We did not obey traffic signs.

While overcast, it was quite warm.

On Memorial Weekend (a movable holiday, with last Monday in May off) Sid got even Friday off (while I did not) — but mostly, they opened highway 130 from Laramie to Saratoga, which climbs into ten thousand feet above sea level along our favorite Snowy Range (the mountain cliff, although before getting there, it goes by the skiing resort of same name) — and so Sid ventured there. He reported heaps of snow, thus I did not hesitate and right on Saturday packed my wider Nordic skis, loaded Tom, and we went skiing. It was warmer than we had expected, even warmer than forecast, and much of our clothes ended up wrapped around our waists.

It had subsequently rained there during the week and temperatures kept above freezing, melting snow by at least two feet, but it was still possible to ski on the following weekend. We took Sid along with us, though he refused to stand on the Devil's planks, and shuffled behind us in snow-shoes. He probably fared better than we did, for when Tom and I diverted from the lake shore, where snow appeared too soggy, and climbed up a hill, we envied him his gear. And then some more downhill — in the spring slush one could neither brake nor turn, and sped forward like Titanic onto the iceberg. In a terrain with plenty of trees and rocks, this was a bit sub-optimal. I can't even boast having skied in June this year — our last day was May 31.

Fighting with sharp weapons is a contact affair.

Scottish sword is called claymore.

The first weekend in June was very spring-like — which had been probably merciful for both local and remote Celts, who came to our town in their kilts. If have not seen so many naked manly knees and hairy calves for quite some time (fortunately, only those; in our windy conditions I was afraid of a Marilyn Monroe moment). There were some stands and bands, log and rock throwing competitions — but more importantly — swordsmen. I had learned about this happening at my HEMA club, actually met an array of people there — and found out that some of them really have Scottish or Irish roots. We were treated to a demonstration of fights with broadswords, claymores, dirks — and Pictic lances — which looked especially vicious. It was interesting to learn that knife blade lengths had been regulated to twelve inches in Scotland since time immemorial — but apparently even old Scots were ignoring it and their dirks were certainly not limited. Furthermore, precision was essential — for if you inflicted a decorative scar on somebody in a fight (or pub brawl), honor was sustained and everybody left happy. If you crippled your opponent so much that he was subsequently unable to work or fight, you just dealt yourself a lengthy clan revenge. And if you killed him, you got yourself sentenced to prison time or execution, for duels were forbidden — that is, if his kin did not liquidate you before the trial. I would seem that even old Scots had to seriously moderate their blood thirst. It amused me that Celtic swordsmen moved their demo to a grassy area — falling on your NAKED knees on gravel would not be very nice — a downside to kilt.

Launch field next to a hockey rink.

This balloon's name is "The Hareship".

We had long expected and planned our second June weekend — the Cheyenne Hot Air Balloon Club was having an event in Colorado. Town of Walden is about two hours by car from Cheyenne, but Laramie lies half way there, with our offspring's apartment. I arranged time off from work on Friday and organized logistics to Laramie, to enjoy extra hour of sleep on Saturday. Well, I think we shall embark straight from home next time — Tom's room kept even with open window at eighty degrees by one in the morning, for hot water pipes are routed under his floor. Some time around one I therefore moved to a couch in their living room — where their kitchen fridge hums — and where the couch turned out too soft and trying to swallow me. I half-slept through the remaining two hours on blankets stretched on the floor, emerging for the balloons thoroughly poorly rested and disposed.

Yet even Lisa and James joined at the balloons — which was great — since Lisa started work in Laramie, we see each other (by my reckoning) too little. Besides our family, another car arrived with my HEMA friends. Thus we brought many helping hands, and it was a beautiful day and both club balloons could fly. We foisted Taylor in the basket, since it was her birthday (and she came in a dress featuring balloons) and she is an avid photographer; she enjoyed it. The second lucky one was James. It was first time in a balloon for both of them, thus a ceremony was bound to follow, and diplomas issues. In the end we stayed chatting under a roof in a city park till afternoon.

Both are headed north.

Michigan River and a balloon named "Day One".

The sword-folk then returned to Cheyenne, balloonists went to have a nap, and we decided to spend five hours remaining to dinner-time by checking out Walden and vicinity. First we went to nearby sand dunes. Walden is located in a large shallow valley, which, despite its current 8,000 feet elevation, had been an ancient ocean bed, and dunes are rather prominent. And crowded — this area has no restrictions, so it became the playground for various motorized contraptions. Our original idea to hike there and look for ancient shark teeth strewn in the sand had very quickly been shattered. We reckoned that it may be better to check out local lakes and reservoirs. That, too, did not work out — they're ponds amidst an alpine prairie, with no trees, thick with mosquitoes. Again our idea (of us stretching out on a blanket somewhere on a shady lakeshore) did not find fulfillment. The only thing which succeeded that afternoon was a view of Illinois River, curling through the valley. We still had about an hour to go till dinner, but gave up exploring, went to the restaurant and ordered beer. Tom joined us there — he had spent Friday evening and Saturday morning at our home, taking care of our goats. The dinner itself was not memorable — everybody was awfully tired. And we still had a trip to Laramie ahead of us, and I drove on to Cheyenne — getting there at ten o'clock (having got up at four thirty a.m. after two hours of almost-sleep), checked the animals, took a shower and fell in my bed, for my next shift was starting at ten a.m. on Sunday.

Sid and Tom then returned to the crime scene on Sunday morning — lacking crew, only one balloon flew, but even that was fun. Sid had opportunities during both days to fly his drone (which is difficult at large ballooning rallies, or outright forbidden, due to collision fears) — videos can be seen here.

Walden Reservoir.

In the prairie.

During the following week I was coping with a visit at the doctor's, as my sinus inflammation had restarted — to return to spring gardening — the fact that I was not so devastated by working on our ranch only because I would be a lazy bum, but because I was ill, had been a positive discovery. The other fact, i.e., first round of antibiotics having not had effect and me remaining a lazy bum, plus with headaches, ear aches, toothaches and vertigo, was a bit worse. As soon as I got back from the doctor's, I started to deal with loading my goaties — we were supposed to attend an interpretive event at a library in Pine Bluffs. Western skies were teeming with clouds, so I was not sure, but still I dragged all kinds of stuff (fencing, chairs, boxes with a goat textbook and posters etc.) to the Ford. When I was just ready to go, cell phones went berserk with tornado warnings. It got downgraded in fifteen minutes into a storm with golf-ball sized hail. I furiously texted the other goat ladies — who claimed sunshine in Pine Bluffs and mere rain in forecast. Meanwhile a gale picked up at our place and rain started pissing down (I regret not having any better expression for such ropes of water).

Snowy Range: Lakes Marie and Mirror.

I closed and barred my animals in their pen, but then at home it turned out that a crack had developed in our upwind living room external door — water gushed out of the double glazed central panel onto our hardwood floor. Apparently the almost horizontal rain found a gap. I got a message from Pine Bluffs that the event would likely not take place, for everybody was sitting in their cars and waiting for the hail storm to pass (incidentally, no hail fell in our location in the end, there was just this crazy storm with practically incessant thunder).

Forward!

A little island with three trees on Mirror Lake.

Well, just to keep busy, on Wednesday I was getting up early to go to Pine Ranch, where I promised Anne help with a summer camp that was scheduled to do a ranch visit. This event actually worked out well — children did quite cooperate. I had led groups to chickens, they could cuddle kittens, play with puppies and craft an animal mask — I had prepared details on goats and cats (because goats squint their pupils into a horizontal line to not lose peripheral vision, while predators — including humans — contract pupils in sunlight into a dot — to not lose 3D), but in the end we covered dogs as well, and one boy made a chameleon — about whose eyes I really don't know anything. The important thing was, everybody was engaged and happy all the time.

On Friday — for a change — we got up at 3:45 — and drove to do balloons in Frederick, Colorado, where our original Californian pilot Jeanne would fly. That is — would not fly, for during ALL THREE days, there were wind gusts. On Friday we arrived, stood up the balloon and packed it back down as it flailed. On Saturday, Jeanne texted us in the moment we were leaving our house, that we can go back to our beds, which we did. I had arrived late from work on Friday and felt really tired after all this. On Sunday, which was forecast as best of the three days, only Sid and Tom drove out, made it to Frederick, and subsequently sat under a gazebo — and there was no flying.

We had skied here only a month earlier.

We played ice-breakers.

At the end of June we returned to Mirror Lake — Sid with his drone, and Tom and I with kayaks. Indeed, we dragged the kayaks to the lake over snow — but that only made it easier — no lifting, no worries about damaging the bottoms. We were able to drag them from the truck all the way to the shore. Most of the shoreline was still bare, devoid of grass, some held snowbanks and ice reaching into the lake, and it was all quite fun.

When I add up goat events, ballooning, work at the latifundium, dealing with cat fights, my physically demanding job and then hobbies (gym rock climbing once weekly and sword-fighting twice weekly, then kayaks, skiing and hiking in between kayaks and skis), my bottom line tells me that my spring worries were justified. But there's a submerged thought nibbling inside me that perhaps it may not be all due to spring. Now I must hope that the same thing won't occur to my family, and that they won't have me committed to some well padded institution to make me relax a bit. On the other hand — should such institution finally allow me to PROPERLY SLEEP and if I were assigned some cute care-givers, perhaps I would not mind it for a few days.