hello again, my dear ones...

Ahhh, fresh from four days away. Four days out of the county was so strange it seemed a little wrong, and now that we're back, it was not nearly long enough.

We left on Sunday morning and spent two days in Cedaredge with Wendell. Ryan and Ronda were also there, on a little vacation of their own. Wendell's job allows him seven days off in a row every month, a week that they lived for while Michelle was alive. Now, it is the week that their friends come to see Wendell. We all try to head off any time he might have to spend alone, since he already gets far more of it than he wants. We left the house with... lets see... three bikes, two snowmobiles on a trailer, a pair of cross country skis, and a set of golf clubs. And all the clothing to go with all the equipment. We used everything we took with us, living it up, since we actually had time to use them all. On sunday afternoon, Wendell and Bobby and I drove up onto the Mesa, where they dropped me off at the trailhead to the Skyline XC trail system, then drove a mile down the road to the snowmobile drop-off. As they sped across miles of open meadows and frozen lakes, I trudged over icy trails. The trail system was much smaller than I had expected, and I had finished a loop and was back to the trailhead much sooner than expected, so I headed across the space between me and the boys, off trail, so that they would not have to turn the truck and trailer around to come pick me up. I found myself herringbone-ing up steep hills, and flying down the backsides of them, bouncing roughly through frozen snowmobile tracks. As I hit track after track without falling, I began to gain a bit of confidence, and when I least expected it, one came across my path at just enough of an angle that my left ski caught in it, crossed over my right, stopped me abruptly, and sent me face- first through the crusted snow underneath me. I sat up, totally outraged and betrayed, and snatched off my sunglasses, pushed sideways and jammed down on the bump on top of my nose. That was it. Suddenly, I minded the wind that wouldn't stop blowing, I was just ticked off at the clouds that kept hiding the sun and I was cold because it was a windy overcast day and I could not get back to the truck fast enough. I got back to the truck just as my boys were pulling up on their snowmobiles, thirty minutes before our scheduled meeting time. Good thing I was there, because they would have gone to the trailhead looking for me, and I would have been at their trailhead, and our cell phones had no service, and that would have just been a peachy ending to the whole day. As they loaded up, Bobby cradled his three knuckles that he skinned on the end of a faulty spark plug, the reason they were back so early, and I inspected my tender face in the mirror, to discover a long scratch down my cheek, courtesy of the crusted snow I had stuck my face into. We went home to meet Ryan and Ronda, fresh from church, at Sonic for dinner. Oh, what is a veggie to do when the only meat and milk-free food available is doused in grease and overcooked? My chicken wrap filled me up, and reminded me that after three meat-free months, I am much less enamored with the taste of the stuff.

Yes, as a side note, I have not yet come to my senses as was predicted three months ago. In fact, quite the opposite. I did not decide to do the veggie thing because I am a PETA supporting, vegan shoe wearing animal rights activist, even though I am aware of the way that chickens are treated in chicken barns and egg factories, the way cows are slaughtered, the way dairy cows are overused and discarded after only a short and miserable life of milk production. I just do not think that little me not supporting them is going to make a difference, or cause the cogs of production to stutter in the least. I figure it's dead already, so it really doesn't care anymore. Actually it is the stuff they feed the stuff they inhumanely raise, that makes me a bit reluctant to bite off a big chunk of cooked flesh, not knowing where it originated from. Plus, I have realized that calorie control is actually not a dirty word when you can eat enough food that you do not constantly feel like a bottomless pit. Avoiding calorie bombs like meat and cheese makes it easy. I feel a little less despondent about my future health, knowing that I am fully supported by cancer research, my skin is behaving for once, and the energy levels and moods have not suffered in the least, thanks to those wonderful things called carbohydrates that I have been denying myself for so long. Even Mr.B. supports his wife's weird ways, because she suddenly has the body he married. I know, men...

Anyway, as long as we stay away from the fastest of fast food, eating vegan is not as difficult as one might think. Neither is a low-glycemic diet, B is discovering. Poor fellow pulled his pants down over his diminished behind today without unbuttoning them, right in the office, to demonstrate how a sugar-free and caffeine-free diet can cause shrinkage.

But back to our trip, on Monday, Ronda and I stayed in the house the entire day, chasing down kids, and chopping veggies and fruit for dinner, while the boys played nine holes. It amazed me how doing nothing, even napping in the middle of the afternoon, can be so exhausting that one needed to go to bed early. Tuesday, we all prepared to go our separate ways, Ryan and Ronda toward western Kansas, and wendell and us to eastern Utah. We met in grand junction for lunch yet, Famous Dave's barbeque, then made a quick stop for apples, nuts, and sunscreen, and hit the road. As we wound through the desert between I70 and Moab, the trees grew greener, until we dropped into the Colorado River Canyon, where brilliant green contrasted with red rock walls and muddy brown river. I found myself babbling uncontrollably the closer we got. We did not bother with checking into the cabins we had rented, but drove straight up the the Sand Flats recreation area and unloaded ourselves and our bikes at the trailhead to Slickrock bike trail. There is no way to describe it, being back on a bike after a six-month absence. There's ow, there's wow, there's the rush of being back in the saddle, of discovering that you still have it in you, that you can still do this. The now more familiar twists, ascents, descents, ledges and sand pits, the thrill of riding up the hill that you crashed on last time. A warm wind, and actual sweat, something we have not experienced for such a long time, we had almost forgotten what it was like.

Wendell took a seemingly nonthreatening foray off-trail, ended up on a sidehill, caught his pedal and crashed on the hairy edge of a drop-off. Caused us a brief stomache-plunging vision of having to phone home... Michelle would have done some chewing, had she been there to witness it. We have never missed her yelling at him to be careful more. That country terrified her as much as she loved it. She was so afraid of him falling off and killing himself, and if she lost him, she often said, she'd never survive it. We never actually thought that they wouldn't be able to grow old together. The dynamic has shifted in our group. We are no longer two couples. Now it is me and my boys. It is true that we push harder, since we do not need to protect her. She hated slowing us down, so we took any opportunity to take it easy. It was hard for her to take that she could not hike as fast uphill, or snowboard as fast downhill, or be a natural at sports the rest of us have been practicing for years. But I hate every drop of sweat, every burning muscle, because it means she is not along. We would trade anything to be able to see that blonde head coming into view over the petrified sand dunes on Slickrock. I turn down food I do not need, because we do not have each other to encourage each other to go for ice cream, a second piece of pizza, another bowl of soup. There's no need to go for a long ramble after dinner now, because there is no need to walk off all the food we just ate. Wendell just looks so completely lost and alone most of the time. He has his job, and he has golf, the two things he does with his time, and he says he is not always unhappy, but he cannot be happy either, because he just misses her so much.

Wednesday we had a big decision to make- whether to drive to Fruita for more biking, or hike in Moab. After a lot of discussion, we decided a hike in moab would be more comfortable for all, Wendell's back still a bit tender from his crash, say nothing of our bruised behinds not really wanting to sit on bikes seats, as much as we wanted them to. We hiked Negro Bill's Canyon instead, two and a half miles back to an arch over the shaded end of a canyon, water rushing down from above just under the rocks, not visible, but audible. It is a beautiful hike, I highly recommend it if you are ever in the area. Just do not do it in midday, because it is a very narrow canyon and it can become an oven if the sun is shining straight down into it.

We drove back to grand Junction for dinner, then back to wendell's place, where we stashed the snowmobiles in his garage for the winter, then headed back up the Mesa and toward home. Pictures, you say? oh, yeah, bobby forgot the camera in the snowmobile that first day, so nary a picture got taken. Sorry.

Hello again so soon. There is no new news (not that this is such a newsy blog in the first place) but I have finally got our new camera to transfer pictures to my computer, so I can post them. I am trying to add a slide show of all my photos to the bottom of this page, but I can't seem to be able to limit the sideshow to only my pictures, it adds everything from Flickr that bears the same keywords. I don't need other people's kids and sunsets decorating my blog.

Anyway, today I would like to introduce you to Frau. She is named after Frau Farbisina, the ageless bag in the Austin Powers movies. The one with the voice like nails on a chalkboard, who must interject comments when least appreciated. If you are acquainted with Frau, and then you met our Frau, you would make the connection, and then you might appreciate our humor. But that is just her official name. Her nickname, the name we call her, is much more descriptive and unique- we call her Cat.

Frau Cat spent the summer on the porch of one of our houses, begging attention from anyone who came to do weekly security checks and maintenance. When two college girls rented the house for a few months, they fed her and let her inside, and when they moved out, she resumed her watch on the front porch. She seemed well fed, with a shiny coat, but she also seemed completely unaware that she did not belong on the front porch of Piney Acres Upper. As the first snowstorm whipped up drifts, she kept to her post, and as a major remodel job began in the house, she invited herself inside, napping on a dining room chair, asking ever so politely to be excused when she had business to attend to outside. The night that the first real blizzard blew into the county, we took her home with us, asking the landlord if he would allow a cat in the garage of our no-pets rental. She has since assumed that while the garage if fine for overnight, a fine location for her litterbox and catfood, her real domain is in the house, which we allow, but are rather nervous about, with our entire deposit on the line. But she sniffs at our concerns, and keeps on a running commentary while we exist in her space, with a voice that sounds a bit like she is suffering from laryngitis. When she finally manages to squeeze sound past her larynx, it is a strained, rusty howl that causes people who do not know her to do a double-take.

Frau is a cat with coping skills. As long as she has her box. Yes, she is coping in the picture somewhere on this page. When she is miffed, when she is offended, when the dog bites, when the bee stings... she runs, muttering and complaining in her rusty windmill voice, and makes a flying leap into her box. Once inside, she gains control of her frazzled nerves, and watches the world pass around her. Outside the box, she has an entire family to gain control of, but inside the box, her world is controlled and orderly. The box is a bit small for her not-slim behind, but apparently she thinks it hugs her curves. Of course, a ten pound cat landing in a small box is hard on the box. It slides across the floor if she lands in it with enough momentum. I do not know what will happen when it finally falls apart. The cat's life will have lost it's center of stability. But for now, the cat's in her box, all's well with the world.

Finally, a look at all the snow in our backyard. Most years, the kids up here hunt for easter eggs in the grass, which is barely beginning to show itself between the last few stubborn drifts remaining in the shady areas. This year, even though easter came early, we are already past when easter would come most years and there is no ground visible yet. You are looking over at least four feet of snow covering what, in the summer, is a jungle of willows reaching far above my head. And most of the state's ski resorts are closing tomorrow, shutting down the lifts on as much as a ninety-five inch base. It is not up to them to decide to stay open till the snow leaves, since they are bound to a pre-arranged contract with the forest service that determines when they close.

Tomorrow I am going skiing one last time with our church's "Chix on Stix" program. We laugh when we say "program" because there are usually so few of us that we end up not sticking to a program at all. My telephone call concerning it this afternoon went something like this- "Hey Susan it's Mel. (meaningless conversation about Mel's day of backcountry skiing) So, we're doing chix on stix tomorrow, you gonna come? (I say I think I will be able to) Ok, well bring all your stuff, so if a slow one comes along you can ski, and if it's just you and me, we can ride the trees, hmm?" We both know there is a good chance that no one except me will show up, in which case we will not be skiing or riding chix on stix terrain, but rather tearing up bumps and dodging trees. My life has been greatly enriched by the finding of a friend who is as full-throttle and as competitive as I am. Luckily, we have similar, but just different enough interests that we never need to actually compete. I snowboard, she skis. I mountain bike, she kayaks. I long-distance run, she golfs. We accept that no one can be Good at everything, so at our own sport, we kick butt, and at the other's sport, we submit to getting our butt kicked.

ok, I have rambled enough. BBD has gone to bed, i believe. Perhaps i should investigate. My parents left home about 7:15 their time, they should be dragging themselves through the front door in the wee hours. They will be helping us deep clean a few of our units the next two days, getting them ready for either summer rentals, or to be returned to their owners.

Hello again. Two days until the ski resorts close, the wind is whipping up a blizzard that would make the most beastly January day cower in humiliation. March came in like a lion, went out like a lion, and April has pretty much beat the snot out of the lion and imposed it's own bi-polar personality on us.

So I bought skis the other day. Quite proud of my frugality, I was, as I bought the whole set-up. Skis, boots, poles, bindings, for mere fractions of full price. Well, the bindings were free, thanks to a friend. But for now, I must babble on about my new toyage leaning in all their shiny-sharp, gloriously waxed, unscratched glory against the garage wall. Just my size(that would be rather smallish), blue and white, for a fifth of their original price. A shiny black pair of boots, just my size, for a forth of their original price. A ten dollar pair of poles, next to last in stock. And a used-hard, put away wet pair of bindings.

The last day I was out was a powder day, so I loaded up my snowboard and my new skis. There are a few non-negotiable rules for a ski resort on a powder day. Ditch your riding/skiing partner if your wait at the bottom is more than five minutes. Forgive your skiing/riding partner for ditching you, leaving you wondering if they are lost, maimed, or otherwise dead in the trees as you shiver just outside the rope maze and they dismount at the top. Forgive them for choosing powder over other things more or less necessary or fun, like food, sleep or sex. Accept that you are still desirable to your significant other, just not as much so as billions of tiny ice crystals are at the moment. Never ride in someone else's line. Haste makes angry fellow skiers/riders. And finally, stick to what you know best. There will be many days of crud, wherein you can perfect your style and learn a new sport, but today, this powder day, do what you love. So I rode the day away, carving through bottomless pits between scooped-out bumps, ducking tree branches, having the ones I failed to duck dump their loads of snow down my neck and back. Lunch was an orange and a cold can of lentil soup, gulped while standing beside the trash can. Rind and tin can thrown away, spoon tucked into my pocket, I hit the powder again, and finally, at three-thirty, when the back side closed, and the last of the powder was shredded and piled up, I dragged my jello-knees back to the jeep, exchanged board for the skiis I had been looking forward to all day, clomped clumsily back to the lift, and mentally prepared myself for an evening of night-skiing. One run of razor-sharp turns on brand-new edges, poles the right size for once (the rental shop never could give me poles that weren't too long), I slid to a dramatic hocky stop in front of the lift line... and looked around me with the same confusion several other skiiers were expressing. Roped off maze, doors to the gondola shed shut, stationary chairs and gondola cabins, lights off... they were closed. At four in the afternoon. Come to find out, my information that it would be the last night for night skiing was faulty. The last night had already come and gone. I trudged my self and my shiny new boots back to the jeep.

Bobby D. wasnt joking when he told me to enjoy that day, because it would be my last. I have been too busy since then to even take my gear along with me when I leave in the mornings. There were two days in the last week, late in the afternoon, that I was able to sneak away for a whole two hours with my cross-country skis. I think recent shoulder aches are coming from the fact that I do not own cross-country ski poles so I have to use regular ski poles. But by the time I got to buying poles, even spending twenty more dollars seemed outrageous, in spite of all the deals I had been getting on gear. I dug a pair of long (but not long enough) poles out of lost and found to complete the set-up. XC poles should be about shoulder height, to allow you to plant them and pull yourself forward efficiently, with adjustable wrist straps, because by looping the straps around your wrist, then through your palm, and holding them along with the pole handle, you can save your hands from having to squeeze the handles with every step. But in spite of being improperly poled, I have watched miles of trail slide under my 178cm yellow and black skinny skis, have sprawled four ways from Sunday while experimenting with skating (a whole new ballgame when one's heels are free), have gotten a few light, satisfying sunburns, wrapped myself around small trees while discovering that a skinny, straight ski does not turn anything like a short, shaped ski, and sat down and "dragged anchor" to stop when the trails were too narrow to allow me to snowplow. It has been a month of learning new things. Alpine skiing, XC skiing, and one can always stand to improve skills in juggling- work, play, wifely duties, and friendly engagements.

Much later... Curtains hemmed for a friend, bread baked, vegetarian chili cooked and consumed. Next time you make chili, try this. Fresh tomatoes, fresh red and yellow peppers, fresh garlic, a whole onion, a big slosh of butternut squash soup, cocoa powder, chili powder, cumin, oregano, pepper sauce, and picante sauce... water it all down, cook it til the onions start to get clear, add a palmful of flour to thicken it up, let it simmer while you mash the sweet potatoes that you have had boiling while you cut all those veggies, slap a big spoonful of mashed sweet potato into your bowl, and slop a ladle-full of chili over that, and eat it in the living room. Chili is living room food. After all, how much of a formal production can one make of a one-dish meal?

It is day number eight for Mr. B without Mountain Dew. In fact, day number eight without sugar or caffeine at all. His mild hypoglycemia finally asserted itself enough to make his daily life miserable and exercise next to impossible, so he has decided to sacrifice his only vice in the hopes that this summer will be an energetic one for him. In a week, maybe he will be past the withdrawals enough to be able to tell us if he feels like a new man.