Delicious Delicacy

D is for deprived.

 
A defiantly dirty Daisy detects an opportunity and, with daring deception, leaps into the truck with a detached deer leg dangling from her dentition.  She is proud of this deceit and hopes no one will notice the deed.  

She discovered the deer part already detached, dead, and demobilized, and is hoping to devour her dainty and delectable discovery.  

Oh, drat.  Her daydream will be dashed, her delusions deflated.  Who knew humans did not desire a deer dividend decorating their truck?

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Compass Coordinates

C is for compass.

A compass is a convenient contraption to keep a person on track.

Comprehending the coordinates is a chore for a child, but not so complicated for an adult. 

A GPS has a built-in compass, but batteries can conk out, or electronics can crash.

A cairn could conduct a canny boy scout under clear conditions, but in inclement weather, when landmarks are disguised by dense clouds, compass coordinates can set the course.
A simple compass and map consign comfort and direction to any lost traveler.

Certainly, no kid's knapsack is complete without a compass.

Happy birthday to Eric, once a cute cub scout and now a cool compass, computer code, and mountain climbing guru.

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Booties and Bliss

B is for Babies.
The birth of a baby brings parents and grandparents bliss.
Who would fail to bustle to answer the cry of a blameless baby boy?
Maybe she is bald or bawling, but few could resist bouncing her and feeling buoyed by her butterfly touch and her beautiful blue eyes.
Will she someday wear bows and dance ballet?  Will she read lots of books?  Will she grow up to be a brilliant brain surgeon or businesswoman?  Will she birth a baby of her own?
The boy baby begins to build blocks. Maybe someday he will play the bugle in a band.  Will he grow up to be brash and brawny?  Will he be brigadier general, a broadcaster of news, or perhaps a baker of bread?
Babies keep us busy, but without them, life would be, frankly, boring.
(These are photos of my babies, now grown.  I do get to play with the grandbabies sometimes, though.)

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Abodes through the Ages

A is for Abode.
As a child, I lived at many addresses, since my father was in the Air Force and moves were abundant.

Above is my first abode.  I admit that I was much admired and acclaimed by the adults around me.

My next address was across the sea, on an island called Guam.  (I am the over-active littlest kid awaiting a swimming adventure.)

And here I am in another location with my amiable brother Art. He must have agreed to pause the sled as I ate snow. 

At last, a few abodes later, I appear with my tall(er) little sister.  From there, I met my amour and ambled off and acclimated to our own address, anticipating an ambitious and amusing adulthood.

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I'm also using this post to play Remember Whensday.

Sub-Zero

Z is for the Zero Zone.
Zounds, would you look at that temperature?  At the day's zenith, it might zing up to 10, but at 8AM it is definitely sub-zero. 

We live in the zip code with the dark blue shading, the coldest area in the state.  That's because cold air sinks to the lowest point, and that's us, the Uinta Basin, where the brave but zany settlers dwell.  Alas, for all of our travails, we barely rate a mention on the Salt Lake City weather news.  That's because we're a rural area, and our frigid temperatures get no respect! 

In our well-heated home, the air is dry, so we use a room humidifier to keep static electricity from zapping the computer, and we work on a zillion projects - perhaps planning a trip to Zion National Park next summer, or replacing a zipper, or cooking zucchini - to maintain our indoor zeal.
By evening, Daisy is feeling lazy, zonked and zombie-like.  Gadzooks,  she can barely keep her eyes open....     Zzzzz.

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Yearning for a Yurt

Y is for yurt.
A few years ago, (seems like yesterday) we gathered the youngsters for a ski tour to a yurt.  (There are several in the Uinta Mountains, all maintained by the Forest Service.)
The yurt, yellowish in color, is way up yonder in the mountains. Yipes, there is an outhouse about 20 yards away -- if you have a yen for every modern convenience, this yurt would not be your accommodation choice.  A wood-burning stove -- primitive but handy -- provides heat and a stove for cooking up yummy treats.
Inside this structure, composed of heavy canvas on a frame, we spun yarns and played games until we yawned and yielded to sleep. 
We stretched out on clean, dry bunk beds.  No one yelped or yammered in complaint about yet another family trip. 
Yes, we have good memories of our cozy stay in a yurt. 

For more of Denise Nesbitt's ABC's, click here.

The Vibrant Virtuosa

V is for Voice.
Our versatile varmint could well be vaulted to vocal fame by this video.  If you venture to view it, you will ventilate over her well-versed and  vigorous talent. If only she had a violin accompaniment, her sotto voce tones would vibrate like a vicar's vespers.  She is a vesicle of pure operatic talent, don't you agree?  And yet, she is no vain vixen.  She never has the vapors nor does she flutter her lashes behind a veil.  She would be the victor in any contest, I think, but she does not seek to validate her venerable vocals on TV or to any other vast audience.  She does not wish to become more visible.  She is satisfied with her own valorous, velvety value.
What? Her voice is vexing, you say?
Vamoose then, before this veers into a violent vendetta vis-a-vis your vile and vulgar taste!

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Tacky, Tawdry, and Tarnished

T is for Trash.
Finding trash along the trail really ticks me off.  It's enough to give me tachycardia.
Near a two-track, tripping over trash is all too common. 

There's tin trash,

Trash from thirst quenching,

Tattered and tragic trash. Tissues, treads, tinsel, tossed, or thrown,

or simply lost. 

For all of which I threaten a thrashing.

Leave no trace, I entreat these untidy tenants of Mother Earth.
Do not litter our terra firma. 
Take care of our terrain, and be thankful  it tolerates our sometimes unintentional, always tactless mistreatment. 

As they thrust their tedious waste upon earth's tenuous tableau, what are people thinking?  Or are they thinking at all? 

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Redneck Repairs

R is for range-ready response.

On one of our off -trail rides through rugged riparian zones, a ragged branch ripped my riding regalia.  Steve, my ever-ready rough rider in charge, rapidly pulled out the raw material every red-blooded American rowdy refers to in times of emergency:  Duct Tape.

See (above) how well a few (w)raps resolved the issue?Of course, later, the refined member of our family (me!) released the duct tape with relish, restored the real fabric and reintegrated it into its original symmetry. 

Sometimes duct tape is required to reinforce boot gaiters:

Or when a rivet gives way, a redneck relies upon duct tape and cable ties to assure reactivation until the

(w)recked entity can be re-welded:

When a camper screen door has a rift in it, duct tape is the on-the-road recourse:

I'm not even going to go into all the uses for Velcro here, but I will report that they are many and renowned (although perhaps not in a good way). 

Ready for anything, that's my redneck repairman. He will recycle and reconstruct, rebuild and reclaim, repeatedly reconoiter and research revitalization, whether reasonable or not.

Note: Steve is a southern boy with a reputation for never relinquishing anything that might be re-used.  I have reluctant but real respect for his ability to rectify and recondition.

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Quota Quest

Q is for our 2009 quest to meet or exceed the 750 miles we rode in 2008.  Our hoofage now stands at 768, so the quantity is quite satisfactory.  The quality has been good as well, almost 68 rides,  about 12 miles  and 1800 feet elevation gain and loss per average ride.

Sometimes Mischief has been querulous. Sometimes I have quibbled and queried our sanity.  Steve, however, has no qualms.

Through quaking aspen, past quail or quacking mallards, or a queu of elk, we quietly trudge.  Over quartz or sandstone, rocky 2 tracks or squishy quags, we wander.

Some might find our goals questionable, or say they would prefer to quaff  Qi and eat quiche.

As soon as a quantity of snow surrounds our home, we, too,  shall not quarrel with quiche and quiet.

For more of Denise Nesbitt's ABC's, click here.

Peak Profile

P is for peaks.   We've perused a plethora of them on maps, observed their precise positions, studied all in perceptible proximity, and ascended a plurality.  Utah is a land of plentiful peaks, so possibilities are prolific. 

The premier Utah mountain is Kings Peak, the highest at 13,528 ft/4100m.  This photo was taken from the north, on Henry's Fork trail.

The above photo presents Mt. Timpanogas, as seen from Currant Creek Peak, July, 2009.

Here is a profile of peaks as seen from Tabby Mountain, November 2, 2009.

And this pretty puppy picture outlines the procession of the pearls of the Uinta Range. (Taken from Big Ridge, July, 2009.)

Herein, I proudly present and publish this primary post on Utah peaks.

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