Dry Canyon

Speaking of cold and snow—which I've done recently—some people seem not to mind either of them.  I made this picture of VSO after a two mile slog up Dry Canyon in 15F temps.  Maybe I need to have her break the trail, she seems to be enjoying herself too much.

Not Just Cold

It is currently cold in southern Utah.  But it is not just cold.  (By which I mean it is not "only" cold.)  It is also snowy.  We nearly missed Christmas dinner because I didn't want to drive through a blizzard.  The blizzard quit with thirty minutes to spare, but it still took two hours to dig the car out of the yard.  (Not the car in this picture, that one is too nice for us, even if it is in the snow bank.)

Another Cold Snap

We sometimes joke about placing items that we'd like to keep from freezing into the refrigerator.  The fridge—set at 44F—can sometimes be warmer than the kitchen itself.  We actually made this joke late last week when Reader Three was in the house.  (Sorry R3.)  Well.  It wasn't funny this morning:  When I reached in for the half and half, I felt a wash of warm air spill out of the fridge.  I wondered if I should keep the door open to heat the house.  With the outdoor thermometer standing at minus three, the interior temperature was quite a bit south of 40F.  Anyway.  Instead of crawling into the fridge, I opened both burners on the gas heater in the kitchen, and went to the living room to start the stove.  By the time the sun got to work, most of the house was at least 50F.  Good enough.

Solstice

Unusually for southern Utah, the sky has been stubbornly overcast for three or four days.  One of those days—yesterday—was the winter solstice.  It was gloomy.  While I was working down a ridge by The Gap, I was pelted by rain.  Kind of depressing.  It made the lake—the LSL—look like a real lake, though.  And, on my way back to town, in the middle of the PV, the sun slanted through between the gloom and the ground.  It was a remarkably colorful shaft of light, making everything in the landscape beautiful.  It was, on the other hand, almost more depressing than the gloom.  It was one of those moments when, if you're paying attention, you realize that you are on the outside looking in, and that you haven't been invited to the planning meeting.

Bridging It

VSO has been on a bit of a fitness binge.  She has been reading a book that teaches you how to feel younger.  Mostly, it turns out, you feel younger by getting off your arse.  Not that she's ever been a couch potato, but she has been recently inspired to put a few extra miles under her belt.  So, she's been hitting the trail with me a little bit.  Which is kind of fun.  We've been logging some miles in the snow.

We wanted to ski in Center Creek, but couldn't get across the water.  So later this afternoon we went up there and I dragged a couple of old studs to the creek for a bridge.  No one else had been over, so I broke trail to the upper meadow and we had the whole place to ourselves.  When we got back, VSO was still kind of complaining about wanting to be fit.  I told her, "Hey, I don't think there are very many women in this town who could, or would, do what you were doing this evening (or men, for that matter).  I don't think you are very far away from being fit."

Breaking Trail

On Tuesday I went out by myself.  It turned into a wallow.  At one point, I measured 28 inches of unconsolidated snow.  I broke trail going up; and I broke trail going down; and it was the same trail.  Yesterday I went out with VSO.  As we started up the canyon here came a man from the old country.  With his wife, or girlfriend.  "Good timing," I said.  "You broke trail for us."  "Ja."  He smiled.  I kept expecting him to say, "We escaped the Nazis by skiing over the Alps."  But he only said, "Have a good evening."  With a strong accent.  I don't know?  Italian?  Austrian?  In any case, there is nothing better than climbing in a track made by someone who knows how to ski.  I was in heaven.  I continued to imagine the conversation:  "We carried schnitzel and reisling; sleeping in unguarded huts; fleeing to Switzerland; and then to America; where I started the ski school at Telluride."  Maybe I was imagining a talk with Alf Engen or someone.  About a mile up, though, it stopped.  Oh well.  So much for my daydream.  I was back to breaking my own trail.  Our own trail.  With VSO packing it behind me, it was going to be good for going home.  We went to the gate at Five Mile, turned around there.  VSO leading the way down.  I was the fourth set of skis on that track.  Kick glide kick glide.

Missing: 19,000 Gallons

According to the USGS, the average person uses from 80 to 100 gallons of water per day.  For a household of three, then, the Homestead would be expected to meter between 7,400 to 9,300 gallons/month.  Our actual average—from August through October 2014—was 3,000 gallons/month (or 32 gallons per person per day).  I don't know?  Maybe we are not very clean.

Well, something has changed.  From the end of October through yesterday afternoon, we had metered 19,000 gallons.  Holy schmoly.  We must be really clean now.  Unfortunately for the soap companies, I still only shower once a week.  So where is the water going?  I wish I knew.  There are obvious answers:  1.  We left a tap on.  2.  We have a big leak.  But I can find no evidence of either problem.

Now I am checking the water meter every other day.  In the 55 hour period from Wednesday morning to Friday afternoon, we used 200 gallons.  That is a rate of 2,976 gallons/month.  Bingo.  That is what I would expect based on our August through October consumption.  So, I guess the problem fixed itself.  But, where did all the water go?

Buck Deer

When I got home from work on Tuesday, there was a four-point buck in the orchard.  It was nearly dark and difficult to see where it was headed, but I chased it briefly.  It hit the fence and bounced off, allowing me to zero in.  Seeing the light beyond the chain link gate, it turned and ran for the street.  The gate was, however, closed and the deer bounced again, losing its footing.  This time I was right behind it and grabbed some firewood to throw.  It was, as I said, dark, and I don't have a very good arm, so I'm not sure I even hit it.  But, it didn't get up.  I figured it was stunned and would stagger away eventually, so I went in the house.  In the morning, there it was, stone cold.  I don't really know what killed it.  Theories abound.  One of my colleagues focused on the firewood and praised my rather prehistoric ability to thump my prey.  Others, knowing my short-temper and unfriendly demeanor, felt that I had scared the poor thing to death.  My brother-in-law guessed that it somehow broke its neck when it hit the gate.  That seems like the most plausible explanation.

Christmas Tree

For the past couple of years, the Homestead's Christmas tree has been a white fir.  They are common in the local canyons and can generally be gathered quickly.  This year, however, VSO was singing the praises of subalpine fir, so we took the highway to Brian Head—I knew we wouldn't find it below 9,000 feet.  There, on the National Forest, across from the ski area, we found hundreds of subalpine fir trees.  They have a more spire-like architecture than do white fir, but we cut a couple of good ones.

Atop the Castle

There is a landmark near our house.  It is called the Vermillion Castle.  It is, as the name implies, a towering pile of steep, red rock.  There is a trail—the Vermillion Castle Trail—but it mostly winds around in the foothills.  There is really no way to the top.

At least, I didn't think so.  I was scrambling around yesterday.  At the top of a long rocky slope I found a little ledge I could climb.  I traversed it and popped out onto another rock fall.  At the top of that, I found a little saddle.  Around a hoodoo at the end of the saddle and then there was a little snow slope that went directly to the final wall, a sheer block of rock at the top.  Under the block there was a corner.  I got around the corner and onto another snow field.  Up.  Another little saddle and a couple of blocks.  Up the blocks.  Bam.  Sky above me.

It was kind of late because, when you're that close to the top, you don't stop climbing.  I turned around at 5:30.  The sun was down and it was getting dusky.  I skittered down snow slopes and jumped from ledges.  It took 25 minutes but I made it to the Chev by full dark.  Eleven hundred vertical feet.