More Animal Paintings and Some Unnecessary Memories

Yeah, I know--another pronghorn. I can't help it; they are such interesting creatures that I can't resist painting them. I am still excited that they are easily spotted right outside of town. I shout, "Prong!" and point from the car every time. It's kind of like "Nibbles!" with me. It's almost a compulsion.


I also painted a wood duck, with a little artistic brightening of colors. I haven't seen one in a while, so I gave myself some fudge room. (Mmmm, a fudge room.) If a wood duck could duck, would it? I think so.

Finally, I painted a majestic eagle to appease anyone who might be monitoring my internet activity. The bald eagle is the mightiest, strongest and best creature and can beat anyone else in the world. Now, stop calling me a pinko just because I don't like traditional Thanksgiving foods. Or barbeque.


The eagle was a bit difficult to paint because it brought back haunting memories of elementary school. All students were forced to attend these hideous gatherings called 'pep rallies' where the high school cheerleaders would chant rhymes and the football team would try to look tough and the K-12 crowd would yell at top volume from the bleachers. When I got old enough, I would hide in the library, but before I became so clever, I would draw the eagle mascot on a piece of paper and write "Go Big Green" or "Kill the Pirates" or some other violent slogan to wave from the stands. Looking back, this odd Friday ritual must have helped turn me into a non-football playing pacifist and a crowd-hater. It at least started my suspicions regarding organized groups of mindless followers.

So, in an effort to forget troubling memories of school and preserve what's left of my sanity, this will be my one and only bald eagle painting. Hang those Texas Eagles. Good thing they weren't the Prongs.

Here's Lookin' at Ewe

Today at work I met a sheep in dog's clothing. This deluded farm creature had a thick, shaggy coat of wool and a blanket to wear on top of that (just like the many dogs in coats I saw today), but no, the barn would not do for her day at the vet. Dale the sheep made herself at home in a dog run, contentedly munching hay from her make-shift manger and watching people through the bars.

I never did get a good answer to why she was allowed indoors; she was quite a bit larger than most house pets. I heard people refer to her as a "lamb", but they were "kid"ding themselves (wait, that's a goat. Whatever. I'd love to see a goat in a dog kennel, too...). Dale was no Easter baby. She had substantial girth and would run you over in a stampede, make no mistake.

I did enjoy the barnyard smell of hay and earth that Dale brought into the building, especially compared to dirty, stanky dogs. She also appeared a lot calmer and quieter than many of the canine guests who seem to think manic barking is a great form of entertainment.

The unusual kenneling situation brought out the worst of puns in people. Actual overheard conversation: "Someone's here to see ewe." "What a baaaad joke." Maybe it was just the oddity of having an outdoor animal inside, but Dale brought out a lot of silliness in my coworkers. And all she had to do was stand there.

High Altitude Pie Troubles

I woke up on Thanksgiving morning, not to cook the turkey or make the stuffing--because I had decided to forgo those troublesome dishes--but to make the pies. Pie, to me, is the root of Thanksgiving tradition, after the actual gratitude. Keep your yams, cram your cranberries, stuff your stuffing, but don't forget the pie.

So, Thursday morning, I carefully crafted flaky pie crust from my grandmother's recipe. I made a delectable, professional-looking chocolate tart. I whisked together the ingredients for a delicious pecan pie, my only official Thanksgiving dessert. Why eat a boring pumpkin pie, when you can have corn syrup, nuts and butter? Cooked fruit is generally squashy and nasty, anyway, so cherry, apple and blueberry pies are right out. I mean, I'd eat an apple struedel if it came with a free trip to Central Europe, but otherwise give me something with either chocolate or nuts. Or both.

Anyway, the pie looked great and went into the oven for its hour of blissful baking. I set about making some salad for the feast and some homemade bread, which turned out fantastically. I had done research about baking at 7200 feet, and learned that most breads and baked goods came out dry at this elevation. I had easily mastered the technique of adding more moisture to my culinary delights, and my scones have never been better.

This pecan pie was a different kettle of fish. Well, for starters, there was no fish in it, although that was probably a good thing. But, not a half an hour into the baking, I started to smell something burning. Now, as a moderately successful baker, I know that one can't constantly open the oven door to peek at one's masterpiece because that can affect the stable oven temperature and cause poor results. So, I had let the pie bake unchaperoned, which turned out to be a huge mistake. By the time I investigated the cause of the smokey smell, my pie hadst runneth over. At 350 degrees (Fahrenheit, obviously) and 7200 feet (not metres), my pecan pie had boiled.

All I could do was exclaim loudly as Karo syrup turned my oven into a burnt candy factory. The pie had turned inside out, and smoke billowed into the kitchen. I had to open the window even though it was only about 10 degrees (Fahrenheit, again) outside.

I turned the oven off and did the only thing I could think of: I called my parents. My dad answered, and when I told him I had a pie emergency, he immediately put my mom on the phone. Unfortunately, my mom's boundless wisdom in kitchen matters stopped short at about 680 feet. Her advice included cleaning the oven as soon as possible and trying to salvage the pecans, which are quite expensive.

My main man and I tackled the quickly hardening corn syrup. He scraped layer after layer off of the bottom of the oven, while I tried to then remove the pie innards from our spoon and spatula scraping tools. That burnt candy was extremely hard and very sharp. It had become especially congealed on one plastic spatula, and as I tried to pry it off, it ripped a large gash in my thumb. This was no paper cut; a portion of skin was missing entirely, and it bled for over ten minutes. It still hurts now when I flex my poor little thumb. High altitude candy can be dangerous.

Once the bulk of the unexpected spillage had been removed (no animals were harmed in this disaster, except for me and my thumb), I returned the pie to the oven at a lower temperature. Although more of a pecan crumble by the time it was served, it was still quite tasty and acceptable to my guests. They weren't just being nice, either, because both pies were completely devoured during our two days' celebration, along with our main course of bangers and mash. With a few turkey cutlets on the side.

Fizzy Problems

1. I'm not British. Oh how lovely to have a proper English accent or a charming Scottish brogue and a sharp, dry wit! I'd get to call people bloody gits and watch brand new episodes of "Doctor Who" and live to a soundtrack of Franz Ferdinand, the Fratellis and the Arctic Monkeys and other cool bands that I've never even heard of because I'm on this side of the Pond. I'd walk on the moors and then have a spot of tea and be inspired by great authors and maybe haunt an old castle by a loch. But I can't do that as an American. I'd just be a poser.

2. I'm a poser. I enjoy using foreign slang. I have an alter ego who gives cheerful customer service and answers the phone. I sometimes wear a University of Oregon hat, as if I ever went there.

3. I don't know any goats. What life is complete without a goat friend?

4. I haven't had my distemperament shot. This should probably be major problem #1, since it would explain why I'm such a grumpy git. This vaccine--in dogs, at least, according to a slightly ignorant customer at work--dramatically changes one's temperament. It's what creates loyal dogs from crazy puppies, or what turns sweet young dogs into vicious beasts. I guess this explains why vaccination protocols can be such a contentious subject.

5. I haven't had my distemper shot, either. Maybe I've already caught the virus. I might be the first human case on record. I feel a little funny.

6. I can only grow cacti and now one of them has gnats.

7. I'm completely mental and should be banjaxed.

Furry Notions

Sometimes I think I would prefer having fur rather than this silly skin. Although I like wrapping up in fuzzy, comfy clothes, I hate the process of changing. Maybe that's one reason why I hate shopping: changing rooms. I just really dislike pulling garments on and off. I also dislike the nasty carpets in most changing rooms that make me feel like I will pick up diseases and fungi if I'm not wearing socks. I would much rather have a nice furry coat that would keep me warm at all times and not have to be removed.

There's another problem, I guess. I have an affliction I like to refer to as TATs. Temperature Adjustment Troubles. When I get cold, I have trouble warming up. When I get hot, it feels like I will never cool off. I constantly add and remove layers in order to achieve some average temperature that never arises. If I drink a hot cup of tea, I have to throw my sweatshirt out the window. If I eat some ice cream, I have to add two pairs of socks for every scoop. I'm tired of clothes.

If I only had a furry outer layer, I could be the next Bigfoot. I could live out in the woods and scare people for fun. The biggest problem with that scenario (besides the lack of a naturally growing fur coat) is that my feet are decidedly average in size. They can hardly be described as big by any stretch of the imagination, and if I had to put on prosthetics in order to leave the big, scary prints, that would defeat the point of not having to change clothes.

Not that I mind being wrapped in cozy comfort. I love wearing soft, warm clothes that have plenty of room to move and pockets to put my cold hands in. Unfortunately, women's clothes generally provide little comfort and next to no pockets. Women are expected to dress for 'the occasion' which seems to mean wearing stupid shoes that are impossible to walk in and having nowhere to stash your wallet.

I like winter clothes more than summer clothes. I prefer soft sweaters and fuzzy fleeces to shorts and tank tops. Cold weather can be conquered with the addition of layers. Hot weather is impossible to beat. There is only so much that you can take off and still be considered decent. I mean, a bikini top is only appropriate in certain situations, unless you're Britney Spears.

I don't really know why I dislike changing clothes so much, but I do. Take my work for instance (please?). The large animal techs and doctors have to change into overalls when they go out to the barn. COMMUNAL overalls. Ick. I don't shop at thrift stores because I can't stand the thought of shared clothes cooties (and I don't have the patience to dig through bins). Anyway, they have to change off and on throughout the day, because they are expected to look nicer (wear khakis) when dealing with small animals. The dogs and cats don't seem to care, but presumably the clients do.

I would go mad(der than I already am) if I had to change so often. I hate even putting on jeans after taking a shower. I would wear pyjamas all day if they weren't ridiculously covered in sheep and penguins. Changing back and forth all day long would be a nightmare. Today I drew blood from a horse and wore my khaki scrub pants. Ha. I'm a rebel with the cause of LIMITED CLOTHING CHANGES.

The horse didn't mind that I didn't wear overalls. He didn't even try to kick me when I stuck a big needle in his neck.

Today I also pulled some porcupine quills out of a Malamute's snout. He had a lovely fur coat that looked cozy and warm. He didn't comment on my khakis, but he was pretty drugged up at the time.

Nibbles Johnson Returns

The mushrooms in the forest are long gone, but I've still been given a chance to cry "Nibbles!" This little guy and his buddies were the highlight of my Halloween. Well, that and all the left-over peanut butter cups. I enjoyed watching the gradual destruction of all the neighborhood pumpkins, and I was greatly amused when they started sampling mine. Even better, they ate the whiskers off the cat-o-lantern first. It's like us eating the ears off a chocolate bunny.


Very few trick-or-treaters came to the house, even though it's in a nice little neighborhood. Perhaps the half eaten pumpkin was just too scary. That's okay, because I don't like answering the door anyway.

Cross-Country Skiing

Today, I went cross-country skiing for the first time in three years. The sun shone brightly on the snow from a brilliantly blue sky, and my sweaty struggles to get uphill with long skinny boards attached to my feet made the twenty-five degree weather seem not so cold.

Okay, so I often slid backwards trying to go upslope and I admit to falling on a few of the downhills (I know that the snow was about five inches deep, because I managed to expose the dirt on one masterful face-down slide), but I still had fun. I picked an easy trail only ten minutes from home, which had numerous loops through the aspens and pines. I was impressed with how remote the area seemed, since the interstate passed quite close by. The snow must have muffled most of the sound, because everything was just beautiful.


After my thighs gave out from skiing, I wasn't ready to go home yet. Still warm from my battle with the hills, I decided to take a hike in an area that had received a little less snow. There was only and inch or two near the Vedauwoo rocks, so I hiked a few miles in my new snow boots.

They worked great, in case you were wondering. My toes stayed toasty and dry.

The icicles clinging to the rocks created an unexpected touch, and the entire wintery scene felt very peaceful. I saw rabbit prints in the snow, and a few birds hopped about braving the cold.

I guess not all the birds migrate south. While hiking the other day, I saw a bald eagle soaring effortlessly overhead, and not long later a golden eagle glided over my car as I drove home. The sparrows still come to my bird feeder, and the pigeons still roost in the falling down roof of a neighborhood house.

I'm glad I won't be going south for the winter, either. Today made me excited for winter sports. I look forward to getting on snowshoes and downhill skis again.

I'm planning to take a lesson on cross-country skiing techniques.

Soup Addendum

My last post needed photo evidence, but the photo upload function was busted. I waited until the blog geeks fixed the system (because I sure didn't know how to) and added these pictures.


Meticulous attention to soup details resulted in a masterpiece of a meal last night, perfectly warm and soothing and colorful.

Today is a coffee and biscuit kind of day. For me, anyway. The squirrels prefer to eat my neighbor's front porch pumpkins. I guess the little critters need all the calories they can get, and they probably have little understanding of holiday decor. I agree with them, though. Snow dangling from decorative cobwebs makes them seem more sad than spooky.

Looks like I may have my first white Halloween in years, and a white Christmas can't be too far fetched. Despite the winter wonderland, I'll forgo washing my hands and face and hair in snow. I'll leave that to Rosemary Clooney.

Enough About the Weather

I admit to sometimes having trouble coming up with blog topics. I know I have a limited audience, and I'm probably trying their patience with my Wyoming snaps. I just looked over my last few posts, and I may be overdoing the focus on the weather and seasonal changes. Fall is a natural occurrence, after all, and it shouldn't really claim so much attention. Even if the forecast calls for it to get down to 16 degrees tonight.

My man, who is generously making me dinner since I had a long week at work, thinks I should diversify and write a bit more about different subjects such as his excellent cooking. His chicken tortilla soup is indeed quite tasty, and very pretty, too with the green of the avocado accenting the rest of the meal quite nicely. It works best with a dollop of sour cream to cut the spice. Eating soup tonight seems like a grand idea since the temperature might drop to 16 degrees, with plenty of snow.

I bought some winter boots. I took a special trip to a local store downtown and bought waterproof, fleecy, warm boots. I appreciated both the easy walk to the store and supporting a local business. I try to do my part and not drive a Hummer to the Wal-Mart. I also think it's important for me to have warm winter boots when the temperature could get to 16 degrees--this is Fahrenheit, people--in October.

I'm still not sure about this whole blog thing. I am becoming more suspicious of the internet. I am TOTALLY disappointed with Wikepedia, since it told me that Dan Marino (who needs to get out of my face) owned a home in Laramie, but the locals that I've broached the subject with have never heard of such a proposition. They just laughed when I had the nerve to bring it up, and I was totally looking for his house and everything. His fries may be too salty, but he is a celebrity of sorts. I don't even follow American football, you know. Granted he was in that Ace Ventura movie and lots of car ads, but come on.

The internet is just one big liar. I don't know who to trust. Can you trust Fizzy Notions when I don't even fill out my personal profile? I wouldn't. But I don't really see why you need to know my age or favorite band as long as you know that I am young enough to have a blog and that groups from Glasgow rock.

Speaking of Scotlanders, I read on the internet (so it may not be true) that JK Rowling always saw Dumbledore as gay. I bet all the people she didn't already offend with her "magic" are gonna love that one. When I read that she had outed one of her characters, I was predicting Neville, who liked dancing. I'm glad that she went with the all-powerful, supreme Merlin hero instead. Stick it to the Man.

I'm having a blog crisis. It's snowing as I type, but can I write about it? The ground is covered in a serene layer of white; the tree out front has lost all of its leaves and has a icy coating. But I've already used up my space for weather blogging. Snow in Wyoming is already old news. Big surprise. Yawn.

So, in conclusion. Avocados are pretty like autumn leaves. Soup is good, especially when the temperature may drop to 16 degrees. Dumbledore is a Glaswegian Rock Star. I'm glad I thought of something new to write about, especially now that it's snowing.

October Snow

I think snow in October is a big deal. So when I got up this morning and saw white covering the ground, I did what any normal person would do: I went for a walk and took pictures. Funny, I hardly saw anyone out on the street. I don't know why.

The town looked quite pretty all in white, and I didn't even feel that cold. Granted, I was wearing two sweaters, a fleece and my ski jacket, but I only had on two pairs of non-wool socks and one pair of gloves. For once, the wind had stopped blowing, and the large flakes were drifting peacefully down from the grey sky. I enjoyed walking around the university in the quiet morning.



At first I thought that the blanket of snow made the T.Rex less frightening but then I wondered if he was just patiently waiting in his camoflauge for an unsuspecting person to walk by. I kept my eye on him, and he generously let me pass.


The contrast of the snow with the autumn yellows and reds really worked. Mother nature did a bang up job on this one.


Once the snow turned into a cold rain, I decided it was a good day to carve a pumpkin, drink a latte and eat chocolate-pumpkin bread. Mmmm. I chose to make a cat-o-lantern, because I just don't have enough cat-related stuff in my house.

The project took more time than I expected. I guess I am just a nerdy perfectionist, but I also have very little experience with knives. Those knife-throwing lessons just never took. It felt good to use my artistic abilities in a October-appropriate way, since the weather seemed more January-ish.

My cats were neither impressed nor scared.

May a Bird of Paradise Fly Up Your Nose

Okay, they may not be birds of paradise exactly--we got some sleet the other night which doesn't quite call up images of Eden--but you have to admit that this part of the world is very pretty.

Incidentally, I don't know the origin of that title. My Dad used to sing it when I was little. The next line went "May an elephant caress you with his toes", which I always found rather funny. I don't know the rest of the song, but I imagine it only gets sillier.

So far, no elephants have emerged from the wilderness and no birds have attacked me, which I take as a sign of good fortune. I decided to give thanks for my unpecked cranium by painting the portraits of some of the birds who have recently allowed me to see them.

All of these types of birds are apparently named after people, probably the devoted birdwatchers that identified their species. The brilliant blue, crested Steller's Jay does look quite stellar, so that name fits rather nicely.

These guys are crafty and naughty; they will steal food and chase other birds, and I wouldn't put it past one to try to fly up your nose if he thought it would do him some good. I like them.

The Clark's Nutcracker is a bit more dull, both in name and coloring, but the repeated letters of the name do work on a visual level (I am a fan of the "K", you remember). These birds are not boring to watch; they are great fliers, often swooping across a mountain trail immediately in front of you. When I visited the Grand Canyon, I saw a huge flock of these sizable birds diving for bugs, and the rustling sound of their quick maneuvers was unforgettable. I was very glad that they were diving for bugs and not my eyeballs, because they were very fast and my eyeballs are very sensitive.

The Wilson's Warbler gets points for alliteration, but these lovely yellow birds deserve better than a name that conjures up images of old men. These birds are extremely tiny--less than five inches tall, compared with thirteen for the jays--and I felt lucky just to see them. I saw them enjoying the berries in the tree in front of my house one day.

I think the name "Kizzik Warblers" would work better because it has both two "K's" and two "Z's" and is a palindrome. It does lose the alliteration, though, which can't be helped. Fizzy Kizzik has a nice ring. Maybe that's what I'll name my next cat.

Wyoming Autumn

I am enjoying the change that autumn has brought to my outdoor wanderings. I had missed having seasons in Florida (unless you count humid and less-humid as seasons), and I'm appreciating this opportunity to see the gradual slip into fall, where colors change leaf by leaf and temperatures creep downwards at night. The Wyoming sunshine has made autumn even more beautiful; the aspens seem to almost glow and the blue sky makes a brilliant backdrop.

Some trees even take it all upon themselves to provide the fall colors in one central location. I had to snap a picture of this obliging tree with green, yellow, orange and red all showing at once.

Hiking gains an extra element of excitement when the weather can turn in minutes from sunny and in the 70s to rain and blustery wind or even to sleet and snow. Soon after taking the photo below of a spectacular lake in Rocky Mountain National Park, the clouds rolled in darkly, the temperature dropped and the rain began to fall. By the time I dug out my rain gear and suited up, I could see blue sky over the mountains. Ten minutes later, the sun emerged to warm the day so much I had to take off not only my rain gear, but my jacket as well. To be prepared for such sudden changes, I sometimes feel like I'm carrying most of my closet in my pack!


My attention to the seasonal changes has led me to understand how quickly winter comes in such high elevations. I experienced my first Wyoming snow in the nearby mountains on September 24th! According to the calendar, that was the first day of fall, so snow was a big surprise. I had to break out my old wardrobe of sweaters and jackets and gloves. On my last alpine hike, I wore four layers! I was quite comfortable, but I wonder how many layers I will end up wearing by February.

No snow has fallen in town so far, though the temperature has dipped below freezing on some nights. The birds have mostly gone, the marmots are hibernating, and the kitties are growing thick coats and begging for fattening treats. According to some long-time residents, winter will arrive before the end of the month, and the kids will be trudging through snow drifts on Halloween.

The sun just went down. I need another sweater. And I wouldn't say no to a cup of tea and a fattening treat.

Llama Inspections

In my job at a vet clinic, I normally deal with cats and dogs. I'll occasionally see ferrets or rabbits or other small pets, and since starting work in Wyoming, I have handled the odd horse or two. Today, however, I got to play the part of Certified Llama Inspector.

Two llamas--both alike in dignity--needed health certificates to travel to a fair. Current on all appropriate vaccinations and not having any health problems, they ended up a low priority in a busy hospital. The doctors were involved with more crucial cases, and the technicians who normally dealt with large animals were out in the field assisting with the neutering of donkeys and the vaccinating of cattle. So I got the job.

Before today, I'd had very limited experience with llamas. I had passed them once or twice in the mountains carrying equipment for lazy picnickers or campers. I had seen them in fields being raised for their wool. I had once even laughed with glee as a llama at the zoo spit on a detested high school classmate.

Don’t chastise me; I’ve never claimed to be very nice. I did help her clean the goo out of her hair, so you can't say that I’m all bad. Granted, it was my fault that the llama got peeved (I was really bored because my Biology field trip was about at the fourth-grade level, so I danced around in front of the llama and sang to it a bit and pointed at it and taunted it-—I didn’t think it would really spit, but I learned a valuable Biology lesson that day after all). I did laugh the whole time we were attempting to remove the foul-smelling gunk from her clothes, but I didn’t just leave her, which was saying a lot because she had always been a nasty, catty girl to me.

As soon as I heard that the llama business was my responsibility today, I was a bit nervous that Karma might be planning to pay me back for my former wickedness. I, therefore, approached the llamas very slowly and respectfully. I became even more cautious and courteous when the young girl who owned the llamas brought the first one up to me saying, “Be careful around his hind end. He doesn’t really like people.”

I crooned reassuringly and scratched a fuzzy llama neck as I checked for eye infections and nasal discharge. Superficially, he looked quite good to my untrained eye. As I moved to check inside the his mouth, he snorted and stomped. Undeterred--after all, I figured that if I got spit on, I cosmically deserved it--I lifted his lip and opened his mouth anyway, which showed pink gums, grass-stained teeth and no ulcers.

“Nice creatures you’ve got here,” was my official, professional opinion, although I knew that that spotted one would have kicked me if I’d given him the chance.

Local Lingo

When I moved to Florida, I couldn’t get over the lizards that seemed to run every which way all over the sidewalks. Exclaiming “Look at that one!” revealed me to be a newcomer more quickly than ignorance of local restaurants and hangouts. I couldn't help it, though. I mean, I even found a gecko in work one time! How crazy!

Laramie has its own animal oddities. In addition to the ubiquitous pronghorn antelope that I giddily point out every time I see them, I've already mentioned the multitude of prairie dogs and other wild creatures that live nearby. I am excited by this wildlife, but I can tell that a native generally finds them merely a nuisance. I try to control my glee, therefore, and pretend that I find them only as exciting as cattle.

Besides local critters, I’ve found that sports teams and their details are one of the most important local peculiarities to master. In Florida, I admit to being perplexed that someone was looking forward to watching “The Bucks”. I’d never heard of a team with a deer mascot, but experience revealed that they were actually supporting “The Bucs” or the Buccaneers, the Tampa Bay football team. I soon learned that all things pirate were sacred in the Tampa area up to and including Gasparilla, the Pirate Parade which was some Mardi Gras kind of thing (I still have no idea why Pirates would throw beads at parade-goers, but I guess it beats walking the plank).

Here in Wyoming “Go Pokes!” hangs from the front of every local business now that school has started. I have deciphered its meaning as “Go Cowboys” or “Go Cowgirls”--the mascots of the University. I guess it’s a positive sign that they support both the male and female teams with the odd "pokes”, a word I don’t think I’ve ever used before. Even more odd, the local paper describes the high school sports teams as the Plainsmen and the Lady Plainsmen. Why wouldn’t the girls’ teams be the Plainswomen? One more of the mysteries of local life.

I’ve recently started a new job, and that always leads to lots of questions. All day long I ask what certain things mean, where items are located and how they want me to do various tasks. In addition to work-related things, though, I often am perplexed about local slang or colloquialisms.

My new manager came up to me one day and said, “Cherry, lime or strawberry?”

“Um, what?” I responded, totally lost.

“SODAS,” she answered as if I was five years old.

“Lime?” I said without conviction.

“Just lime?” she asked, dumfounded.

“Okay,” I said, with no idea what I was agreeing to. A lime soda sounded pretty weird, but maybe they meant Sprite or 7-up or something. About an hour later, giant cups from Sonic had appeared in the back room. They held about a liter of orange or red liquid and everyone was approaching them with obvious enthusiasm.

I pointed to the two different drinks and said, “What are they?”

One woman said, “Oh, the orange is cherry-lime and the red is strawberry-lime. I went ahead and ordered you a cherry-lime.”

I tentatively grabbed an orange drink and took a sip. The flavor wasn’t bad, but I felt like my teeth were going to rot away, it was so sweet. There was no way I could drink that entire giant cupful! I smiled and thanked the boss for his generosity (it was his treat, apparently), but I silently questioned who had ever thought of such a thing.

To cover my confusion, I mentioned that I had never been to a Sonic (which was probably obvious at this point). I thought that it was a fast food burger place and asked if that was indeed true.

“Yeah, but their drinks are better than their food,” was the answer I received (leading me to conclude that I probably wouldn’t be going to Sonic any time soon). “But their Conies are pretty good.”

Of course, I was stumped again. “Conies?”

“Foot-long hot dogs?”

Oh. I wouldn’t have expected Wyoming to have Coney Island hot dogs, but I guess I should have expected anything at this point.

Then they started talking about bow-hunting and changing the choke tubes in their shotguns and I gave it all up as a lost cause.

“Go Pokes!” I said cheerily as I left for the day.

Fall Scenes

Fall has arrived, and I am now back to work full time, but we're not going to talk about that. Instead, I will share the changes I've already seen taking place in the great outdoors. It's only the beginning of September, but the nights have become noticeably more chilly and the air has a bit of that crisp autumn freshness. Weather forecasters are predicting the first snow in the mountains, so snow could come at any time here in Laramie, which sits at an impressive 7200 feet.


The elk and deer are parading their beautiful antlers as breeding season nears. I'd never seen male elk and mule deer near each other before, but these guys seemed to be happily sharing the same meadow. Lucky for them, they found their dinner in Rocky Mountain National Park, for hunting season has arrived as well, and I'm sure their antlers would be of interest to those with guns outside protected wildlife boundaries.
To tell the truth, I'm more than a little wary of hunters. While I understand their necessity for deer population control in a land with too few large predators, I am intimidated by people with guns. I would hate to be target practice for some trigger-happy loon. If hunters all followed the law and held nature in the highest respect, I would be much more at ease, but I find it hard to believe that anti-poaching and "be sure of your target" signs are posted just for one near-sighted old guy.
I also think taxidermy is one of the creepiest ideas around, so I have a lot of problems with trophy hunting. Those eyes may be glass, but they still seem to follow you around with an accusatory stare. I remember seeing pronghorn heads as decorations when I was a kid, and I had no idea that there were any still around. I thought they had shot them all (and they nearly had). Like the bison, grizzlies, wolves, cougars, lynx....
Wow, this blog is taking a depressing turn (see what going back to work does to me)...on to brighter things...

Fall colors are sneaking their way into the green forests. The red, orange and yellow tints are starting quite slowly, but will soon overtake the landscape. I'm looking forward to seeing mountainsides of golden aspens before all the leaves are gone.



And of course I can't resist a few more photos of crazy mushrooms! Look at them! I keep finding ones in cool shapes and colors. The one below looks like a duck bill! No one can say I don't appreciate the little things...


Finally, I had to share this cool snake picture. It won't be long before he will be hidden away for the winter, but he is still enjoying the afternoon sunshine...and the lack of a snake hunting season in the Rockies.

Melvin in Paints

By now he is probably quite plump in preparation for his long winter's hibernation. I guess he would be quite surprised to find himself the subject of a painting (although I think my talents might have already peaked on the pronghorns). Poor Melvin looks more like a groundhog. Mind you, groundhogs can be pretty cute themselves. Have you seen the movie "Groundhog Day"? I find it hilarious, with the notable exception of Andie McDowell who can't act, speaks with a grating accent, and just generally irritates me.
To be fair (to myself, not Andie McDowell), the genus of the groundhog is "marmota", so I shouldn't feel too far off the mark. I guess the biggest difference between the two species is that there's no way a guy like Melvin (or his pals Barney and Mildred) will stick his nose out of his burrow anytime in February. That would just be ridiculous, when the snow isn't going anywhere until June.



I used to see groundhogs sometimes along the Rappahannock in Virginia, and I knew that they were also called woodchucks (as in how much wood could a woodchuck chuck?), but I recently learned that they are also called land beavers and whistlepigs in some parts of the country. I guess we could just lump them all in as ground squirrels and be done with it, but when I think of ground squirrels, I picture the much smaller variety.

Marmots are simple creatures who don't hold with having lots of nicknames. They are only called marmots. These guys are all yellow-bellied marmots. Hoary marmots also live in the U.S., but further north (I've seen them in Montana and Washington State).

By the way, you won't have met Mildred yet, so I've attached her photograph.

Tiptoe Through the Toadstools

Look at these great mountain mushrooms! The recent rains have caused them to spring forth in their poisonous glory with their warning colors of red and orange and their odd little bumps signifying rough times ahead for those foolish enough to bite in.

Not all mushrooms are poisonous, though, as shown by all the nibble marks I found in the less alarmingly-colored ones. I caught a squirrel enjoying his (her? I didn't ask) mushroom feast, and I found pocket gopher teeth marks in another place. I have become determined to hike the woods as a naturalist and wildlife tracker, so I spend a lot of time looking for signs of animals. Evidence of chewing is quite fun to find, not in the least because I can cry out, "Nibbles!". I also look at foot prints and scat (not as gross as it sounds, really). I saw a lynx print once, which was pretty cool.

The white mushrooms in my fridge look tame and boring by comparison. I had a pizza in Boulder on Saturday that had some pretty good mushrooms on it (thanks, old roomie). I also like Portabella mushroom sandwiches.

Curious Sights

I'm taking a break from the job search (yuck, yuck and more yuck) to think happy thoughts. What better way to cheer myself up than to review some of the interesting things I have seen and photographed in the last month or so? I'll try to write about something other than moose...
The National Parks provided some of the most fascinating parts of my summer. Besides my favorite alpine peaks, I've seen an amazing variety of landscapes in very short distances. Yellowstone provided the eerie scene of the first photo, which my sister-in-law described as an image fitting an album cover--probably alternative rock, I would think. 

The second photo is one of many natural arches from Arches National Park. Very hot and desert-like, it was worth braving the elements to hike to some of the more remote areas and see the beautiful power of erosion. 


Even more than the fabulous scenery, wildlife provided lots of viewing entertainment this summer. Never before have I experienced such an enjoyable traffic jam as the one caused by a giant bison in Yellowstone. I had such admiration for the massive beast; he felt like walking in the road, so no pesty cars were going to stop him. 

As he passed by my window, so close that I could have reached out and tugged his beard (goatee? buffalee?), his big, brown eye met mine for a second or two. I was certainly intimidated, and proud of the big guy for doing what he darn well pleased.
The man in the car behind him was filming with his camcorder the entire time. I bet his family is going to love watching his home videos. While seeing the bison in person was definitely an interesting experience, I can't imaging anyone enjoying ten minutes of footage of a buffalo rear end.

Other very fun animals include the fuzzy marmots, who live at or above the treeline in boulder-strewn meadows. They seem full of personality and are often more curious than frightened of passing hikers. This photogenic guy seemed like a grumpy old codger who did not want to have to bother moving off the trail, just because I happened to be coming up it (kind of like the stubborn bison in the end, and I do admire stubborn tenacity). I named him Melvin, because I thought it kind of fit.

Aside from the natural world, I've also seen some unique features in the human landscape. Seattle provided the first Lenin statue I've seen since Moscow, and I found the juxstiposition with the taco shop more than a little humerous. You don't have to even leave Wyoming, however, to find odd monuments. A short distance outside Laramie, a massive Mayan-inspired pyramid towers above the sagebrush, honoring some railroad pioneers (whose family apparently had a lot of money and pride).

I thought it best to capture some of these unique and memorable sights before the snows start to fly and everything just becomes blobs of white.

Maybe the winter won't be that bad, but I'm not taking any chances.

More Moose

I am astonished by the power of my blog. Not only have I been getting crazy comments about my paintings, but the moose have also responded to my emotional outcries. Not two days after seeing the mom and son combo up in the Snowy Range, I went backpacking in Rocky Mountain National Park and saw a young bull moose just off the trail. I now have proof of Colorado moose as well as Wyoming ones.
The last trip of the summer was a good one. Most agreeably, I did not encounter a single person on the trail the first day (excepting my excellent hiking companion). About six miles into the wilderness, I suddenly saw four brown legs on the hillside in front of me. A few steps further revealed a moosey face--staring at me, of course. I don't think it would be easy to sneak up on many woodland creatures.
Our remote campsite perch near a picturesque lake afforded excellent views of the Rocky peaks. After setting up camp, I climbed up above the tree line and discovered a large herd of elk settling in to a sheltered valley for the night. I was too high above them to cause them any alarm.
Though the night brought some scary lightning when protected by only a thin layer of synthentic material, the moon was luminous and the breeze brought the freshest air imaginable. Okay, the ground was cold and my freeze-dried dinner left a lot to be desired, but that only made my next morning's hot chocolate that much more enjoyable. Three mule deer watched us from a meadow as we strode by on the hike out, and the afternoon rain held off until we reached the shelter of the car nine miles or so later. It was a short but lovely last hurrah in a wonderful summer of freedom.
So, as a thank you to the obliging moose, I have attached my most recent moose painting and a photo of my polite forest friend.

Moose Myth Debunked!

Here I've been grousing all summer about the elusive Wyoming moose, and all I had to do to make them appear was to express my anger in writing. Moose used to be all over the place in Alaska, hanging around the house, chewing up trees, waving their antlers in greeting, and I missed seeing their cute, long faces. I kept reading about their presence in Wyoming, but it all seemed like a big legend (oh yeah, Bigfoot and Nessie probably live here, too, right?). So I blogged yesterday that I would refuse to paint them until they revealed themselves.
This morning I decided to go for a short hike in the mountains. The drive took about 45 minutes, during which I saw herds of prongs (and cattle, naturally) and numerous soaring hawks and crows. I looked for moose in moose-probable spots (meadows, marshes), but half-heartedly because I had given up hope of finding any. The hike started out pleasantly, with a hint of fall in the cool breeze. About a mile and a half in, I came across a sheltered meadow with a little stream. As I passed--to my utter surprise--I found a female moose staring at me. After snapping a few photos, I moved up the trail to allow her to get back to her lunch, and what did I see but another moose further up the meadow! This young bull had small nubs of antlers just starting to grow. He must have been a teenager who was still allowed to tag along with mom. He stared at me, too, until I continued up the trail.
Unfortunately for the grazing creatures, the trail crossed the stream and looped back on the other side of the meadow. It probably appeared to them that I was circling in for the kill, when I really just wanted to say hello. I wouldn't have turned down a hug and maybe a tug on a dewlap for luck, but I considering that they might have wanted to trample me in return, I kept my distance. They trotted the other direction and were soon hidden in the woods.
I guess I'd better get my paints out.

Picturesque Paintings of Prongs

I spent my Sunday afternoon painting the above picture, which was both fun and frustrating. I've been seeing lots of wildlife art recently, and I got tired of wondering whether I could possibly paint pretty pictures, too. So I tried some watercolors, because I had some lying around and they seemed a straightforward place to start with no training.

I painted with an old kiddie set of watercolors and some ancient brushes I've been hauling around since elementary school (when I used to actually think I could be an artist). I even dug out my old easel, which my parents bought me for Christmas one year when I kept watching Bob Ross and his happy little trees on PBS. It's amazing that I even held on to all of these old art supplies with all the moving I've been doing, but I guess I always hoped I'd have a chance to play around with them again. (Have I mentioned how great my summer has been?)

I'm going to go ahead and blame the poor paints for my pictures' lack of perfection. After painting these and a few other random animals (like a puma), I decided that I found this hobby interesting enough to go out and buy a small set of proper paints and some watercolor brushes--a profound difference!
I figured that pronghorn antelopes deserved to be my first subject of focus because they are the most unique species near my new home. Pronghorns are actually so unique they have their own genus as well (they are the only animals in existence that shed a branched horn on a yearly basis...). They are also the most willing to be seen when I am in the mood to view wildlife (which is pretty much anytime). My other favorite western animals are moose and mountain goats. I chose not to focus on moose, though, because I am currently angry with them. They refuse to show themselves even though I spend a good amount of time in the wilderness, and I am starting to feel that their presence in Wyoming is merely a myth.
Mountain goat painting will be a huge challenge because of their solid white coats. I may have to paint some that have just rolled in the mud. Otherwise I imagine it will look something like that old joke of a polar bear in a snowstorm.

I decided to post the progress of my painting, since I haven't come up with any exciting blog topics. Please have patience with my pathetic pictures (available for purchase for the proper price...).

I Dream of Jabba

Okay, so I've been slacking on the blog. I've been slacking on just about everything lately, and it feels good. My loyal readers have requested a new posting, however, so I must oblige, however much I'd rather pull up a bowl of chocolate ice cream and reread the entire Harry Potter series.

Okay, so I've already reread the first book. What was I supposed to do? I finished the last installment in two days and, while quite satisfied with the resolution (no spoilers here...my two most loyal blog readers still need to read book 6), I felt a bit deflated to no longer have a new novel to look forward to. I went to the library, desperately searching for a bit of inventive fiction that would draw me in, but no such luck. So, August will probably find me diving once more into the wizard world, savoring Rowling's wonderful detail and searching for hidden clues predicting the ending.

That's not to say that my visit to the library was unfruitful. I have been reading all sorts of fascinating non-fiction, based manly in Biology. I'm in the middle of a book explaining how various wild animals survive the winter. (I'm looking for hints for myself, too, besides wearing three pairs of socks and stocking up on hot chocolate.) I checked out an interesting-looking book on the search for grizzlies in the Colorado Rockies, thinking I might like to join in.

I also recently finished a book on the strange phenomena of the mind which set me on a new path: I've started keeping a dream notebook. I began recording my dreams a few weeks ago, mainly out of curiosity. Writing any memories or images you have in your mind right after you wake up helps you to remember your dreams more clearly so that you can look for patterns and try to figure them out.

So far I've discovered that I dream very vividly almost every night, sometime remembering as many as six or seven different scenes. Occasionally, I will wake up feeling that I didn't really rest because my mind kept me busy all night. Sometimes I can tell exactly what real-life conversation, situation or daily event my dreams are reflecting. Some dreams, for example, have incorporated my recent free time spent reading. I dreamed that one of my sweet little kitties had bitten great big chunks out of the thick cover of my mom's library book. Another time I was in my college music class reading a book about animals when the professor came over and I covered the book and tried to distract him with the bald lie, "I love learning about the lives of composers. It's so interesting."

Often in my dreams I am confused or annoyed. Or both. People get in my way. Heavy doors don't have handles. Former coworkers or strangers try to get me to do their work. Signs or clocks are difficult to decipher. People get my name wrong.

Some dreams have nightmarish qualities of injured or dead pets, scary men, car chases and plane crashes. I try not to remember these dreams too clearly.

Mostly, though, my dreams are weird enough to make me think I'm more than just a little fizzy in the head.

I dreamed I drove my car into a Texas post office (the door was open and somehow wide enough) and the floor was covered in vomit. Piles of it, all over the place. When the postman came back from lunch he didn't seem to notice anything strange, but just said that there was no mail for me.

I dreamed Jabba the Hutt captured me, but I tricked him into being angry at one of his lackeys instead, who he proceeded to gobble in one gulp while I escaped.

I dreamed that people I knew a long, long time ago (but in this galaxy) were running up and down dorm room halls wearing as many Elizabethan collars as they could around their necks and waists. (Not lacy Shakespeare ones, but the stiff plastic cones you put on dogs to keep them from licking their sutures.) They put some on me, too, and I laughed for a minute but then sneakily stashed them in someone else's room.

I dreamed my main man was eating tortilla chips but running each one through a credit card scanner first because he said it made them taste better.

I can't even begin to explain that one.

Three Little Words

Sometimes little incidents are enough to make your day brighter. A card from a friend in the mail nearly always improves my mood. I now have a postman who delivers the mail directly to my front door. I think this is absolutely fantastic. The sound of footsteps followed by the slight squeek of the mailbox door causes me to almost jump out of my seat in excitement. Of course, my enthusiasm is most often squashed by receiving merely a handful of circulars, credit card solicitations and bills, but occasionally, a most welcome letter or a postcard is hidden amidst the junk.

My blog so far sounds like the three little words might be "mail for you!" (I refuse to advertise internet providers or very bad movies by using a slightly different phrase), but they are not. I simply got distracted by the thought of mail. Since today is a holiday and there is no chance of receiving any, I would be wasting my energy anticipating it. I also am not following cliche by having my three little words be "I love you", even though those words are quite nice as well. No, the three little words that are in the forefront of my mind make an average day a bit more cheerful; they make you feel special and happy and lucky.

Free ice cream.

Get this: I have been given free ice cream two days in a row. Chocolate. In a cone. On hot, sunny days. Can you believe it?

Yesterday, I went for a long hike in the Snowy Range, walking almost continuously for seven hours and covering roughly thirteen miles of beautiful land. My peanut butter and jelly sandwich, granola bar and apple, while nourishing and providing ample energy to propel my legs, left me wanting something sweet. I had conveniently noticed a storefront sign in a town I drove through on the way to the mountains that advertised homemade ice cream, so I devised a plan to stop there on the way home. By my rationale, I had earned it due to my hearty exercise.

My father is probably to blame for my sense of entitlement concerning ice cream. He used to offer ice cream rewards for finishing various challenges, and I continue that tradition today, even though now I usually have to pay for my own ice cream.

Yesterday, however, I was given my ice cream cone "on the house" in the words of the shopkeeper, because the power was out at the time and she had no way of getting in the cash register. She could have refused to scoop out the ice cream, or asked before hand if I had exact change, but instead she was kind enough to give me the ice cream free of charge. Of course, now I will be a return customer, which was probably her intention, but she could just have easily said, "sorry, we're closed" instead of being nice.

Today, Independence Day, a celebration was held in a nearby park with music and food and family activities. I read in the paper that the League of Women Voters would have a booth there to register people to vote. As a new resident, I had need of that service, so I decided to walk by. After taking care of my constitutional right, I wandered around, smelling the corny dogs and watching the people until I stopped in my tracks. I had seen a most welcome sign: free ice cream. I stood in the line labelled "chocolate" and was handed a cone by a Mason. Apparently, it was a community service, and it was quite tasty.

I only wonder what tomorrow will bring!