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.