Though through all times

and a few minds

be after ides a freshened pace,

we know not when

or really how

the sun will show anew sublime,

the flow'r of song

and wakened hour

gainsay and require a passion'd step.

past the poisoned,

dusky water

and questions shown the dawn's cold glow

what grace will clear

Autumn face appear

and a milder climate show?



(Bad poetry courtesy of Adam's winter mind. Thanks for your patience)

We had a great snowstorm over the last couple of days. Accumulating over a foot of snow from heavy, slushy mush to the lightest of January-style powder, we went to bed to a blizzard and woke up to this.

Just where did I go? Well, the blog seems to be a victim of my current psycology. As I grind on through each day, I have precious little to write about from my dark little holes. Now that I've identified the problem, it'll be a snap to fix it!

"That's the spirit," I tell myself.

But no, really, I can feel some sort of momentum building; some dam will surely burst tomorrow. I'm beginning to feel a twinge of guilt and that's usually a good sign when rel"ated to this little journal.

This is the way today ended, not with a whimper, but a burst of color.

This weekend's quest was to lower calf creek falls. Ryan and I took some flyrods and hiked to the falls, getting to the cascade at around, oh, nightfall.

It was a dandy hike, with all of the shadows and pink glow that one could ever hope for. All the fish were under eight inches, but if we wanted fish that bad, that's we could have gone any one of a number of other places much closer. The temperature was perfect, the ambibiance spectacular,and though we could have done with a few more stars or even a moon to walk out with, the whole trip was wonderful.





The south end of the Boulder, with new snow and crystalized spruces on top.





We had to get out and walk a bit in our sandals, the redrock is just out beyond the snow, looking south





On the hike, as the sun made it's last bold strokes of the day.





A holey rock on the hike, a well-photographed feature on the trail. It's nice to have the area all to ourselves this time of year.





A small desert holly coming out from a rock, still clinging to raindrops from earlier in the day.



(Remember, you can click to enlarge these photos.)

It was a beautiful morning, this. What more, it's Friday, the day I have worked pretty hard in my life not to have to look forward to. But now I do.

Like I said, a beautiful morning.

To all veterans, those who have given that we might continue to try, a fine person has pages dedicated to each branch of the American military's hymn.

Parents came to visit us this evening at our school, I think the grand total was around seven parents out of a studentbody of sixty. Oh well, parent-teacher conference hasn't ever been a really inspiring event at the Alt-Ed programs I've been associated with before. I'm pretty sure there are those out there that do great with the concept, spending great amounts of resources on parent-teacher interaction and reaping fine rewards from the effort, but I'm just trying to keep all our heads above the water encroaching from all sides.

The sky was beautiful today, bringing bulbous clouds pendent with rain, letting in some sunlight now and then. The rain didn't really stop all day, and by the end, my Toyota was washed clean of all the mud brought in from our trip to the Henries.

I was happy with all that dry muck on the 'Runner, and now it's in puddles and mounds between home and the school. I guess that's good in a way; my truck looks cleaner and a little more respectable, but it was sure nice to see it splattered with good desert bentonite of all different colors for the past week and a half.

Most good things have to come to an end of some kind sometime.

Here's a small sample of the wild and zany meanderings that came from my head during an especially long and useless faculty meeting this afternoon:

Staring bleakly into the distance between him and the lectern, Logan listened to the presenter’s opinions of at-risk education. These addresses hadn't always been this vacuous to him, but in the past few years something had changed.

“Gordam, this is getting old,” Logan cursed under his breath, glancing around to gauge the volume of the unintentionally out-loud grumble. With this break in his concentration, he typed a flyfishing site's address into the browser on his laptop, but the lobby's WiFi couldn't penetrate these thick, energy-sucking convention-hall walls.

As he cursed the weak network and his seat too far inside the row, the evening before came back to him in a misty stream. He’d been on the Lone Peak Trail to investigate how high the snow pack had melted to. The air was quite crisp, even though it was the end of April, and sounds carried from afar in the clear air from all around. As the snow retreated up the mountain, it was bringing spring and its rites.

Most of the resident deer and elk had calved. Coyotes and foxes had their litters in the same period and the pups and kits were leaving off their parent’s lessons for the day. Hares and grouse were busy heading to their shelters, and other birds called as they settled in their places for the night. The few nighthawks returning from their migration to these high valleys were making their last dives and swoops for early insects before darkness fell.

Logan continued up the hill, with the snow showing in patches more and more frequent along the side of the trail and on the northern exposures of the canyon.

Glancing up, he thought he heard something descending the hill. At this elevation and hour, Logan wasn’t sure what to expect. He’d heard nothing in that direction but the chattering of birds, so as the quiet padding came closer in the moist debris of the path, Logan intuitively stepped off the trail and into the encroaching trees and brush, with a clear view of the approach.

With his heart racing and mind searching, the sound came still closer…

Things are a bit fridgid here in the morning. This was taken as the sun peeked over the east mountains, 19 degrees farenheit, seven twenty in the am.

It's been a day of much to do with too little time to spare, so I offer you some images without the promised stories and in-depth commentary.

Please accept my humble captions until tomorrow, 'til then, adieu.





Taken toward Fishlake Mountain, the rise has been taken by winter.





From Notom Bench, the Henry Mountains in the distance.





A Cottonwood near the trough in Deadman's Gulch.





A color version of Tarantula Mesa, looking to the south.





A corral to the north of Apple Bush Bench, Henries in the background.





Those two desperadoes for the divine, true vagabonds for beauty, Myself and Ryan, looking toward Thousand Lakes.