Practice with a new feder.

My feeling of a successful vacation was caused to a certain degree by the fact that I did not have to worry about our domestic animals — our offspring took turns taking care of them, as they know all the critters and routines, and so I could truly recreate and avoid thinking about what may happen at home. Still one crisis did happen — a lot of bees buzzed the goat shed and in the end I managed to contact local beekeepers through my goat connections, who promised to come and check the bees out — but before all that sorted out through Norway, the bees disappeared again. As they did not form a swarm, I suspect they gradually died off, and it had been a splinter branch with no queen.

I came back from Europe just before Lisa's birthday — she turned incredible twenty, hence I should really stop referring to "kids" — Lisa is no longer even a teenager. It manifested, among other things, by her wish to receive a washing machine as a present. Their university flat does not come with a washer, they must do laundry in the university's community center — which means to pack the laundry, drive it a few streets down, wash and dry (and pay for it) there. The problem is in spending half of a day doing it, one cannot just leave and do homework or cook dinner. A washer (and we eventually got her a dryer as well) thus appeared as a very rational wish. I must say that plush stuffed horses were a bit cheaper and easier to buy.

Balloons over Walden.

Naturally, I baked a diamond cake for Lisa's birthday. I recalled that we used to put raspberry juice in to make the frosting a little pink. It occurred to me to use choke cherry juice from our bushes. Well, I did not expect it to turn this radiant pink! On a side note — this year I managed to harvest quite a few blackcurrants, from which I had to wash ants out, and freeze them. Choke cherries are a bit more difficult, they really look a little like small cherries with their single pit — what I could find about them, the only way to "pit" them is to boil it all and strain the pits out, and then you can make a juice or jam or similar things. But before I managed to get myself a fruit squeezer, a flock of black birds or similar vermin descended onto our property, and they stripped it off all currants and "cherries". I must be faster next year.

Kayaking with Tom.

We celebrated Lisa's birthday late, on Friday 1st of August, since the celebrant had to come down from Laramie, where she worked in a lab through the summer. Her entry to the scene was rather dramatic, during a crazy hailstorm. She tried to find some roof or bridge overhead in the town, but all those spots were taken, until she came home. Poor Grinch suffered additional pocks on the hood — but she was actually lucky that it stayed just with the pocks. When we subsequently went to a dinner in town, the parking lot behind the restaurant was full of cars with their windshields smashed. There were baseball-sized holes — the hail had to be apparently larger in town than out at our place.

The hailstorm also reached my sword-fighting group, which was erecting lists and pells at the fairgrounds for the weekend's County Fair. The fair is a great local happening — beside actual expositions of farm animals and similar activities, the hall was to be surrounded by attractions — markets and stands, jumping castles, historic tractors — and sword-fighters. Originally everything was to be set up and ready on Friday, but due to strong winds, rain and hailstorms, they had to relent. On subsequent Saturday morning we had to wade through mud — and tried to figure out how to set up gazebos to protect us from sun and heat.

Kayaks are landing on the beach left (Carol and Tom).

On top of that, the sword-fighting chief discovered on Saturday morning that his car was full of glass from a sunroof smashed by hail, and our activities got delayed, until he cleaned the car of shards and loaded the club gear. HEMA is not a cheap affair, and thus people depend on club's loaners, especially beginners. More or less everybody is up to buying a helmet, but then sword-fighting gambesons (skewer-resistant), especially if you want them a bit medieval-fashioned, can set you back a few hundred dollars. Similar with sword-fighting gloves. Well, and then there are the weapons.... longsword fight is trained with so-called "feder" — from German "das Federschwer" (feather-sword). Such feather weighs about four pounds, the blade is about a yard long, made from spring steel. The Feder is dulled, with a bent or widened tip — and springy especially so that fighters don't skewer each other in the heat of the duel. So one has to get ready as much money as for buying a goat (documented goatie costs from three hundred dollars up). I, being a half blind, elderly person with arthritis, longed most for my own feder, which I would get acquainted with and used to practice with individually. One of the best feder makers, who sells in USA as well, in Regeneyi in Hungary. When I "chatted" online on their page with questions what to buy, expecting some automated responses, I got a reply that I should wait a moment and they would ask Peter (Regeneyi). Thus my sword has been recommended by Regeneyi himself — a few centimeters shorter and a bit lighter than standard. I had ordered it before leaving for Europe, to have my own steel waiting for me to return to it.

Crossing a creek under Reynolds Hill.

Now that I was in the swing of shopping, I ordered books by Martin Fabian, a Slovak. I already own a sword-fighting "bible" by Joachim Meyer, but I admit that medieval German translated to wanna-be-medieval English is a little hard to absorb for me. Especially if you add clever tricks of old masters, who did not quite want to publish all their secrets and left out some details. Martin Fabian writes in Slovak, which I master quite well — and as a contemporary swordsmaster refers to modern context in current language. Illustrations are modern as well — no furious, bearded men in complicated attire with bulging trousers and flowing gestures, but simple figures. Sometimes it suits him to entrust you with one or two "secrets", not keeping it all for himself. I began to feel like when I learned to climb in the nineties, there is a community where everybody knows everybody else, and people give advice and help each other.

Thus I went to the County Fair with my new Feder sword, which led to the opportunity to instead just waiting for the club stuff, Amanda and I could practice a bit. Without the gambesons we had to make very slow moves and focus on theoretical cuts and guards, but for a newbie like me, this was much more useful than jumping into fast sparring matches in which I haven't go a clue what just happened. Two other HEMA groups came from Colorado, and we mingled, boasted about our weapons and gear, and played various medieval games, including installing our fearless leader into a pillory.

New goat annex has many clever features, like this ramp through the window.

Goatel6.

While I was soo happy about our swording community, there was a breakup in mid-August and the club splintered. On one hand it means that I can practice with various people and learn from diverse sources, on the other hand, now there are twice as many practices, which tires one down. Goat Association broke up on me in the spring, and hence I feel somewhat schizophrenic. There are so few people in Wyoming that such organizational fragmenting makes no sense to me. Yet, it may be a Wyoming thing — people live specifically here because they can better organize their life after their own taste, and apparently are therefore less inclined to let others tell them how; even hobbies take on an individualistic slant.

With the first weekend in August, my time off was over and I had to get back to my regular routine. Most of all, go back to work. And also start putting our homestead back into shape, water, mulch, weed, muck out sheds and the chicken coop — and wait impatiently for the finishing of goat shed upgrade. Rick had promised to be done by end of June, but then things came up (I agree that laying down a roof in a gale or hailstorm, or otherwise in hundred degrees, is not quite possible), and so my goaties got theirs by the end of August. I was rather glad, for during our vacation there was always someone working around the house. Rick was willing to perform the construction under curious goat assistance, being not just OK with it, but bringing peanuts for the goats and talking to them kindly. He also actively participated in designing and constructing goat playground features. Now they not only have a well insulated shed, with large hay manger in the middle, with three windows, Dutch doors (so in the case of rain or other bad weather I can close only one half, stopping most of the rain from pouring in, but the bottom half still vents — or I can invert it, closing the goats in with the bottom half and let it vent through the top), but one window is walk-through, accessible from both sides over ramps and platforms.
I must say that Rick had taken more of the project to his heart than I had expected — we came back home from a trip one Saturday, and the shed was adorned by a sign GOATEL 6. First I thought I get a stroke but now I am a proud owner of a goatel, showing it off to everybody.

Around Twin Mountain.

Fall colors.

I admit that I had expected a little bit more enthusiasm from the goats' side, instead of careful probing and examining, but the new shed has been working out for ME. Beginning with more room and less fighting among the goats, less smell — and mostly, more ways to separate them. I could milk Bonnie up to mid-November, probably thanks to her sons, Ozzy and Rory, still drinking from her. Because the youngsters kept on nursing, I did not have to milk her regularly (for example, nobody milked her while we were on vacation), but when I managed to separate the boys from her for the night, I had my cup of milk in the morning. My dwarf breed produces little milk (comparing with full size dairy goats), yet their milk has some 6-7 percent of fat, making it very yummy in coffee. Twilight used to milk more, but even so it's a success that originally meat breed has milk still a year and half after kidding.

There are sadder stories about the critters. Our Cinderella the chicken started looking sad and sit in a corner, I was afraid she was egg bound, but the vet found deep wounds full of maggots. I felt like an idiot that I haven't noticed, but unfortunately animals with injuries hide and pretend they are OK until they cannot do that anymore. I tried to rescue Cindy, she got antibiotics and we would clean and dress the wounds, but alas, she did not make it. Shortly after that I noticed that Jet was fading as well — same diagnosis. The vet said that they had to be torn up by something, those injuries could not be caused just by another chicken. I suspect a stoat, whom I know to move around the property. Both chickens were old and unable to fly up to a roost in the coop, so they sat in the egg-laying box at night, de-facto on the ground. I had Rick fix up the coop and I hope that the remaining three perkier chickens last some more.

Aardwark Embark - Hareship.

Hunting mushrooms at Crow Creek.

The whole autumn feels very blurry now that I finally extricated myself from writing journals about Norway, and while it may seem that finishing the goat shed annex and loss of chickens were the greatest events, our picture collection indicates we had entertained a lot more interests:

We fitted ballooning in twice — first time in mid-August in Walden during their summer festival. Besides "our" club balloons there were some ten more, turning it into a decent rally. Sid set out optimistically wearing shorts, but when we were crossing a mountain pass at sunrise, temperatures were around freezing. Yet in our continental climate, by the end of the happening it was hot again.
The second affair was Great Aardvark Embark — a rally organized by AIMS College of Colorado, which has the bespoke animal for a mascot (until writing this journal I assumed aardvark was the same as anteater — it's not, they're not even related, only superficially similar-looking). This flight was interesting by its landing — we would pack up the balloon in semi-desert. Colorado has a very steep gradient of urbanization — you begin your chase in a vibrant, modern city on a well maintained, fertilized, sprinkled and mowed lawn of a university sports field; within minutes you drive among farms — and past them you're in a wasteland.

We plan trips in fall typically so that we can enjoy beautiful coloring of autumn leaves. This year's fall was wet, though, making part of the leaves go boring brown and wither, and parts were ripped of by wind. Still we managed to walk through some pretty areas (and take pictures). The second reason for fall walks is mushrooms. They, too, did not show up impressively — we would find plenty of slippery jacks and puffballs, but no "proper" mushrooms (boletes). This I believe is rooted in the fact that I had purchased a food dehydrator dryer. I had dried in it some herbs from my herb tray on the porch, but mushrooms fell flat this year. The dryer is now stashed in a secret place, and perhaps next year the mushrooms won't notice it and will pop up.

Swordfighting melee.

Pole Mountain - colors.

Sword-fighting is more complicated by the logistic problem with two groups. I participated with one of them in a Fantasy Fest in Colorado. It was something like a medieval / fantasy fair and we were there to "create an ambiance". The most interesting for me was the part when olympic fencers joined us to compare our weapons and techniques — and strengths and skills. HEMA is based on a longsword, but we're learning rapiers and sabers and daggers, and pikes and dussacks. The last is a corruption of the Czech word tesák, and it's a single edge weapon, often made from a scythe simply by drilling and enlarging a handhold hole. Olympic fencers use single-handed weapons and hits in a duel are counted — these days, electronically — and after each hit they start over. Historic swordfight is executed continuously until the end — i.e., when you're hit, you continue fighting (hits are counted on the fly); should you lose your sword, you shift to a dagger, potentially proceeding to grappling and wrestling on the ground. It's only up to you how much you feel like fighting. But back to Fantasy Fest — besides cross-style mingling among sword-fighters, we had a lot other fun — and I could to brandish my new feder. And also my historic costume, bodice and skirt. I thought how fancy my dress-up was, but there were so many elves, knights, dwarfs and princesses promenading around me that my head began to spin. An octogenarian fragile fairy with wings, whom I met at the bar, was probably the best.
In turn, I had invited the second sword-fighter group to our home — we wanted to practice a bit and I offered our barn, but we also wanted to grill. After five years in Wyoming we purchased a propane griddle — a heated iron plate instead of a grill, capable of cooking things like eggs or pancakes. In particular, potato pancakes. We consider grill a useful household equipment — in case without electricity, you still have an option to cook something — and the griddle can handle a pot just as well. The only kink in all the goings-on was the fact that Sid went down with kidney infection, shuffling around the house in pain and fever. Fortunately, grilling is American favorite pastime, and I always had several volunteer helpers available.

Completely quiet surface...

...was just a quiet before a storm.

I missed my kayak a lot in Norway — all this WATER everywhere and I remained a land-lubber! I began to fix that and set out to several excursions. There was plenty of water this year that let me reach Crow Creek inlet to Crystal Reservoir even in September. I did not find it strange that the water surface in the narrow cove was like a mirror. Here, in Wyoming. Between the canyon walls I could not see that it was just a quiet before the storm, and when the nasty dark clouds billowed over the cliff-tops, I found myself on the exactly opposite end of the lake from my car. I stepped out on a bank and waited for it to pass. After the first shower I sat back in my kayak and tried to follow the shore to a place where I could pull the kayak out and subsequently reach it with my car. Fortunately I managed to fit between two bouts of storm, and in the end I paddled all the way. By the time hail started to fall, I already sat in my trusty Ned, parked under trees.

I don't know if I broke any record, but I know quite for sure that I broke my back. It already hurt me during the vacation; sitting in airplanes is certainly unhealthy, but it was getting worse. I thought about my injections possibly losing their effects, since I received the last in previous December, and wondered whether I should start another pilgrimage from one doctor to the next, which takes a long time — as appointments to orthopedists are only available several months ahead. And then I remembered that they said at my physical therapy place they could treat me for up to a month without a doctor's referral, and I made an appointment there — with three day's wait.

Dante is now the only child in our household.

A hike on Tom's birthday.

After three weeks of regular therapy torture, my back stopped hurting, but then I "slept on my arm". My shoulder hurt ever more and more, would not ease up over a day or two like usual. When I felt like I were experiencing being shot through my shoulder blade, with fingers on my hand going numb, and I could not sleep anymore, I went back to the therapy — demanding that they shoot me dead right there or stop the pain any other way, they said that it would not need shooting, and indeed, after few more visits I began to be able to lay down and even sleep sometimes. It took much longer to shake off the numbness, pinched nerves are a real hell. In every aspect it meant I was done kayaking. And climbing. And I had to curb my sword-fighting. Although, sword-fighting saved me in the end — I met a person there who is willing to commute to our property and help me, and not just with the animals, but also with the less fun aspects of the homestead, like mucking compost and dragging bails of hay, mulch, buckets of water, and so forth.

Despite my aching back and shoulder, and Sid's kidney trouble, we survived to the end of October, when our other kid, Tom, has a birthday. He was already twenty two this year. At his six feet two, our boy clearly does not remind one of the tiny premature baby he once had been. What surprises me more, is how both our offspring changed over those five years we've been in Wyoming. We arrived here with two children, and now, two adults accompanied us on a family hike to Point Crawford. They are both in the second half of their university studies, have their own friends and interests, independent of their former home. They both orient themselves in their respective study areas and have certain ideas about what they might want to do in the future. For me — selfishly — it is convenient to have a mechanical engineer come home for the weekend, who will ENJOY working on a generator or another machine, and a "veterinarian", who LIKES to check out our animals and goes with me over things that need to be attended, helps trimming goat's hooves, or applies a de-wormer on our "un-treatable" cat. Somewhere within those five years the children stopped rolling their eyes in reaction to their impossible ancient parents, and instead normally debate us. The result is very pleasant — except for the fact that I begin to feel really old. I wonder if I should start baking funnel cakes and knit sweaters, as it behooves for an elderly lady, instead of hiking somewhere in the mountains and brandishing a sword. For now I baked my diamond cake for Tom, and we contributed to HIS hobbies. I shall think about the knitting.