The weatherman says more snow. We are not ready. The last of our last snow is almost gone from all but the highest peaks. But, everyone says, it is perfect timing. Maybe a few flakes will be visible falling in Denver on monday night, and will be caught on camera, and everyone who watches the Bronco's game will be reminded that ski season is right around the corner, and reservations will flood in. Traditionally, the day after a snowy Bronco's game is a busy day for Reservations.

We are down to five people in the house right now, a slightly more manageable number than six. Now, there are many houses with six family members living together, but not as many with six full grown, well fed adults. We have all been caught off guard by the sheer amount of money that goes into feeding six well-fed adults, and that's just the staples, nothing fancy, no big splurges. A batch of bread lasts a day. A box of cereal, two. Out toaster quit a week ago, and it's almost a blessing. No one eats toast in the morning anymore. After living almost entirely on our guests left-behind food for three years, we had forgotten what it was like to feed ourselves. And we have a month or two yet until tourists start flying in, and have to leave their food behind when they leave. Oh, well. We are adjustable and adaptable.

This last week may have been all the Indian Summer we get. The Yost girls and I went hiking last week. About four miles into the Eagle's Nest Wilderness, by way of the trailhead above our house, is a charming series of waterfalls, pouring over a granite ridge that separates Red Mountain from Buffalo Mountain. After lunch, granola bars and water, eaten with a bit of disapointment that our idyllic spot was suddenly shared by a group of about eight obnoxious young shirtless males and their dog, by far the least obnoxious of the group, we headed up the trail again, anxious to get through the gorge between the two mountians and look out the other side, as well as to put a bit of distance between us and all the coursing testosterone back at the falls. When we got there, a grueling, uphill mile later, we reallised that Red Buffalo Pass lay between us and our view, all that lay before us was a large basin rising up to a snow-covered pass. We shrugged, and left the trail, climbing up the side of Red Mountain to our right, until we reached treeline. (see the picture at teh top of this post.) Amber was determined to go on to the top, Scarlett had had enough. Considering that it was beginning to cloud over, and we had several hours hiking ahead of us to get back home, S. won. A good thing. By the time we dragged ourselves back to civilisation, we were stumbling with exhaustion. It didnt help that we were passed both ways by an especially spry trail runner, sprinting over boulders, carrying running weights, accompanied by a dog that must have been on the same steroids as his owner. We threw a few choice words at his back as he bounced past us. He greeted us with a cheerful "hello", not breathless in the least. I stand by my original observation, there is something not quite right about some of these people up here. Maybe the alien invasion so long feared has started in the high country. Maybe they spend their time in another dimension, where it is possible to run and not be weary, walk and not faint. Maybe they love pain and arew just plain psycho. Whatever it is, I want some.