Granite Springs Reservoir as seen from El Alto.

Little cacti usually bloom in mid-May, on Mother's Day. This year we found them early in April.

At first I worried that once I've been out on a kayak on the first day of spring, it would keep on being hot, but it was not. Early April turned cold, and we hiked a lot; on our walk to El Alto we even found a snow spot under a bush, which inspired me to make a four-inch mini-snow-man. I got back on the lake on twelfth April with Tom. We went to Crystal Reservoir again, because it's closest and the weather was kind of undecided. Sun kept hiding behind clouds and there were moments of cold. On the drone pictures that Sid had made it is not as obvious, so you'll have to believe me. Moreover, a wind was blowing. We cheered each other that while going THERE against the wind, we would return with the wind in our backs. Yet noon came — and with it, the wind turned. At one moment there were such gusts that it was pointless trying to paddle — I went to hide under a bank — so that the waves would not dribble lake water into my open can of coffee.

Tom on a kayak.

Spot the kayakers.

In the end I was glad to also have an indoor hobby — longsword. I had left the original group, because I could not fit it in my schedule (practices from eight to ten in the evening) and because its atmosphere has changed into who speaks with whom, who does not, and why. I have been out of middle school for forty years now and I don't miss childish bickering in my life. With my new group, the atmosphere is more mature. I am still the oldest person there, but with people who's practice priority is longsword fencing, our individual ages are just numbers. On top of that, my history teacher heart rejoices over researching fourteenth and sixteenth century manuals. One such longsword bible is a book by Joachim Meyer from the year 1570, which describes with German thoroughness, details of individual poses and hits. However, there is even a hundred and fifty years older work attributed to Johannes Liechenauer. His Zettel is a true Structure — a summary of the art of fight. The section relevant to a longsword, is not very extensive; total of hundred and nine verses does not sound like a substantial book. Yet Zettel is intended for advanced fighters — being less of a detailed recipe of individual thrusts, it invokes elementary rules of a duel, and is a kind of introduction to psychology of fight — in short, it focuses on the actual martial "art". Besides, Liechtenauer was obviously uninhibited by correctness, compared to Meyer. Meyer's technical descriptions leave out violence impacting and hurting the opponent — there are swords and hits, but no actual people (which reminds one of modern "news", where cars decide to drive into human crowds and weapons all by themselves kill). By the end of 16. century, duels were generally forbidden, punished by law or at least discouraged, so maybe that's why Meyer hesitated to mention the occurrences of injury.

Six hundred years old manuals will disclose how to skewer your adversary with a sword.

Ozzy asks, what kind of strange goat is behind the fence.

Liechtenauer has no such scruples, which impresses me as more useful for our modern form of historic dueling — with our masks, puncture resistant coats and various protective gear, and with dull Feders, we do not have to be afraid as much to engage fully. And we can practice — besides precise execution of a specific thrust — whole sequences of thrusts and counter-thrusts. My enthusiasm with the even older literature brought me, according to the rule that every good deed is duly punished, a task to study the Zettel and demonstrate it to the rest of the group. I thought that it would create some three or four sessions, but once you immerse in it and begin to incorporate marginalia to the Zettel (by members of Fellowship of Liechtenauer, or current commentators), you find that you actually don't know as much. Fortunately, my fellow swords-people don't hesitate to interrupt and enter their OWN opinions, and thus we sometimes turn into a rather lively debating circle, which we quickly leave sideways to try skewer each other in a new, unpracticed manner. Other members of our group study other weapons systems, and one may feel dizzy at times — but at least I don't have to worry about Alzheimer's — my brain gets proper training.

Dante got domestic, she even forgave us a visit to the vet.

On second of May — even hills above the city look like spring.

On the home front, I was also expecting a veterinary visit with Dante. In the morning I grabbed her, stuffed in a carrier, and accompanied by a whiny meowing, drove to the vet. A year ago, Dante had demolished their office and we caught her only after she fell into a garbage bucket (having bounced off walls and cabinets like a ninja, not reaching the ceiling only because she had been tiny and undernourished). This year she sat on the examination table and hid her little head under my arm, generally trying to signal that she would forgive me everything, if I only took her home. The vet complimented her good condition — except for a dreaded cluster of hair near the tail. The problem is, I can't manage to brush Dante's hair — whenever I sit down next to her (for she's still wary of getting on my lap, and does not last long there), our jealous Guido gets involved and chases her off. Now we have a punk cat with a shaved spot over her tail (it's practically invisible). I'm happy that Dante has found us, and she is probably happy too. She follows me everywhere, lately evenings out to the goats, where she lurks near the shed for mice, and I approve. Thanks to a warm winter, many vermin multiplied here and especially near the shed, where I don't have many options to liquidate them — traps and poisons are out of the questions, with goaties and chickens jumping about. Dante and Hugo work out pretty well, I'm not so sure about Guido. He does not go out much, and watching him I reckoned his joints hurt — he does not curl up, and up on the couch (or people's laps) he gets by standing up, sinking front claws into the furniture (or your leg), and pulling himself up that way. He probably finds it too tedious to jump through cat trees installed inside and outside our garage — often waiting at the door for some of his servants to open it. Thus I brought him three painkiller pills from the vet that visibly helped — but they should not be administered over longer periods, so I have Guido scheduled for a shot on June 1. I'm afraid it shall be a much bigger rodeo than with Dante, as Guido does not let us carry him, much less treat.

A view to Pole Mountain.

May 3   dirt roads in National Forest finally open, we can drive our truck into the hills.

Well and then came — after a relatively lame April — May. Tom had his graduation project presentation on Saturday the 2nd. We had no idea that it would be public and we were expected to attend. Eventually it turned out to be possible to watch via Zoom, which made us much happier. We could watch our son from the comfort of our basement couch. Though the quality of the broadcast was crazy, but we did not have to get up early and overcome a summit on our way to Laramie. On Sunday the 3rd, Sid and I admired pasque flowers on Sherman Ledge and enjoyed the view, which in defiance of dry winter, seemed to green up a bit — this higher in the hills, more water had to fall than down in our plains.

However, on May 5 it started to SNOW. Thick, wet snow. Thus I did not rumble when I brought warm water for my goaties and had to close them in the shed. Road maintenance was caught unprepared and Sid rather did not drive to work. I drove to mine, but monitored it for the entire day, whether snow would keep melting in the parking lot, and prepared my boss to the eventuality that if it got worse and snow started to gather, I would immediately drive home to be sure to make it. It wasn't necessary in the end, because the chill needed to hold snow on the pavement came only later at night.

On 5th of May more snow has fallen than over the entire winter.

And in the hills it was up to skiing level.

Finally in the morning of May 6, I felt being in Wyoming. Six inches of a beautiful heavy and wet snow by this time of year fulfilled the original promises that in Wyoming, it snows from September to May. When we moved here in 2020, it snowed before we arrived in mid-September, and we had a proper storm in October, when we had to dig out our doors and basement windows from the drifts. Later in March, just when we were to have baby goats, another storm came with three feet of snow, and it took a week before most roads in the city got cleared. The subsequent winter was somewhat normal, but in January 2022, undersea volcano Hunga Tonga erupted, tossing so much water into the atmosphere that it could fill two Lakes Erie. Some of that water fell down during the winter that came after, and even here there was so much snow and moisture that in the summer of 2023 I had to cut paths in my goaties' pasture — so tall was the grass that my dwarf goats were getting lost in it, and afraid. Since then, "nothing" — the remaining water in the stratosphere apparently acts as a hothouse gas and we are warm — and dry. In 2024 is had to feed morning hay since some time in July, last year at least it rained in summer, but even so the prairie stayed low and did not bloom. This year we're at some 20 per cent of nominal winter precipitation; trees set on buds and then comes dry freeze and burns everything. During such conditions, everybody is enthusiastic of any type of moisture, so we all together rejoiced with the snow. And the fact it came in May. Well, Wyoming. We take it as a sign that things return to old ways.

I cleared goat paths in the snow and during breakfast checked interstate cameras — and I had the impression that the summit between Cheyenne and Laramie was promisingly white. Thus I broke out my skies and shoes, and soon I sat in my car and headed for the hills. Nordic parking was not cleared, not even driven on, and there was just enough snow for me to fear getting Neddie stuck there. I parked on the highway shoulder just like several other cars — with snowshoe and ski tracks leading away from them. When you see that you're not the only lunatic there, you feel better.

This spot is not particular in any way.

I did not even mind having to walk the rest of the way.

And then, I was quietly sliding through a fairy-tale snowed-in forest with a feeling that the world was back in order. There was more snow than had fallen during the whole previous season (possibly even the whole season did not produce as much snow, cumulatively), and the wet snow held nicely (unlike a powder sprinkling). Over time, nice blue skies appeared. I finished reaching a view point where Headquarters Trail begins, ate a quick snack there and enjoyed the show. It was obvious that going out into the open country, now under direct sunshine, did not make sense, but still it was beautiful there. I realized that here, too, I've got "my place". The field and the forest behind our Czech Highlands cottage have been such first place for me. It is not spectacular in any obvious way, much less overwhelming, but it's "mine". Borel Hill or Leavitt Meadows in California, aren't in he same league as Yosemite or the wild Pacific coast, but they, too, are "mine". Here, a top of an inconspicuous ridge, with a view to a mobile tower and a freeway (but also Rockies, to be honest) does not compare to those Rockies or Yellowstone, but I am at home here.

While I was enjoying the view, cloud cover tore up and May sun popped out. It looked awesome, but soon I found out that such sun has its darker (brighter?) side. Heaps of snow melting from the trees would bombard my trail and the stuff stuck to my skis so much that for the last quarter mile I had to carry them on my back. Even this did not spoil my good mood and a sense of tranquility. Such turns in weather belong to Wyoming and locals are actually proud of them. Consider being at home in a place where you switch from skis to a kayak and from the kayak back to skis in the span of few days. It's a blast.