital in Clovis.

Lisa helps spreading out Rubik so that it properly fills with air.

Our month of May got framed between two important weekends. On the first one, a ballooning action took place in Clovis, and Memorial Day extended the one before the last. Clovis is a northern suburb of Fresno, which is an area that we avoid. Smoggy, flat San Joaquin Valley is not a location where one would choose to have vacations. The balloonist had been, nevertheless, invited to a fund-raiser picture taking for a local Children's Hospital, and so we went along, planning to extend our trip to Sequoia National Park, now that we suffered a journey to and a stay in Clovis.

So we had set out on Friday right after the end of our children's school, squeezed more or less well through Pacheco Pass and Central Valley; traffic jams caught up with us only on approach to Fresno. We diverted away from mainstream, and finished our trip to Clovis on country roads. We even had enough time for a decent dinner at a local Thai restaurant close to our hotel. The only Clovis-specific complication were FENCES. As far we could see, one could theoretically walk across from the hotel to the restaurant quite comfortably, if these two blocks were not separated by a fence. Instead, we had to drive a half mile away from the hotel, make a U-turn, follow the other side of the fence alongside the hotel, proceed down another fence, through which one could see (but not reach) the restaurant, find a gate in said fence near the next intersection, and finally return along the inner side of the same barrier to the desired food place.

Kids are a bit lost at the foot of General Sherman Tree.

The top of Morro Rock from this view reminds of a Spanish colonial helmet.

Our Saturday morning was gruesome, for one gets up to balloons when it's still dark outside. Even the hotel breakfast was not ready yet, but I had cornered a local worker, who showed sympathy for a caffeine withdrawal and not only made coffee and scared up some hot cocoa for the kids, but packed us a take-out breakfast — bananas, yogurts, some pastry — and did not forget spoons and napkins. We felt much more cheerful thus equipped. Ballooning wasn't as much fun. The hospital, being built on a hill, came up with the idea that the balloons would best impress among trees on the eastern side of the building, which is all very wrong, from a ballooning perspective. And before it all got organized, wind had picked up, thus even tethering was out of the question. As soon as a balloon stuck out above the roof, wind would lean on it and throw it either at the wings of the building, or some tree conveniently scattered around. Hence we, after the official photo shoot, deflated and packed our balloon up again — and headed for our hotel to have a real breakfast. Our whole crew had been staying at the same Marriott, and it was quite easy to gather in the lobby and have coffee and a chat.

The other ballonists then went packing and headed home; instead, we drove out farther east, into the Kings Canyon and Sequoia National Park. After living fifteen years in United States, I would finally get to see the famous General Sherman! (I mean the giant tree, not the military celebrity from times of civil war.) And I confirmed that our reasons why we don't come here, were justified. The park is located on the western side of Sierra Nevada, driving distances between individual interesting spots are rather long — and it's crowded. Even on this weekend, when half of the tourist signs were winter-wrapped and many attractions still closed, we met complete bus-loads of visitors. One of the buses was Czech, and many paved trails were teeming with compatriots from our old homeland.

A view from Morro Rock to the east. Sierra Nevada has snow only about above ten thousand feet this May.

Besides General Sherman, we had been recommended Morro Rock. It impressed us in the end more than the famous sequoia tree. Giant redwoods are a common sight for us, and so this was no surprise. Morro Rock is a beautiful granite dome with a view of Sierra Nevada and the Kaweah River canyon, opening to the San Joaquin Valley. The lowlands were partially obscured in a permanent smog, but even so it was worth it. There's a civilized trail up Morro Rock, with pavement, railings and stairs, but still some weaker touristy individuals kept wavering at the sheer drop-off. Our children were fine, although Tom does not feel well on some (other) cliffs. The top of Morro Rock reminds of a ship's stern and we managed to catch a moment all by ourselves there.

The kids wanted to test the hotel's swimming pool on the same afternoon. I had forgotten to bring my swim suit along, and made one (futile) attempt to shop for it in Target, but I simply lack the standard-type body with a flat butt and a waist tire; nothing would fit me. After subsequently discovering that the pool was truly icy, I did not regret missing out — I would not have entered it anyway.

Tom and Lisa take a pose on the stairs of Morro Rock.

The children stepped out of the car at Courtright and climbed up the first boulder in vicinity.

We chose to stay away from tourist attractions on Sunday, and set out to Courtright. I had been really impressed by this reservoir in the previous fall; beautiful Yosemite-like nature without the crowds of a National Park. Alas, it's a long way there, for we had to work through many small roads worming into the depth of Sierra Nevada, but I think we did not feel sorry. We met two climbers under Power Dome, who claimed that they had never experienced climbing here on the third of May — eight thousand feet elevation is typically still snowed-in at that time of the year.

We strongly felt the altitude — despite ascending only a few dozen of feet to the top of Power Dome from its back side, we wheezed like a herd of locomotives, and our kids collapsed at the summit. Still, my purpose was fulfilled; the family agreed that we must return some day again, for it's very beautiful there! This time, however, we had to drive back home, being out of time and not having packed a tent.

In mid-May, there was a happening at the ranch, some lectures about animal first aid by our veterinarian, Kristin. Kids of the pony club helped with organization, guiding people through the stables and assisting in operation of the goat run. It was the last weekend when all the baby goats were still present; Marshmallow and Walker left in the afternoon to their new family.

Having ascended Power Dome, they fell.

Our baby goat Twilight.

And to not feel too sad about it, I bought Twilight the baby goat right next Monday. She was named thus by one of the little girls who has no clue about any idiotic vampire movies. This Twilight comes from being dark with a white star on her forehead. I had decided to call her Večernice in Czech (Evening Star) — and it's naturally the most beautiful and smartest one of all the baby goats in the ranch.

It's obvious we cannot keep a goat in our living room. Twy stays at the ranch, and we hope that she will be a founder of a small herd of goats for extra-curricular program 4-H, organized by University of California. UC has established rules for operating such clubs, provides insurance, and covers other bureaucratic obstacles. Given the success of our pony club, we liked the idea of a goat club. The animals are cute, relatively fool-proof, and our urban offspring could learn something about farming and nature. Twilight is a registered goat, may attend shows and produce papered baby goats that can be sold, should we ever take it that much seriously. We don't have to, though — even if the only benefit were that our children learn how to clean a stable and to milk a goat, it would be more than many of their peers ever get to do, yet only a hundred years ago it was a common part of everyday life. I think it does not hurt to experience such things, in a kind-of counterbalance to computer games and infinite possibilities of technological miracles.

End of May at Leavitt, we're wrapped up like winterized water pumps.

Take your kids to the woods, they'll find a machine gun belt.

Unfortunately, at this time we also got an answer to the question, whether Tom is allergic to poison oak. Although we spend a lot of time outdoors and move in an area saturated with this bush species, neither one of our kids had had an allergic reaction. Staying at the ranch has changed this, and Tom got a rash. I suspect he came in contact with the subversive bush in the moment when he and his friend climbed over a goat run fence, since Joachim got the rash as well. Lisa and I did not get poison oak.

It was May when I went down with a cold; for almost two weeks, I stumbled at home between my bed and the kitchen, with occasional shopping trips or picking children up at school. And thus it came to pass that I missed our first family outing on our new bicycles. Lisa had long outgrown her twenty inch wheels, and time had come to play the hand-me-down game. Tom won, as he got a new bike, with new-fangled twenty-seven inch wheels. Lisa growled over inheriting Tom's old twenty-four, but she got it upgraded with a PINK seat, pink handle bars, and even pink streamers, and so she's happy. She even asked for a test ride to Pho Wagon. I followed my family in my car — this after I noticed that just taking a shower and changing into biking gear wears me out completely. I was a bit worried how Sid would cope with two children in regular street traffic, but it went well — and Lisa came back home excited; her new bike rides well. Her old, small bike forced her to pedal like crazy and still she could not keep up; with larger wheels it's much more fun. And she has gears now, and that's more comfortable as well.

Mt. Olsen (11,086 ft) over Conway Summit near Mono Lake.

A majority of our expedition over Mono Basin, left to right Hippo, Klára, Lisa, Max, Klára, Ajka, Jaro and Honza (Tim, Tom and Carol out of the frame).

For the weekend extended by Memorial Day Monday, we typically plan several weeks in advance, especially if we want to reserve horses for this first mountain ride of the season. Craig brings horses to the pack station just before this date. The station is found slightly above seven thousand feet elevation, and it had happened before that it was still snowed-in at the end of May. After this year's winter we did not fear the chance of frostbite, and we had reserved for us, and for Dulina and Durec families as well. But the one above, obviously wields some serious sense of humor — after we had prayed for precipitation and cold throughout the winter, it began to freeze and rain (and snow in the mountains) in mid-May. Memorial weekend forecast was a bit more merciful, only showers and fifties during the day (with just a slight freeze at night), and we had set out after all.

To my great surprise, both other families drove out as well — until the last moment I worried that the weather would turn them off, but they proved to be real hardies. Dulinas even got on the road before us, but Honza failed to follow his production schedule, thus getting stuck in a traffic jam. We managed to pass exits from the Valley before ten o'clock, relatively unscathed. Still we had reached our campsite first, despite a lunch delay in Strawberry. We pitched our tent and took our grumbling kids on a walk to a view point above the waterfalls. Although it is only two turns up along the highway, alpine effect and oxygen deprivation got us all pretty bad. The fact that we could not spot any horses in the corrals on the meadow below disquieted us, and we were seriously wondering what we'd do, should Craig on account of the weather delay moving his horses up to the mountains.

There were the usual tourist hordes visiting tufa at Mono Lake.

Tufa are sticking out, the lake is drying up, and the mountains are towering.

About three hours later we were at last complete; everyone had their respective tent pitched up, and we could go check out the situation at the pack station. There were horses in their usual spots, even Craig and Mike and Matt and other familiar cowboys. We agreed to moving our ride — some other customers had to cancel in Friday's storms and we only got a slot on Saturday afternoon. We did not care much, and riding late seemed more reasonable given our slow morning starts. I did, however, point out that it ALWAYS rains in the afternoon, but there are such individuals among us who believe the forecasts more than years of experience.

The evening concluded at Jeff's Mountain View BBQ, where we met the missing cowboy Sage — thus completing the set in good order — except that after a quarter century, the famous Hays Street Cafe in Bridgeport had closed down, obliterating our plan for a Sunday brunch. Thus we ate well at our campsite; we adults were sitting around and drinking coffee, while the pack of children had disappeared in the woods. Boys had subsequently found quite a few spent blanks from a machine gun and the accompanying belt links, so they re-built an ammo belt; girls were meanwhile apparently falling into the creek (as I concluded from wet boots); everything went easy. Perhaps too much, for still at ten thirty, not everyone was ready to depart.

Desert, previously lake bed, landscape around Mono.

Two Kláras saddle up to ride at Leavitt Meadows.

With snapshot stops at Kavanaugh Ridge, and a view to Mono Lake, we had eventually reached the lake proper, and walked the South Tufa tourist loop. Tom and Max kept falling behind in the sandy sections, where they scavenged for obsidian rocks. The whole Mono Lake area is very volcanic and many amazing minerals await interested parties. We had to accept a lunch in Nellie's Deli at the entrance to Yosemite — for how much formica-level gas station food it is, they offer a decent selection, and given the revolving door nature of the tourist traffic, food is very fresh. By that time I began to turn seriously nervous, as we were supposed to be back at Leavitt Meadows by three o'clock.

In the end we managed to get there just before three, but so did the downpour (yep, nobody would believe me, but I had said it would rain!!!), and we proceeded to hang out in the office. Over time, adults were issued real cowboy slicks, kids got some impregnated jackets, and we were ready to go. Here I would like to present an imaginary medal for courage — not only to the girls, Lisa and the two Klárkas, but mostly Jaro, who rode in shorts and with a broken wrist in a cast.

Honza, too, got a cowboy slick.

Jaro wore a kitchen mitt for the duration of our ride, "as not to make his cast dirty."

Oddly, it drizzled a bit and only for a while during our ride, otherwise no problem. Still I was grateful for the slicks. My butt got wet from the saddle, but the heavy leather coat superbly protected my body and legs from an icy wind, and I could enjoy it. Moreover, I was issued Matt's Razmine, who enthusiastically fulfilled my photographic wishes and kept leaving our herd to allow for a better perspective. True, she did not like to walk in a line, and either harassed the horse ahead of her, or kicked with her hind legs to discourage the horse behind her, but she's either used to ride by herself or with Matt leading, and not somewhere in the middle of the train.

Proper rain held back until we returned to our campsite. We took it philosophically; the children ran around in soaked winter jackets, and we stood around an external heat source (camp fire) and passed around an internal heat source (in a glass bottle). We did not even go to bed early, and our party turned into a singing session, which was very pleasant.

Sunshine bombarded us in the morning, and soon we dried up and so did our tents, but due to general muddiness and humidity, we chose to pack up and drive back home. Leaving by eleven, we could see clouds bunching up above again, and it was time. Sadly, many other folks apparently reached the same conclusion and beginning with Sonora Pass we drove in clusters; in Mi-Wuk we lost our nerves. Taking Rose Ridge to Highway 4 made us avoid the infamous Yosemite return corridor. Our mountain detour kept dragging on horridly, but on the other hand our total trip took us four and half hours, which is only about thirty minutes longer than our previous record — so it had to be efficient.

Horses are trained to walk in a line (apparently mine is not).

A popular commotion while fording Walker River.

Back home we fell back into our ranching lifestyle. Goats need to get their stables cleaned, and they also require being released out from time to time. I must say that sometimes I have my doubts about being the right rancher stuff. The other day we released the goats and took them on a walk, and Sugar the pony had seen it and said that he could not leave such fun unattended. When I pondered whom to burden with the responsibility of grazing the goats, Sugar swung into action and tried to sneak through the bars of his paddock, and did not succeed. Yet he succeeded to catch his leg between the bars, and I found myself in a situation when somebody would have to quickly run and help him, but since he's a scaredy-cat, I could not run as not to frighten him and cause him to break his leg. Before I could get within reach, Sugar managed to disentangle it. I took him on a lead rope and released him in an arena, but in the meantime my goats had dispersed — some had vanished into bushes delimiting the ranch lot, others ventured into the barn in search of something good to eat (e.g. grain for horses). When I finally got the goats back together, I discovered that two chickens had walked into the goat run. I ignored the chickens and focused on closing up the ever dispersing and protesting goats, thinking that I'd toss the birds easily out later. Then of course I also had to pay attention to the ponies and my children — and so I remembered the chickens only back at home, at dusk. An action ensued, trying to find someone with a connection to the chickens' owner, who lives at the ranch, to tell her to go fetch her birds from the goat run and thus rescue them. The ranch is located in the mountains, with lions and raccoons and coyotes roaming around, owls and eagles whizzing overhead — it would not have to be completely safe for the chickens in the goat run. Fortunately the rescue mission had succeeded and even this time we had no losses.

Impressions from your stay in the wilderness don't have to be pleasant, it suffices when they are intense.

Twilight & Dixie.

I have funny stories with our menagerie as well. Baby goats could theoretically be weaned off by now, but they naturally keep trying to talk their respective mother goats into giving them some milk. The adults and offspring are thus separated for the night, so that there is milk left for humans. Yet our Twilight figured it out — she stretched the loops of the fence enough to push her head through, and influenced her mother, Dixie, to position herself so that she could drink. Twilight even taught her sister the same trick within a few days, and now I'm not sure how much milk is left there. I also don't know whether to be proud of having such a smart goat, or worry what kind of things await us with her.