Falling into powder is like falling on a mattress.

Experts Only.

Returning from vacation, heaps of laundry, and the urge to at least process pictures taken, caught me in a journaling delay. Moreover, I was leaving on the following weekend with Vendula and Bara to Kirkwood, for a ladies-only affair. To be more accurate — it was a husband-free weekend, as we were to share the "cabin" with Chris and his girlfriend Jamie.

Chris and Jamie drove out before us, and the rest of us were looking forward to arriving to a well-heated room. Surprise, surprise. The "cabin" was sterile, empty, and cold. Eventually it turned out that Chris and Jamie were sitting outside in their car, since they forgot to bring their keys. Hence we actually rescued them from having to pay for hotel accommodations.

Other expectations that I had placed in this weekend were completely fulfilled. The girls forced me to take routes previously untried, even insisted that I slid down a cornice (I think that at least twice I did not fall miserably while trying); they figured out why I had been skiing so poorly — it has been almost quarter of century since anybody analyzed my skiing style — back then, my high school buddies took pity on a girl who could only ski cross-country, and for a week swept with me the icy canyon of Rokytnice. No more advice since then, so I can basically remain upright on skis, but by far not all cross-country tricks work on most steeper down-hills.

The bunny refrained from mixing things up this year again, and brought some eggs.

Tom on a boat with Anička (wearing loaner vest with princesses).

Forecast for the weekend did not look promising, but the weather was rather merciful to the clumsy beginners and delivered deep soft powder. I think that it was for a long time the last weekend when I could not complain about the weather. Mountains are great if the snow cover is two hundred percent of average seasonal precipitation; it gets tough in the valley. In April, at latest in May we usually swim in our pool; this year by the end of the fifth month the children managed to dip in about twice, when it got marginally warmer. Their mother could not be dragged in even by a couple of oxen — and weather got uglier since — well, at least as far as swimming is concerned.

Thus we are bound to adjusting our weekend to the whims of the weather. My skiing weekend fell on Easter. I was mildly worried whether the Easter Bunny would manage to visit our house, but motherly supervision is obviously redundant, and the eggs arrived as expected. Additional egg hunt took place at Nejedly's house, this time with wide participation of other Czech families. A wrinkle with Tom who's jealous of Lisa (who's adored by Jack) smoothed itself out through presence of Anička. Tom generally tends to ignore girls, but appreciates a compatible, technically oriented soul, and Annie is one such. Hence Jack and Lisa cruised the lagoon behind Nejedly's house on a canoe together, and Tom went with Annie, and everybody was happy. Only Hippo refused to enter the tipsy vessel, afraid to invoke a disaster of Titanic proportions.

Lisa had to ride with Jack.

Levitating Hippo.

Our children have apparently entered a phase in which they appreciate friends more than parents — during preparation to most expedition we encounter their question, "And who's going to come with us?" In part we take refuge in the Czech community, other times we welcome school-mates and neighbors. Bryce and Rumiko joined us several times during our biking excursions. I had the impression that Bryce would fall behind our children — it all became clear when I tried to load Bryce's bike in our van — his bike weighs perhaps more than mine!

Our weekends got further enriched by house-warming party with Ryzls. Hippo and I had calculated that being invited by Míša for three in the afternoon means we would be home for dinner — well, in reality it was nine thirty and that only because our offspring began seriously fading away and we had to put them to beds. Of the things we did there, one honorable mention goes to a visit of a children's playground where Hippo and Martin (who's probably taller, but by far not as massive as Hippo) decided to stress test the monkey bars. It ended well, no damage done. Only I let them dare me to cross the hand-bar section without using legs and feet, like the kids do. It looked easy, but I must be really heavy, for my hands really hurt after.

During spring, Tom had reached his reading level to silent (in his mind, without reading aloud), which is a balm to my nerves. And it pleases me that he is able to withdraw and read whatever he likes. I'm just not sure whether to ban his Highlights (a kid's magazine). He found a picture of the Meteor Crater in Arizona there, which we had visited two years ago. I was glad he recognized it — then he began to read for Lisa all the legends, approximately like this: "Well... and here they say, Lisa, that the rock fell there fifty thousand years ago... even our mom wasn't born yet!!!" After all, he was technically right, was he not?

An exceptional picture of this spring " kids swam two times in the POOL....

... and since then, the weather's been UGLY.

Lisa was watching our old family videos again. In one of them, she's about one year old, and licks Tom's lollipop, while screaming enthusiastically, "MAMA MAMA MAMA!" Now she found it funny and so I confirmed that she has always been an awful mommy's girl. She threw herself around my neck and said, "I will always be my mommy's girl, even when I'm a teenager, I shall always be your girl.". Well, Lisa, here it's written, black on white, and I'll be reminding you when it'll have been ten years, OK?

Our granny departed on tenth of May. After eleven months, it was a bad hit for the children; Tom cried that he would miss her, and our fickle-tongued Lisa was feeling down, for I don't do crepes (well, I do, but I'm not willing to endure the mess as often as granny does). Seeing granny to the airport followed a classic scenario — we had to circle around in airport trains, but even those did not make our offspring any more jolly.

Now I had been worried about the weather — climbing season should be in full swing, but it keeps snowing on and off in Yosemite, or at least raining, and one has to pick carefully when and where it is wise to go. On a weekend following granny's departure, my climbing withdrawal syndrome was relatively unbearable; fortunately Saturday looked more or less OK in the forecast. Thus Pavel and I took off to Grotto. I had never climbed this basalt mountain near Jamestown before, and I was rather curious. We took granny's Forester — originally with the idea of giving it a chance to run a longer distance for a change, but in the end I was glad having a four-wheel-drive car along. I'm used to dirt roads, but those are ROADS after all, which get leveled by a bulldozer once in a while. The dirt road across a private pasture with gates that leads up to grotto has apparently seen the only maintenance in the form of TRAFFIC to and from. In summer or winter, mud or dust — forming occasional deep furrows and sometimes splitting into multiple paths, always with sharp rock sticking out in wait for the distracted driver.

Last outing with granny before her departure.

Climbing in Grotto.

The climbing access to Grotto is not marked in any way, and I would like to point out that a telegraph pole could be a good reference point, should it stand all alone in the landscape. Alas, there is a whole row of them in most arrangements, and this case was no exception. Naturally I had not felt like bringing my hiking boots along, and so I trampled thistles and thorns wearing sandals — no sacrifice is too small for a bit of climbing.

Grotto is, as the name implies, a hole in the ground. I was taken aback by a relative high concentration of people there (and more were said to be on their way), and the fact that the best attraction in this hole was a formation called The Organ — rocky columns alternating with laser-straight cracks. Apparently I need to study the guidebook more carefully next time, to form a better judgement before I agree to come along (for I don't know how to climb cracks and thus I try to avoid them).

Pavel, however, knew no mercy and pulled me into two such cracks. The first was rather awful, and the second much easier, for I dropped out of it only at the very top. Meanwhile the Grotto filled up brutally with climbers — Sunday was forecast as rainy (with snow in higher elevations), and everyone who wanted to climb, had set out at least for one day, Saturday. Since Grotto is found much closer to the Bay than Yosemite, we even met a couple of familiar faces. The rush has one positive effect (for me) — people were forming lines to climb the cracks and so we moved on to a regular rock. There we climbed what was available, I even tried to lead two routes. Then a finger crack became available for a moment, and I had a chance to be thoroughly embarrassed — I Mickey-moused up the first ten feet and then nothing. Then we did some weird 10a, partially filled with (allegedly) bat droppings.

It was already afternoon and some expedition began to pack and leave. However, Pavel declared that we will climb some more on Gold Wall. Having descended back to our car, we trotted through the grove to the other side. We got lost only once. Pavel enjoyed climbing there, but I got soft in the middle of a long long route. I have no clue what it was, but it felt awfully uphill — especially after a whole day of climbing. But then again I was telling myself that since I don't climb too often outdoors, at least I managed to be totally done.

Indians camouflaging in the grass.

Lisa devoutly watching Jack flying his kite.

Just as forecasted, thunderstorms and hail had arrived on Sunday. We survived the worst while having lunch in Thai restaurant with Nejedlys — and then we managed to talk them into flying kites at Shoreline Park. A minor snag turned up in the form of kites — our kids flew kites on the previous day with Bryce, and Hippo had bought them very effective deltoids. Nejedlys had tiny kites that kept falling apart. Hence our engineers ventured to purchase technically more advanced models, while the kids played Indians in a large meadow. Five little ones, who tried to "camouflage" in a very short cut grass, were truly very inconspicuous.

Gentlemen came back with kits, and group flying and entangling ensued. Only Lisa said that we can fly her kite if we like, and went to entertain Jack, who handled his kite rather responsibly. Lisa's pink one featuring two princesses was therefore left for me and Hippo — well, at least we had something to do. I was probably most surprised that kids (i.e. not counting Lisa) lasted in flying their kites (which I take for a rather monotonous activity) for several hours. Eventually we had to order them to leave; they did not seem to get enough of this fun. We still had Tom school project to finish at home. For an open door event, their class was preparing a model city from cardboard boxes — and each child was supposed to make one BUILDING. Naturally, Tom was making a railroad station — and I could throw this task in Sid's lap. It's mostly I who works with kids' home assignments (as Hippo comes late from work) and now Tom finally got something over the weekend that he could create with his daddy.

Besides inviting parents to school, they also had a concert. I admit to being a cynical mother; while other parents at pageants either beam with pride or wipe the proverbial compassionate tears from the corners of their eyes, I find it often rather hard to not laugh out loud over the crazy performances of the pupils. Still Tommy would repeatedly make sure I promised to come, and so I had to. It was close — naturally, Lisa's field trip was taking place on the same day, and she returned back a half hour later, so tired she cried in the car. I managed to feed her lunch at home and promise her to let her wear her best princess dress to the concert; then she was willing to leave the couch and her TV to see her brother's show.

Only when having gotten there I discovered it was a presentation of skills acquired by the children during music education (PTA pays a music teacher, which is extra-curricular in US schools) and most of all — only Tom's class would be shown (= I was going to be spared an hour-long performance of other, from my point of view un-interesting classes, as well as the pressed crowds of hundreds of eager parents). Still my expectations were set very low, which led to a rather pleasant surprise. The fact that the kids would sing and dance something remained within the norm. Then the teacher split the class into four groups; one received resonant tubes, one got tambourines, another triangles, and the last one drums — and right away they cut a relatively complex (i.e. instruments were at times alternating, at time played together), rhythmic song. A quick shuffle of the instruments followed, and they played another piece. Perhaps the teacher could offer me lessons in coping with children — six- and seven-year old rascals followed her like musicians follow their conductor, a mere flick of a hand sufficed and everybody knew, what to do.

Musical Education.

Tom the Frog.

Then the students received plastic tubes (cylinders) of various lengths. Each tube, when clapped, gives a sound of specific tune depending on the length. The teacher presented them with a board with a real music score, with whole, half, fourth, and eighth tones — only the symbols were color-coded to match the color of the plastic tubes — and the children played several (simple) songs. I was again surprised at the coherence of the whole affair — maybe there was no room for mischief as the little devils had to concentrate on the tones and timing. I must say I am now a great fan of the musical education — besides singing and dancing, children had learned many other skills related to rhythm and basics of the music score, while being entertained (comparing with my own memory of music theory). For first graders, that's rather good.

On seventeenth of May, one dream came true for our kids — for a week they became owners of a household pet, a hamster named Patty. Our neighbors went for a vacation trip and were glad to leave Patty with us, instead of surviving in an empty house with only someone dropping in to feed her. Lisa was first keeping her distance from Patty — she would at most pet her gingerly, but was afraid to hold her in her hand. Tom, on the other hand, would play with the hamster every little while, building an obstacle course in the hall. Patty would usually cooperate for a while, but then she grew tired of running through paper rolls (napkin roll cores), along a matchbox car race track, and through wooden railroad tunnels, and tried to escape. She was much more interested in real mazes — in particular the one under our dishwasher leading to the cabinet below the sink, where one can nibble on dishwashing sponges and the waste-bin smells wonderfully.

I hope that the children learned something. Even I noticed after a while, that the hamster keeps collecting her food in facial pockets. That happened when Patty stuffed each side of her mouth with a small carrot and thus loaded was quite alarmed when she found she could not fit through a pipe connecting the main "room" in her cage with her "bedroom". It was very hard on Tom, returning Patty to her rightful owners; fortunately Ina promised to let us have the hamster again (which will be hard on Hippo, who already rolled his eyes and kept checking with me that Patty won't stay in our care for good).

Patty.

Jorgie's Crack in Pinnacles.

The one-before-last May weekend turned out to be another one of my climbing days. Pinnacles has many areas closed for condor or bat preservation, but the classic Discovery Wall and Monolith are in business. When Pavel and I drove into the park, we were surprised how many people were, at this somewhat early hour, LEAVING the campground. It seemed that the cold night took its toll. We did not mind; the fewer people there would be under the rocks. And the sun was warming things up like crazy, so we left our fleeces back in the car (why drag extra stuff) and set out, unburdened. We climbed a handful of old routes at Discovery, plus a few new ones. An abandoned quick-draw hung in Stupendous Man, and Pavel decided to get it. When it was my time to hang in the wall, some woman showed up claiming it was hers, and asked me to take it off. I agreed, thinking that I would climb up to it, take the clip, finish the route and rappel down. The wench insisted that I toss the quick-draw down, some thirty feet on a hard ground full of rocks... Well, it was her choice, but I'm rather glad that this person was not going to be my climbing partner (the chance that the impact would cause the material to develop any crack is small, but present — I would not like to put my future life and health on something that went through such a pointless stress).

Until the Stupendous Man we climbed in summer outfits (i.e. I was wearing a tank top, Pavel half naked) — here we found ourselves in shade; the wind picked up and I put on a t-shirt. A half hour later under Monolith I wore the undershirt, a long sleeve thermo shirt and a sweat-shirt, while longingly eyeing Pavel's windbreaker. I borrowed it while he climbed, and even with it I was shaking among the rocks like an expensive dog. Emerging in front of the rocks did not help my situation — the wind just got stronger.

Pavel run up POD (officially it's called Post Orgasmic Depression) at 5.11a, and bellowed that he would belay me from above. It made me wonder why, but when I finished wheezing up to the top, I understood — flattened in a wind-less spot behind a rock, in the last puddle of sunshine, he was much better off than down in shade and icy breeze. Then we climbed Hawaiian Noises (5.10d) and Pavel agreed that in these condition (horrible cold) it was impossible to keep climbing and so we would shamefully drive home while there was still light out there. The lesson for next time is, air temperature in the semi-desert is not very relevant — wind or sun may shift your subjective feeling of warmth into extremes. I was still rattling my teeth and rubbing my sun-scorched shoulders when I got home.