Hello from the land of furries, flurries, and worries. Or, to be less succinct, of dogs everywhere, snow that won't stop blowing about, even though it is supposed to be spring, and the foul moods that can be borne of spring not coming, of suitcases still not unpacked because we are feeling the need to work every spare moment, because of that clenched-gut feeling one gets when one begins to suspect their job may be in jeopardy. Oh, we are fine, not to worry, and we have been preparing for the possibility, even counting on it, but still, now that it may be on our doorstep... the worry wrinkles can't help but deepen just a bit.

The numbers are in, to the tune of a substantial loss of income for the company we work for. Tourist numbers are diminished, several of our owners have gone into foreclosure, and while it is by no means the end of us or this company, we also work for the man... who may have done this property management thing for so many years, he is thinking how great life might be without it. Oh, we're committed through next winter, and after that, probably until he has sold off his condos, so we have another year (at least) of full-time work. Or more, if the boss decides he still wants to do this, in spite of a much smaller profit margin. It all depends on him. But after that, we ask ourselves... after that...

Maybe we will go to southwest Florida. They say housing is cheap down there now, with the recession hitting tourism hard. I could do home health care, utilize my CNA again, and care for some sweet, white-haired old timer, or maybe scrape barnacles from boats (that seems like a nice, low-stress job) or something else on the water that pays little, but demands little. And B can repair things, or mow lawns, or find a hotel to manage. B likes it there. I say, maybe not my first choice, looking at my skis propped in the corner...not as many recreation options in a climate that stays hot and muggy, but we have a philosophy that we believe leads to contentment in "whatsoever state"-home is where your job is. And there, I could grow green, edible things again, unlike here with it's three seasons, summer not being one of them.

I must admit to falling even more in love with the mountains in the last two years. With these people who do not consider a walk around the neighborhood to be exercise at all, but must go climb mountains, ride rivers, who cannot simply ride bike, but must ride bike out in the middle of nowhere, over obstacles and through water and under towering trees or rock walls, and who do all this at warp speed, stopping only to drink in a beautiful view and a few swallows from a water hose sprouting from a backpack before setting off again.

And I know I have commented before on the dog population of Summit County, but I am now involved in it... and am overwhelmed by the sheer time and devotion people give their four-legged soulmates. Yes, soulmates, to hear most of them talk. Dogs spend so much time off-leash here, but are still so well-behaved. They are a skinny, sinewy lot, like their owners, and cover miles and miles every day, side by side. They sleep in their owners beds. They share their owner's food and drink from the same camelbak bite-valve. And now that the weather is approaching warmer in spite of the wind and the sticky, impossible snow that falls every weekend, then melts before it can be put to good use, and the trails are slush and mud, the roadsides crawl with these hearty duos and trios. Every walk we take, Andy and I fall into step with other people and other dogs, hear their stories, training tips, crazy experiences.

Obedience training has begun in earnest for the yellow beast now asleep under my chair. Yesterday, I swung by the pet supply in Frisco and picked up a prong collar- a contraption that looks a bit like a medieval torture device, but, when applied correctly, delivers a well-timed "nip" around the neck of a misbehaving dog, using a slightly pinching pressure that mimics a mother dog's mouth on a pup's neck- a language that dogs are far more fluent in than the yelling, screaming, pulling, begging, pleading, petting, bargaining, and other ways in which frustrated owners try to get Barky to behave. We have had two sessions already-one last night, and one this morning, and we are all relieved to report that the medieval torture device works- and apparently, works without traumatizing the yellow beast, since throughout both training sessions his ears have settled into a submissive, relaxed state, and his tail has retained it's relaxed, happy wave. He actually seems much more at ease now that corrections can be administered without scare tactics, just a quick, slightly traumatic pop on his leash, and quite attentive to whatever we might wish for him to do. So far, his only requirement is to walk at my left side, walk forward when my left leg swings forward, stop when my left leg stops, and upon stopping, tuck himself into a sitting position and wait for further instruction. As the puppy class being taught in Frisco advances, and my friend continues to attend, then report what is being taught, we will also advance, without having to pay nearly $200 for an obedient puppy. At least that is what I am hoping. If we do not glean as much as we hope from Raisin's new-found obedience, and her mommy's new training methods, we may attend the next class after all.

And now, I must hurry along. Another day, another condo in need of a deep clean. In spite of the aforementioned worries, and need to work while we still can, I am now realizing that I have stolen quite a leisurely morning, here at the computer. i could have been unpacking, doing laundry, any number of productive things that do not promote the flowing of time-consuming creative juices, but instead, here I am. I shall have to really make things fly the rest of the day to make up for it.

Hello and welcome to the land of ponderosa pines, smooth blacktop, and unseasonably wintery skies. This place is not Summit county, as we do not have either of the former two items.The latter, we have plenty of. The latter is also the reason we have hit the road in search of adventure in a warmer climate. As I write, we are speeding away from Flagstaff, Arizona, leaving heavy wet snow to accumulate behind us on the lawns of the NAU campus. Now that we are on the road, it is less, but it still falls lightly, hitting our windshield in icy, slushy balls.

The dog sleeps in the back of the truck, under the topper, on top of our pillows that we stacked up in an inaccessible pile, which he promptly accessed. If we make a sudden turn, he will take a tumble, but it is worth it to him to be so immersed in our scent. Bobby drives with single-minded determination, hopeful of reaching Phoenix by bedtime, of finding a campground worthy of our patronage. I am pantsless. Long story. I'll get to that, in good time.We are on the vacation that we have spent the last month salivating for. Since Bobby just bought a topper for the red bohemoth known as the Dodge, we had the option of bring our bed with us. before we left, I made it with sheets and everything. Just because we are camping does not mean we must leave behind every comfort. Although tonight will be the first night we actually sleep in our own bed, Andy has spent miles on it, bouncing slightly with each bump in the road, digging nests for himself in the covers.

We made it to Cedaredge the first night, and spent the night at Wendell's house. We would not have gone out to his house except that he needed a way to send his golf clubs to phoenix ahead of him. It was not our m.o., but we even remembered to get the clubs as we were leaving hte next morning. On the way out of town, we swung by the golf course and Bobby hit a bucket of balls at the driving range while I took Andy for a long walk.
We had lunch in Grand Junction, then, as I slept (I sleep whenever we drive, one of the many reasons Bobby thinks it best that he pilot our means of transportation at all times) he drove us to Moab. It was a bit cloudy, but pleasant as we checked into a cabin at the KOA, then pulled out our hiking shoes, not used since last season, found Andy's leash, found the trailhead, and began picking our way through rocks on a trail that was apparently such a barage of strange new scents that Andy could not watch where he was going, his nose glued to the ground as it was, and fell over a few pesky rocks on during the first turns on the way up the canyon wall. We climbed five or six hundred feet vertical in about a half-mile, than found ourselves in the apropriately named Hidden Valley. Pockets full of baggies filled with what came out of the south end of a north-bound Andy (being the good citizens that we are), we walked through the valley until we both realized how hungry we were, then turned around and picked our way back down out of the valley, back to town.

We bought sandwich fixings, ham, cheese, avocado, lettuce, tofurkey, two kinds of bread (since we could not decide on honey-bran or oat 'n' nut) a cooler, and various bags of salty-snacky food. Back at the cabin, we turned the top bunk into the kitchen, and I sat cross-legged on it and made our dinner, Andy looking longingly up at me from the floor. We had dinner, I read my book, Bobby surfed the internet, we finally took showers, and climbed into bed, Andy curled between my back and the wall, in pure doggie heaven that he was to be allowed to sleep with his people for the first time in his short life. He even forwent his usual attempts at nibbling on our ears- probably rewarding our good behavior. We humans only think we have the market cornered on training by reward and punishment. When his people cooperate by not shoving him in his crate, and allowing him on the bed, he will certainly do his best to reward them, training them for next time.
We drifted off to sleep in our warm cabin, our little family, all together in one bed, at the beginning of a fabulous adventure... and awoke to what sounded like the roof was about to lift off from above our heads. Screen door banging, howling, screaching, mighty gusts waved the curtains around in front of closed windows and found their way through unnoticed cracks in the walls. We scarcely slept from 3:00 am until 7:45, when we finally had the courage to climb from beneath the covers and peer outside. What greeted us was almost enough to take away our vacationey bouyancy and replace it with some wailing why-us-es. We were greeted with a solid wall of brown, swirling over and through town, gathering force as it boiled through canyons and punishing us with stinging bits of itself, flung in our faces, between our teeth, under our eyelids. We grabbed Andy, and heads bent against the gale, hurled ourselves and the ice chest into the truck and made our way into town. We decided that Negro Bills Canyon, a short way out of town, might be a good place to hike, narrow as it was, and possibly sheltered from the wind that whipped above it. And for a half-mile, it was. Then it changed direction, widened out, and became a wind tunnel. The wind chased us back to the trailhead, whipping at us, and sent us back to town with our tail between our legs. We drove aimlessly about town, looking for a seltered corner, maybe a park, and found nothing, then headed out of town, into Kane Creek Canyon. After a process of eliminating all the nooks and hidey holes that we thought might not be too windy to enjoy, we parked ourselves under a tree at the mouth of Moonflower Canyon, where the dust only skirled about on the ground without being picked up and flung into our faces. There, we opened up the back of the truck topper, put down the tailgate, made sandwiches and sipped cold suds, and settled in for the afternoon. I finished my book and started another, Andy intently watched the leaves and debris that circled and eddied around us, and Bobby wondered the parking lot, bored, before joining me in the truck bed and trying to take a nap. At last, the dirty brown skies began to darken even more, warning of aproaching rain. We drove back to the cabin to find all our belongings coated with fine red dust. I had stupidly left my suitcase open. Inside my cosmetic bag, my toothbrush bristles were red. All my once clean socks were white no more. Our bed featured drifts of red dust between the wrinkles on the covers. We left footprints in the drifts of dirt on the floor.

The first few raindrops fell as mud. Then, as it began to rain in earnest, the air cleared, becoming breathable again. The cold front that had been blowing in finally arrived, and coated the highest canyon rims with a dusting of snow. The sun set below the clouds, bathing the valley in golds and reds, and in spite of having to wear our stocking hats and winter coats, it was a wonderful evening. Mostly because the hellish day had finally ended.
The next morning, we awoke early, still aware of how wonderfully silent it was after our day of being buffetted. Moab was cold. And for now, it had lost it's shine. We were unwilling to give it a second chance. We packed hastily and hit the road. By tonight, we would be in Sedona, we planned, where it was a bit warmer.

At just past noon, we rolled into Flagstaff. As arranged, I fired off at text to Jeremy, of Another Blog fame (www.zenotherblog.blogspot.com), who is, at the moment, matriculating there.(sorry, but I've gotta use that word when i get the chance. Who knows when it might happen again? I don't know that many matriculators right now.) No reply. We proceeded to the designated meeting place, still no reply. We wondered about, finally left and filled up with fuel. Still nothing, except a slew of return texts from unknown numbers- "who are you?" "huh?" "who is this?" Not sure what was going on with the phone company, which connections got crossed, but obviously my texts were not ending up with their intended recipient. I tried calling, no answer. We had finally given up, an hour and a half later, and began heading out of town, when apparently one of the texts found their way to his phone, and he replied. We turned around, met for a cuppa joe, and as we sat, warmed by our three mugs and a large french press, the snow began to fall in heavy, wet flakes. When we reached the grounds at the bottom of the pitcher and I had reached a state of jangling nerves, and a caffeine buzz that had my knees bouncing under the table and my fingers shaky and jittery, we took Andy out of the back of the truck and brought him along as Jeremy took us on a short campus tour. It was the first time Andy had seen snow since leaving Summit County, and he was beyond exstatic. As soon as it began to accumulate, he began running in wild circles, wrapping his leash around himself, rolling, digging in it. Apparently he is a good dog for where we live. He seemed to disdain the running water in Negro Bills, but snow is definately his bag.

We concluded our campus tour shivering uncontrollably, either from the cold or too much caffeine, and told Jeremy goodbye, thanking him for taking the time for us. Upon climbing into thr truck, I discovered how soaked I was. Ankle to knee, I was sopping wet, from kicking puddles onto myself while walking. And I simply cannot get comfortable unless I am in a semi-fetal position, sitting on my feet, when we drive. And as soaked as I was, sitting on my feet was definitely not an option. Not a mile down the road, I unbuckled my seatbelt and shimmied out of my jeans. Oh, I know. We can be downright classy sometimes.

Which brings us to the present, towel over lap, computer on towel. The decision has been made that we want to be warm for the first time in nine months, more than we want to camp in Sedona. We flew past Sedona like it wasn't even there, and are now approaching phoenix. Thirty degrees ago, we were still in Flagstaff. The time has come for me to be a good little pantsless co-pilot and help locate a campground. The sun is setting, washing the valley we are driving through in pink and gold, throwing the shadows of seguaros across the road, lighting up the mountains with its last rays.

Two days later- Now, this feels like vacation. I have me and mine- husband and dog- parked in the pool courtyard, fountain splashing behind us, pool barely alive with undulating ribbons of reflecting sunlight in front of us. Actually, Andy is tied to the fence behind me, just outside the courtyard, in a circle of shade cast by the umbrella above my head. He is entertaining himself by attempting to eat the landscaping- rocks, miniature palms, the stray cigarette butt. I have him tied short enough he is mostly failing at his attempts.

We have been at the La Quinta two nights now. Three nights ago, we did finally find a campsite on the shore of Lake Pleasant. Our night was anything but pleasant, however. We did not locate the campground until dark, then, confused about the varying degrees of campsites (primitive, semi-primative) with differing fees for each, we did not settle on a campsite until much later. We still do not know if we stiffed the campground out of five dollars by staying in a fifteen-dollar campsite instead of the ten-dollar one we paid for. But we settled into a nice flat campsite overlooking the lake, on a small knoll, and settled into a balmy Arizona night. We made our sandwiches, played with Andy, slapped a few mosquitos, and finally, closed the back of the topper and crawled into bed.

And then it started. Andy had spent twelve hours in the back of the truck that day already, getting from Moab to Phoenix with all of our stops in between, and his NAU campus tour was not enough to sufficiently wear him out. He was wide awake, and having his people sleeping in what he had come to regard as his kennel was almost too exciting for him to handle. He dug at our hair, nipped at our ears, pounced on our feet. When we had finally retreated with our heads under the covers, he found a rawhide chew and began chewing in earnest, the chew against the side of the truck bed, amplifying the sound. Finally, around midnight, we took the chew away from him and tied him to a tie-down in the corner of the truck bed. Half an hour later, just as we were all beginning to get comfortable, a group down closer to the lake began to reach a noisy level of drunk. For he next three hours, car alarms went off, people shrieked and guffawed, and more car alarms went off. Finally, in the wee hours, as the party died down, we drifted off… only to be awakened at 6:00 am by a puppy who needed to potty, needed to eat, needed to destroy something. In a fog of sleep deprivation, we repacked our camping gear, fed the dog, filled our hydration packs, and set off in search of trailhead, grouchy and bickering, knowing there would be no peace until Andy had run off 36 hours of accumulated energy.

We found a trailhead, quite an idyllic one around a cove of Lake Pleasant, through towering saguaros and scattered boulders, flowering prickly pears and other colorful spiny things. We let Andy off-leash after about a mile, and he raced- did not walk, did not scamper- raced back and forth between Bobby and me, running off the kinks in his legs, panting, eating horse turds, chasing his tail, grinning widely, bouncing, beyond ecstatic to be out of the pickup. We went down to the lakeshore, in spite of being fairly certain dogs were not allowed to swim in this lake, and let him walk into the water. His experience with water has been running water, streams, where he splashes around in tummy-deep water and chases bubbles downstream. He confidently high-stepped out onto a rock, surveyed his surroundings, and took another step... and disappeared. A moment later his head popped back above water, and he frantically dog-paddled back to shore, where he stood spraddle-legged for a moment, completely miffed, before shaking himself, sneezing, and looking at us accusingly. Then, he turned his back on his humans, laughing as they were at his expense, and on the lake, and continued down the trail, with or without us. And has never even attempted to walk into water again. Even puddles are mildly suspect. By the end of three miles, he was done. He gratefully accepted being lifted into the back of the pickup once again, lapped greedily at the water we offered him, and flopped down to sleep with the same single minded determination he’d been trying to destroy things with earlier.

Wendell’s flight was from Grand Junction to Denver, then Denver to Phoenix. Due to a winter storm moving through the Front Range, his flight from Denver got cancelled. He made some phone calls, and got a nonstop flight out of Grand Junction. He drove to the Junction airport, and found out that flight had been cancelled due to mechanical problems. He got back in his SUV, pointed it toward Phoenix, and got here the next morning.

While we were waiting for him to arrive, Bobby and I headed out to Usery Mountain Regional Park. We hiked about three miles, up to a wind cave, and by the time we got back down Andy was pooped out. Three miles is about his limit, especially in the heat. He had his first run-in with a nasty little cactus, one since tentatively identified as an Engleman Hedgehog Cactus. It's spines were so strong they pierced through the leather glove we pulled it off him with. Since he has such thick fur, it barely pierced his skin, but Bobby's fingers inside the glove were an entirely different matter.

We came back to the motel, where Wendell was already checked in, met him, went to Taco Bell, went to Target to by a paperback, then I came back to the Motel and my boys left for the race.

It was a good afternoon. I read an entire novel, out by the pool with my puppy tied to the fence beside me, watched a movie on cable, went for a two mile walk on the treadmill after dark with Andy trotting along beside me. It was his first treadmill experience. Other than having to learn to ignore the other puppy in the floor to ceiling mirrors and keep his feet on the belt, he stayed just to my right and behind me, claws clicking on the belt, his tail waving behind him.

I was nearly asleep by the time Bobby got back to the motel room. We were both exhausted from our day in the sun.

This morning, we found our way back to the courtyard- our room is a ground level courtyard room, just steps from the pool- and by now, Wendell is up and has joined us. The temperature is creeping up, closer to ninety. We are thinking a swim, then lunch. Then my boys may (or may not) go find a golf course, or at least a driving range. Bobby just went into the lobby and reserved our room for another night, because we are enjoying our lazy day by the pool so much. We will begin to make our way back home in the morning, although there is no set day that we will pull back into Summit County, where six inches of fresh snow fell yesterday.

Several days later- We are home. Sigh...

The boys did golf that next afternoon. I spent another day poolside, then pulled on my shoes and walked down to a park a half-mile from the motel. Walking with a puppy is the ultimate ice-breaker. I wonder if any living thing sees as many smiles as a puppy does. The world is a friendly, sunny place with a puppy on the other end of a leash. There are cute-things people, who couldnt care less about animals, but see him as a living, breathing teddy bear with a soft, warm tongue and unlimited kisses, then there are the millions of people who saw and loved the movie Marley and Me, just now out on DVD, who do not know the difference between a Golden Retriever and the star of the movie, a Golden Lab, so they must stop and coo and inform us, "He looks just like Marley!" then there are dog people, who cannot resist a furry face, let alone a baby one, and tell us about the dog they left at home, show us pictures on their cell phones, then there are Golden Retriever people, who regale us with stories of their own beloved Goldens. And a few who ask for pictures with him, to show their family back home, or their pets back home, or their friend who's Golden just died and they think their friend should be thinking about getting a puppy to fill the void. Add them up, and we may have just covered two thirds of the population. The other third are just not dog folk, and give him a wide berth, afraid he might nip at their heels or pee on their shoes, or make them dirty, or whatever other reason people avoid puppies.

Anyway, as we were walking, we passed two mens men, in torn tee shirts and do-rags, working on a gleeming Harley, tools spread out over the curb. They were completely infatuated with Andy, kisses and belly rubs, and before I quite knew what was happening, I was being dragged through the gate into the front yard, in spite of a bit of reluctance, to see the "Mini-pin" that was playing with the kids. Don't know what a mini-pin is? Neither did I. I was a bit curious. Then, from beside the patio door, by which reclined a dirty-blond, haggard looking mom, sprang a flurry of teeth and vicious barking. It was a Doberman Pinscher, but it was mini- all of ten inches tall. Andy tucked tail and ran. He may not always size up his playmates correctly, and he frequently gets put in his place by older dogs who have no patience for his lack of manners and butt-sniffing before he jumps all over them, but he knew this little brown and black thing with spikes on it's collar was bad news.


The next morning, we packed up and headed out of town, Wendell behind us. Andy slept in the back of the truck, I slept in the front. I woke up twenty miles from Sedona.

We may be destined to never spend time in Sedona. We want to. But we just can't seem to get it done. We are always out of time by the time we get there, or it is too cold and we just want to get to Phoenix where it is warm, or something. This time was no different. We walked down main street (where Bobby and Wendell suddenly discovered they were dressed almost completely identically- light green golf shirts, the exact same shade of khaki cargo shorts, and the exact same gray Merrell hiking shoes- and got a little self-conscious. The only major difference was about fifteen pounds and the amount of hair on their heads, Bobby having hair and Wendell having a shiny dome). We were reluctant to leave the dog in the hot truck, since we could find no shade, so we brought him along, tying him up while we ate barbeque in an airy passageway dining room. While we were waiting for our food, I stuck up a conversation with Elka, a Crested Butte native, now a guide in Sedona. She also had a dog- a chihuahua-pit bull mix. It had the size and build of a Chihuahua, but the face of a pit bull. And the personality more befitting a retriever or a lab, all smiles and kisses. So much for mixing what are often viewed as two of the most vicious dogs to create an uber-killer.

We had planned to do some hiking in Oak Creek Canyon, but it wasn't to be. We began calculating the time it would take us to get home, and decided that unless there was a trailhead that we absolutely could not refuse, we would keep driving. Winding through Oak Creek Canyon, Bobby took it upon himself to try, ever so patiently, to help me come to grips with the fact that I simply can not hike every trail. The world is just too big, and my legs are just too short.
Our conversation was cut short by a near-miss, the vehicle in front of us making a sudden left hand turn directly in front of an oncoming jeep. We hit the brakes and prepared for impact, but the oncoming vehicle opted to launch off some rocks on the roadside and careen into a stand of trees. He got stopped without wrapping his jeep around any of them, and came boiling out of his vehicle and toward the guilty party, now stopped as well, with a healthy enough stride we decided he was most likely alright, so we kept driving. There were plenty of witnesses already, we reasoned.

In Flagstaff, we stopped for gas, while Wendell kept driving. There was no bathroom where we stopped, so we pulled off a mile later at a Taco Bell/Long John Silvers, and ran inside to use the bathroom. The manager behind the counter was giving us the stink-eye when we came out, ready to make a dash out the door, so we decided to order a drink to justify our using the facilities. We were already well-fed from lunch in Sedona, but it just smelled so good, and we were on vacation, only a few days left until we had to start watching every bite that passed our lips... and my stomach growled, giving it's imput. I couldn't possibly be hungry, but...it did smell good. We added 12 hushpuppies to our order. And we waited. And waited. So long we wondered if they had to run to the store for ingredients. At last, our number was called, and as we made our way to the counter, a man in a serviceman's uniform and a terrible hurry beat us to it. He grabbed our order and scuttled out the door. We looked at each other and shrugged, figuring we had simply heard our number wrong. A second later, another order was up, and being the last customers waiting, we took it. It was the meaty meal our friend that was in such a hurry had ordered. We ran after him, waving his meal, but he was long gone. So as we left Flagstaff, we munched on second lunch, his nice fish-n-chicken platter, and wondered how ticked he was going to be when he opened his fish-n-chicken and found twelve hush puppies, snuggled in neat rows, winking up at him.

We ate again at Kayenta. Our systems were on such overload, all we wanted to do was keep stuffing it in. Burgers and ice cream, a potty for dog and humans, and we hit the road again. In Cortez, at dark, we passed Wendell just pulling out if the Dairy Queen parking lot. Joined up again, we headed for Telluride over Lizard Head Pass, one of the prettiest drives in Colorado, in our opinion, if you are ever on a road trip through the San Juans. It is also the shortest and fastest route from Delta, Colorado to Flagstaff, Arizona. As we were heading up into the mountains, something jumped in front of us, and we hit the brakes and swerved again, just missing a mountain lion. It was the first mountain lion either of us had ever seen, and I can now say with absolute certainty, I never wish to meet one again, at least not unless I am safe inside a vehicle cab. It was huge. At first we though it was a deer, it stood so tall, and we figured it must weigh at least two hundred pounds. We watched as it slinked into the shadows along the side of the road, barely bothering to look at us, and wondered how many bites it would take... I am just not comfortable with coming face to face with something that is higher on the food chain than I am.

Several miles later, a bull elk flashed through our headlight beams, and we spent the rest of Lizard Head Pass with our eyes pealed, watching for shadows, for eyeshine, anything to indicate an animal that might deter us from getting to Wendell's house yet that night.

We pulled in to Cedaredge, where Wendell lives, at midnight. As soon as we let Andy out of the truck, he proceeded to go nuts, so relieved to be out of the pickup, having been cooped up in it since having left Phoenix 14 hours earlier.

He slept only a little that night. I slept less, lacking his ability to fall asleep immediately after a trip outside to pee. At five thirty, it was light enough to see, so I crept out of the house with him, fed him breakfast, and took him on an hour and a half walk. When we got back, he went in his crate and fell asleep, and I slept more soundly than I had all night. At quarter till eleven, we finally woke up. We packed, and hollered at Wendell through his bedroom door, but nary a sound did he make, so we left without saying goodbye.

As soon as we had all our stuff hauled in from the truck and deposited on the living room floor, I took Andy for a long ski. His morning walk had long been slept off, and if we were going to get anything accomplished, he needed to be asleep. A mile into our ski, he dashed in front of me and parked himself, as I was flying downhill on my new, mack-daddy, metal-edged cross terrain cross country skis (that's a whole 'nuther story. My mom was here, see, and I was whining about my defunct, pieced-together, busted old equipment, and before I knew what she was up to, she up and gave me a birthday-christmas-who knows what all special occasions gift. You guessed it. Mack-daddy skis. I may have died and gone to heaven. These babies carry me through swooping turns on the steepest, backcountry downhills, then walk me right up the uphills, then carry me back down like they are alpine skis. I never dreamed i could tackle such terrain on cross country skis.) Anyway....parked himself in front of me, and there was no stopping. I plowed right into him with my full-metal edge, brand new razor sharp ski tip and laid his hind leg wide open. I didn't realize it right away, since I was then past him, and his gait seemed normal, but a half- mile later, wading through untracked snow, breaking through the crust, I noticed blood running down, over his foot. I took a closer look and was horified to see a gaping cut. There was nothing to do but keep going, a mile and a half back to the house. We have been doctoring it ever since, hoping we wont have to incur vet bills over it, pulling it together with tape and wrapping it, changing dressings. My mack-daddy new skis now have tape over the tips to dull them down a bit. This afternoon, I got out Bobby's beard trimmer and took the hair off all around it, begged a freebie bottle of disinfectant from the vet, swabbed and cleaned and disinfected. I feel terrible. But that was not the worst of it. When I used to have horses, and one of them got caught in the barbed wire, the vet said to make a solution of hydrogen peroxide and water and flush the wound with it. Lacking iodine or anything that would disinfect the cut, I did just that, and left the remaining solution in a highball glass on the counter.

Bobby comes home. Kisses Andy and tells him he is sorry him mommy is trying to kill him. Gets out a pork chop and throws it on the grill. Fills a highball glass with water and sets it on the counter. Comes back five minutes later, picks up the glass, and takes a drink- three or four swallows. Then gasps. Asks me why the water burned so badly. I turn in horror and realize that he has just ingested the hydrogen peroxide solution. He sputters, makes choking noises, wheezes. Grabs the first cold thing out of the fridge he sees- the jug of Pina Colada mix, rum-in, and chugs it. Pants. His eyes water. Gradually, he starts breathing normally. I say I think it is ok, people use it for mouthwash, after all. Much later, after dinner is eaten, I look up the poison control website. The warnings for swallowing hydrogen peroxide are dire and suggest immediate medical attention. I ask Bobby if he is feeling any of the listed symptoms, and he says that he thinks he is fine. But the day I tried to kill both him and Andy will not soon be forgotten. Welcome home. Vacation over.

Hello and welcome to the land of the springtime blizzard, puppy energy, a winding-down spring break, and anticipation of vacations soon to be taken.

Keystone closes in ten days. Night skiing is already done. We had a week of beautiful, warm days, which left patches of trails melted off on south-facing aspects. And then the wind began blowing, and the snow began falling, and now, the county is white again.

Ha, did I really think I would get through a whole post in a day? jokes on me. Now, Keystone closes in six days. Bobby finally used his first day on his Keystone, Breck, and A-basin 4-pack day before yesterday. Instead of a season pass, this year he bought only four lift tickets at a steeply discounted price, and he has now gone exactly as much as he did last year- four runs. But I am hoping to get him to the Basin to use his other three days yet before summer. The Basin really can be a wonderful place in the spring. It manages to actually pull off the "beach" feel it strives for. Beer, barbeque, and bikinis, tailgates and sunbathing, pond skimming and awful, slushy snow. Only problem is, every time I actually plan a day at the basin, spring bares it's teeth and slings sleet in my face.

Anyway, we had about six inches of freshies. I had gone to the Basin and met my friend Ginta, and we had made a few runs down Montezuma Bowl when Bobby called to say he was going to Keystone. I was a bit squiffy about it, not that he was finally riding, but because he waited until I was at the Basin before telling me he was going to Keystone, as if he were trying to avoid riding with me. But he explained that it had been spur of the moment, and since Marci was still in bed and not answering her phone, there was nobody at work, so he had to stay within range of a cell phone tower in case one of our guests needed him. Since there is limited cell phone coverage at the basin, he was stuck with Keystone. The story of his life. So I had to forgive him a tiny bit. I ditched Ginta (she said she understood) and raced on bad roads to Keystone, where, since the runs were already tracked up, I took him through all my front-side powder stashes, so very happy I could finally ride with him. It was just like the good old days when we used to ride together. We haven't done that for three years.

Since we are now dog owners, I have not been riding as much, and when I do, I plan to be back at the vehicle at two to three hour intervals to let the dog out to pee. Which means I do not spend as much time in the Outback or on North Peak as on the front side. Which means I have discovered powder stashes I had no idea about on the front side. I have gotten to know it like the back of my hand. It helps that I have spent time on it in the summer as well, on my bike, because I know what the terrain is doing under the snow, and when to expect flat spots and tight trees.

And when I am not at Keystone or working, I have been busy tracking up the open space and national forest land outside my front door. The moon is working its way closer to full, so Andy and I have been going out for our daily ski later and later. We usually climb up to the ridge above our house, a windswept, rocky spine, with all of the Cove spread out below us, the golden glow of civilization on one side, the silvery shadows of an open valley on the other, and we make our way along the spine, into the woods, until we pop into a long, open run, a gully that leads downhill, back to civilization, at which point we point ourselves down hill and let gravity do the work. At least I do. Andy bounds along behind me, sneezing in the wash that comes off my tails, sometimes neck and neck, sometimes so far behind he is merely a shadow among the silver shadows. At the bottom I wait for him to catch up, and we make our way behind rows of cookie-cutter, pastel houses, blinds up, revealing families having dinner, watching TV, surfing the internet in the warm golden squares of their windows. Then, across the street, down a steep bank, across another street, and we coast up to our front door. I am absolutely loving the fact that I can walk out my door, put my skis on, ski as many miles as I want to, return to my door, and take my skis off. Such luxury I have never known. Now, if I just had skis that were up to the challenge. But that's another issue. I shall have to save awhile for that. Our taxes wiped our savings right out this year.

We are planning a vacation, albeit a scaled-back one this spring, however. My dear husband has long wanted to witness a Nascar race in-person, and he has decided that Phoenix, on April 18, is a race he can afford tickets to. He and Wendell will be going. It took much discussion for me to decide against going, but I finally opted for staying in the motel while he is out watching cars make left-hand turns. Not that I would mind it, I think I would even have fun, but then I thought about the fact that the bucks I do not spend on a ticket could be used toward new cross-country ski gear that is my size and not already worn out, not second or even third hand, and my decision was made. Plus, mountain bike season is fast approaching and I need new tires. Mine are showing threads. And I had hoped I could find a better, lighter bike helmet on sale, and I have my eye on these running shoes I almost bought last year but didn't... and... you get the picture. B doesn't know this, but when he gives me cash for lunch, I sometimes skip it, go home and eat a carrot stick so I can save the cash to use on sports gear later.

Anyway, we have made reservations at the Moab KOA for two nights in a cabin, and paid an extra $10 to bring the small furry one with us. We decided against bringing the bikes, since we are not in bike shape anyway, and after one big day on the slickrock, our butts would be sore, our legs would be sore, and we would still have an entire vacation ahead of us in which we would feel obligated to ride them since we brought them. And without the bikes in the back of the truck, we will have room for a mattress to save on motels, and we will not have to leave Andy behind. Instead, I have hikes in mind all over the west- Moab, Sedona, Flagstaff, Phoenix, on which we can take the four-legged one. I have spent a lot of time online perusing sites that promise hikes that "won't be able to wipe the wag off your dog's tail", with streams, sandy trails, and lots of shade.

We plan to leave as soon after Keystone closes as possible- like the next day. We may stop at Wendell's house in western Colorado and pick up his golf clubs so the boys can play a few holes on the way back from Phoenix. The only plans we have are two nights in Moab, and we have to be in Phoenix on Friday night to pick Wendell up from the airport. The rest of the time is wide open. I am beginning to get rather excited. For once, we are not spending our spring vacation on a beach, we are spending it doing my kind of things. Desert-ey things. And for once in my life, I am thankful for Nascar. It made this trip possibe for me.

Ok, nothing against Nascar. I only resent it because it takes Bobby away from me on Sunday evenings, when he watches the race recorded during the day. Because he hurries home to watch it before he might accidentally see the winner on MSN or something. Because I talk to him and he doesn't even hear me when the race is on. And, (although I hesitate to say this because it makes me sound self-rightous) because I cant help but imagine all the hungry mouths that could be fed with the money being generated, then spent on going fast and turning left. And I know... don't say it. The same could be said for sports equipment, my own particular vice.

And now, I must skip off to work. Before we leave, I need to have all the home owner billing done, so the company's owner knows how much to take out our condo owner's rental income checks for maintenance and upkeep in their units since last April. I am seeing rows of numbers in my sleep. I spend all day in the office these days, 18.2 pounds of sleeping golden retriever draped over my feet, my days punctuated by dog potty breaks and occasionally prying no-no's like reciepts or invoices out of his mouth. We will be so very glad when he gets his big-dog teeth and his big-dog bladder.