Tricksters and Horses

Photo copyright Aji, 2016; all rights reserved.

The first of the aspens budded out today. We may not have cats, but we have catkins early this year. We also have pollen. Which means I took a fraction of a pred this afternoon so that I could breathe around the asthmatic effects.

It's been . . . a day. Last Thursday, we got a call from our horse vet, wondering where we were; she'd sent me an e-mail that I didn't get, scheduling a dental appointment for all four horses. This connectivity issue was supposed to be resolved back in October, when we were supposed to be able to switch to the other ISP's new FIOS; the wires were installed a year ago. But no; now they're telling us that it will be at least two more years, despite the fact that down the road three-tenths of a mile, they've had it for months. Yes, where the rich folks live.

Anyway, she rescheduled for today. Four horses, two of whom are rocking boots for foot problems, and the other two of whom are rescues with equine PTSD who have never in their roughly fifteen years of life had dental work.

Is this week done yet?

Photo copyright Aji, 2016; all rights reserved.

Welp, it all just keeps going.

Last week, it was the frozen pipes and the washer out of commission for over a week. One messy job and most of a day later, and we got the septic line clear of ice. It took eight days, a new drain pump, and ~$300 to get the washer operable again.

And then there was Cree.

She's been doing remarkably well, especially given that a week ago we had a low of minus-thirty-four, with a sixty-degree temperature swing in less than twelve hours. This week? Damn near sixty above, and the land is three inches of mud. Do you know how hard it is to walk in three inches of mud? It's much more laborious than three feet of snow.

Of course, after I checked on her late yesterday afternoon, and the clog was secure, she managed sometime just before nightfall to get it off. So guess what the first order of business was this morning?

We've gotten pretty good at it, as a team. And it is a team effort; you need two people, no question. But even with practice, it's still a long-ass job. Hard on the back and knees and hands, too.

That's her hoof - the one with the coffin bone very nearly through the sole. It's still slightly soft — but given the degree of damage, and the fact that she was clogless all night in this mess (stall is mostly dry, but still), that image up there is encouraging. The amount of it that has hardened gives me hope. So does the fact that she was comfortable enough putting weight on it to permit Wings to trim her back hooves, at long last; she had snowshoes back there. We're waiting for the ground to dry so we can have the vet get more X-rays.

But I have not been able to get out of here for a single errand all week. Wings has, but that's because he's had no choice (doctor's appointment; med screw-ups; dead phone and subsequent problems thanks to the provider's network being down). Oh, and the hack attempts, etc. We're both beat, and no end in sight.

And I dunno why I care whether the week is done or not; after all, for us the weekends are just more work days.

I need a vacation (yeah, that's never gonna happen). Failing that, I need a drink. I think there's a half-open bottle of red around here somewhere . . . . 

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2016; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

So, this is what "3-5 inches" looks like:

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

Eighteen inches and counting. At least one piñon has a major branch broken beneath the weight of it. I've cleaned off three of the trees, but there are many more to go. Unfortunately, even when you're as tall as I am, when the snow is still up to your knees (and getting inside your knee-high waterproof boots), It's incredibly laborious. You have to stop to rest and dry off periodically.

Oh, and it'll all be ice tomorrow, natch. Winds today; single digits tonight.

Everything will be late today, obviously.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Strange Gifts

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

It's been a day of strange gifts.

Weather out of season, visitors out of place.

For a couple of weeks now, we've been getting monsoonal thunderheads daily, mostly with no more than a couple of dozen sprinkles. Until now. It rained all night last night, something that almost never happens even in the wettest season here. Today, it was intermittent clouds and fog and sun and thunder and rain and hail and sleet and even a snowflake or ten. 

August's monsoons seem to have decided to make an entrance three months early again this year, wedding themselves to late-Spring snows.

That photo? An hour or so ago, maybe a little less.

The Chokecherry Birds were back today, much of the clan joyously flinging oiled black sunflower seeds in the feeder. The Say's Phoebe showed up again, too, this time to cadge nectar out of the hummingbird feeder with his long bill.

And we had a pair of very-early-morning visitors who perhaps explain Raven's agitation last night, running great distances to and fro, barking and howling, for more than hour despite the impending storm. Normally, at the first drop in barometric pressure or distant rumble of thunder (so distant it's out of human hearing), he's scratching at the door, begging to be let in. Thanks to idiots shooting indiscriminately up on the ridge, he now associates the sound of thunder with that of gunfire, and having had the real thing aimed at him as a puppy before his rescue by us, it terrifies him. He won't go out in it, not for love or money Milk-Bones.  

And yet, last night, for more than an hour, as the storm hurtled closer by the second, he ran, in the wind and eventually the rain, back and forth and back and forth, patrolling, barking and growling and howling, impervious to my repeated entreaties and demands that he come inside.

This morning, we were visited by what we believe were two young adult gray wolves. The photos are too blurry to tell; they run fast and low to the ground, powerful sloping hindquarters and big shaggy heads, and when in full predatory sprint, they're nearly a blur. One was buff-colored, the other a black-and-silver mix that is known in the breed as grizzled. ["Gray wolf" is the species designation; their actual color varies along a spectrum of off-whites, grays, tans, browns, and blacks.] I know what you're thinking, but we know the neighborhood dogs, and these were not that. They also did not, to my eye, appear to be hybrids.

This is unprecedented here, at least in contemporary terms. The Mexican gray wolf is indigenous to this area, of course, and there are clans of them in the mountains, but overdevelopment and human encroachment have forced them continually further back, limiting their "safe" range even as climate change decreases their options for survival in those spaces. Still, we've never seen one here, at least in daylight; they may very well visit at night while we're asleep, but allowing themselves to be seen is a first. To the best of my memory, I've never before seen a wolf in the wild, save along a New England highway once twenty years ago. 

We're not sure what to make of it. On the one hand, it worries us that weather and creatures alike are showing up here out of season; it's yet another indicator of the rapacity of advancing climate change. At the same time, it feels like a gift — that they all seem to feel secure enough to come here, to this place.

Here, they are welcome, and they will be protected.

It feels like grace.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Coyote Climate

Photo copyright Wings, 2015; all rights reserved.

Coyote returned today.

Actually, the whole extended clan, in-laws and outlaws alike, showed up last night to taunt the dogs with falsetto cries. The large family gathering is probably part of the reason why he came in search of an easy meal today.

He didn't get it.

Wings saw him on the north side, not far enough away. So did one of the reds, who he said stretched her neck like a periscopic Slinky and sounded the alarm, sending all dozen of her sisters scurrying back to the safety of the near area, running headlong like little old ladies holding up their skirts.

They've learned.

They've learned a few other tricks, too. Anyone tells you chickens are dumb, they don't know chickens. 

Inside the free-range coop, they have two, count them, two chicken condos. One entirely of wood, with dual hinged doors and a ramp entry, regularly refilled with hay; the other built on two-by-fours set on the ground, with a ceiling and hay bales atop that. They nest in the former, especially; they peck at the bales on top of the latter. But they'll only sleep on top of the big condo. Thirteen chickens, all in a row, no matter how cold it gets.

And so, needless to say, the top of the place gets messy fast. To that end, Wings keeps a battered paint bucket and small shovel on top of it, in the corner, to clean it off regularly. It's about one-third full at the moment; when filled, he spreads it in the garden plots.

Knowing their penchant for finding new and creative places to nest — today, while we were mucking out the stalls, one of the reds built a nest in the hay piled in the V of one of the hay troughs before deciding to go lay elsewhere — I checked that bucket a few days ago, just in case.

Nothing. One less place to worry about.

Today, done with muck duty, I went to check for eggs. 

There was a red in the bucket. Neck and head were all that were visible; she'd clearly settled in. So . . . .

Nine eggs underneath her.

[Sigh] they probably saw me looking, and decided that I had the right idea.

In the time it took me to go retrieve a bowl to put them all in, the red had laid a tenth. I went back later to find #11, plus two more inside the coop in their usual spot.

It was a smart move. The magpies like to eat the eggs, but they tend to go for the easy targets, the ones they can see.

Of course, the raggedy girls shouldn't be laying at all right now. They're in full molt, straggly feathers everywhere, skimpy patchy looks with white down showing through. Barely decent, layered petticoats notwithstanding.

But Coyote has taken over the climate, too. Sixty-three degrees today, barely a week into February. And then, supposedly, more snow on Wednesday. Then back into the fifties on Thursday.

And the chickens are still laying.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Seasons and Moons

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

Yeah, you read that caption right. This one is mine. Of course, the only reason I was able to do it is because Wings taught me a new setting on his old camera. But I got it.

One day off full. You can't really tell by the photo, but in the night sky, it's clear that it's not quite there yet. Definitely a winter moon, though; the air outside is so cold and clear that it feels like the edge of a gigantic piece of broken glass.

The snow is more than half gone already; when the mercury hits the mid-forties for most of the day, it melts fast. Wings spent much of the last two days plowing, and so for now we have mud, but it'll dry much more rapidly this way. The snow itself he piles strategically so that the melt goes where it's needed most. He's been doing this a long time, and he's gotten good at maximizing weather and climate conditions — all the more important these days, obviously.

As happened last year, the natural world is completely confused. It's not too big a deal that the horses are shedding constantly, that the dogs have almost completely shed their own winter coats already, that the chickens are both molting and laying simultaneously. We can keep the animals safe. But the trees are another matter. Like last year, they're already budding out, and pretty thoroughly, too. Only the earliest stages, but it's enough; in the light, the branches are no longer silver, but gold. Daytime temperatures feel like May, and the snow on the peaks is already dissipating.

I had always thought that the truly obvious real-time effects of climate change would manifest after we were gone. That timetable has obviously accelerated, hard. I know we're now projected to be ground zero for extreme heat and drought in only a few more years, but in a desert at 7,500 feet, you see a lot of incremental changes along the way. If you're looking, that is.

We're luckier than most; we have an artesian well, and so the lowered run-off in the spring doesn't affect us as much as it does many others. Still, the lines are now affected by the high spring winds, so it's pretty clear that we need to be concerned about our water supply. 

So, even though it's only the beginning of February, there's a lot to do to get ready for the growing season. The gardens need to go in early this year, and I'm planning on being a lot more comprehensive; missing out on it last year for the first time in memory was a huge hit. 

For now, though, we'll take what we can get, and be grateful for it.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Adjusting to "Normal"

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

Most of the snow is gone now, replaced by mud two to three inches deep. The water pools and puddles on the surface, nowhere to go.

Of course, they say we have an 80% of more on Friday, measured in inches. Hard to believe when it was 54 today and I was outside in a T-shirt in jeans.

The light lasts longer now, measurably so. Oddly, that doesn't feel like a good thing, since we should be getting January's weather instead of May's, but the calendar and the mercury don't seem to be on speaking terms anymore.

The dogs have been shedding their winter coats since Thanksgiving; the horses are following suit. The chickens are laying, on average, 6 or 7 eggs a day right now, despite their raggedy molt garb. Normally, we'd go four or five months without fresh eggs. Some of them are normal-sized, too, but at least a couple of the girls are dropping eggs of monstrous proportions; they won't even fit in the cartons. They're wonderful, but I have to wonder whether this is normal — or if, like me (and like the very climate itself), this is their "new normal." 

I have no "normal" anymore; I think I've finally surrendered to that realization. Part of it is the sure and certain knowledge that climate (and with it, weather) upheaval will only increase, and autoimmune diseases are notoriously weather-affected. Part of it is that it's clear that something is changing, fundamentally, and weather it shows up in bloodwork and whatever other tests modern medicine devises or not, it's there, and I have to find a way to adjust.

I haven't yet.  

One day, I feel almost like myself — I mean, the "new" me, the post-diagnosis me, which of course has been "me" for decades now. I suppose it's like looking in the mirror; no matter what the glass says, your brain insists on reading the image as yourself at 20.

Then there are the days like these, when I don't even recognize the person in the reflection. I've always known that AI disease is a constant stream of ups and downs, but the peaks and troughs used to be relatively predictable in appearance. These days, it's mostly one very long trough. It brings to mind grade-school geography and the Marianas Trench.

We're at 7,500 feet here, so that's a hell of a drop.

There's one other problem with the trough: It requires slogging through cubic feet of heavy water and mud. That slows me down. A lot. So posts will be late a lot. Responses will be late. I'll space things, because when I'm this deep in the trough, the brain fog isn't fog anymore; it's a form of mental drowning, and my memory of my to-do list is the first to get swamped. If I say I'll do something and forget, it's just that: I've forgotten. Not intentionally; it's just the way my brain is right now. 

So bear with me. We've all got a lot of adjusting ahead of us, some of us more than others. 

In the meantime, I'm swimming — or at least treading water — as fast as I can. 

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Mud and Miracles

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

This was the view out the front door three mornings ago.

Today it's mud. Everywhere.

It's too warm. Forty-five degrees in January? At 7,500 feet? It's gotten up to 49 a few days this month already. This is spring weather — and not even early spring.

I have to keep reminding myself that we've seen worse in recent years. In the waning days of 2008, we got a blizzard that dropped three feet, whereupon the temperature promptly descended well below zero for about three weeks. In January of 2009, we passed 60 and held. The village was nothing but a river of mud. It was so bad that they had to bring in heavy earth-moving equipment to deal with it. 

Climate change. It's here.

It's odd to see the dogs shedding by December. The horses are an absolute mess; where normally this time of year they'd be rolling snow, instead, they're rolling in mud. The chickens are so confused that they're molting and laying simultaneously. Good for us, because unlike last winter, there's no way we'll run out of eggs this time around, but they are a scraggly-looking lot right now.

Speaking of which, one of these days, I'll have to post some photos of our new dogs.

No, we haven't taken on more animals. But the ten younger chickens will now come running on command, just like a dog — and sometimes even with no command at all. Just in case, you know, I have food or anything. Yeah, like a dog. They, of course, are loving the mud; I don't think there's much that makes them happier. Well, except maybe the pork chop bone that one of the literally ripped out of the jaws of an astonished Raven yesterday. He'd normally take the head off anything that tried to steal his food, but he was stunned into near-catatonia. [Yes, I got his bone back from the little monster. Bloodthirsty beasts.]

There's an eleventh new dog, too. His name is Ice.

Yes, the horse. He's positively a puppy now: The moment I come outdoors, his eyes are glued on mine, no matter what he's doing. Unlike most horses, he'll stare you right in the eye for minutes at a time (well, in mine, anyway). Half the time, I don't even have to call him; he just tags at my heels. Like a puppy. A thousand-pound puppy.

I think I'll wait on the pix of him, though, at least until the next snow. He's not very white right now; more muddy gray-brown. Miskwaki's much the same, although the mud only really shows on his white patches. he and Ice have reached an uneasy truce, and are now making their first tentative forays into play, although there's a competitive edge to it courtesy of the mares, who so clearly need impressing. Adolescents, all of 'em.

Next storm is slated for Wednesday. We'll see how much of the mud dries between now and then. 

Oh, and my neck doesn't feel quite so much like it's been possessed by Linda Blair today. I'd call that a miracle.






All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.

Ice Storms

Male Bullock's Oriole, May 24, 2014
Photo copyright Wings, 2014; all rights reserved.

You can see from the shadows in the photo above how brilliantly sunny it was this morning.

We're now under a severe weather advisory until 9:00 PM, and the rain is coming down so hard that it's pooling right on the ground. We managed to get muck duty finished just as the storm was hitting.

Climate change. The same climate change that is partly responsible for Ice's condition.

We managed to get Ice out to walk and forage for grass a couple of times today before the weather hit. Still no real progress yet where it's most needed. He's off the IVs for today to give him a bit of a break, but he's on antibiotics now — plus probiotics, plus Banamine, plus ground flaxseed powder, plus aloe vera juice. Medicating him is a nightmare. After watching him fling the three of us around yesterday, Wings and I decided to try hobbling him today. All was going great until some idiots up the road decided to pick THAT FRICKING MOMENT to haul two horses past in a trailer . . . and, of course, all of ours started making noise. So Ice joined in, and tried to move to see what was going on . . . and discovered that he was hobbled. And promptly panicked. And damn near pulled both my arms out of their sockets trying to restrain him so that Wings didn't get stomped.

Hobbles off, then. We have a hitching post in the middle of the larger pen, so I brought him up to it and we tied him up. Of course, I brought him up on the wrong side, the one with the IV implanted, natch.

Start over. Bring him around, tie him up on the other side. I crank on the rope as ballast while Wings tries to jam the syringe in fast enough to get the meds into him.

And it works.

So. We have a new method. I have also promised him that when he takes his meds without trying to kill us mow us down as he makes his escape, I will promptly take him out for a walk so that he can graze. 

I think he's starting to get it now. I took him up to the north pasture, which is almost entirely grass (v. alfalfa), and every few bites, he'd stop, look up at me, bring his head straight up to mine, and stare at me until I put my forehead against his. It sounded like "Thank you" to me. And when I checked on him at the beginning of the storm, every time the wind kicked up or the thunder rolled, he leaned his head against my back to try to hide. He's standing there now, calmly enough, if not exactly happy about it. 

Now, I just need to find a way to erode that mass in his gut and get it to move on out.

Because every day it remains, it takes a little more of his life. He's still running out of time. I've got to find a way to claw it back for him.

Even Ice is inside the stall this morning.

A Raven in the Snow
Photo copyright Wings, 2014; all rights reserved.

That photo is from last month, but that's what it looks like this morning. Well, almost.  There's actually much more snow on the ground, and Raven is safely indoors, curled up on a dog bed.

Last night, the farrier said he'd see us early this morning, provided that we didn't have a blizzard. No farrier's visit today. In mid-May, it qualifies as a blizzard when you wake up before 5AM to two inches already on the ground, more coming down steadily, and a bitter Northeast wind blowing up a white-out. Bad enough, actually, that it drove Ice fully into the conjoined stall for the first time ever. When I went outside a while ago, the other two were outside; he was fully inside it, staring out at me calmly but showing exactly no inclination to step out into the weather.

Which at least means that after the pain yesterday's trip inflicted on my body, I don't have to spend hours standing out in the cold and blowing snow, holding five horses in succession in place while they get pedicures. I imagine Cree will get hers done tomorrow, regardless, but I can manage it for one horse. The weather's supposed to be vastly different tomorrow anyway (and near 80 by the weekend).

Still, never enough hours in the day.  I'm gonna need more coffee.

Signs of the Vernal Equinox

Photo copyright Ajijaakwe, 2014; all rights reserved.

Yes, of course.  More chicks.

Eight more, to be exact: the eight that were on reserve. I thought they were all going to be black. Turns out we have four Yellow Sex Links and four Black Sex Links.  No, the name has nothing to do with Teh Sexytime. It's a catch-all name for chickens specifically cross-bred so that the sexes can be identified immediately by color. The hens also reportedly have the added advantage of being outstanding layers. A couple of Australorps are supposedly coming to us late next week.

The all integrated with each other immediately: All they see are familiar-looking faces with warm fuzzy bodies, and that's all that matters.

Two-legged types could take some lessons, huh?

Of course, there are many more signs of Spring than these little girls.

Scars Upon Sacred Land (and Air and Water and Sky) V: Climate Change SOS for Indian Country

Photo copyright Wings, 2003, 2014; all rights reserved.

Author's Note: This piece first appeared at Daily Kos on August 24, 2012, as an entry in the site's "Climate Change SOS" Blogathon. It is reposted here with very minor edits as part of my Scars Upon Sacred Land series. Sadly, in the nearly two years since, conditions have only worsened.

Just over a year ago, in July, 2011, the National Wildlife Federation issued a report, largely ignored by most of the rest of the country. Even I didn't know about it at the time of release; like many other people, I was consumed with the immediate danger posed by the Keystone XL tar sands pipeline, and my focus was directed toward fighting that threat.

That was a mistake on my part - and on the part of every other environmental activist who didn't pay attention, but especially for those of us who belong to indigenous cultures.

Called FACING THE STORM: Indian Tribes, Climate-Induced Weather Extremes, and the Future for Indian Country, the report is actually fairly brief: a mere 28 pages, including covers and graphics. But it packs a hell of a punch, and it complements a whole body of work being done by tribes and allied partners in recent years that goes too often unknown, unremarked, and unheeded.

One thing FACING THE STORM does really well — exceptionally so, considering that it's published by a non-Indian organization — is to refrain from telling Indians what they "must do," instead urging the rest of our society to listen to and heed the millennia worth of wisdom of our ancestors and elders. It also places the deadly threats posed by climate change to the continent's indigenous peoples and lifeways squarely within the context of our nation's tortured and torturous treatment of tribal sovereignty issues. And that's a topic that needs to be pursued, but it's far too complex for this diary. Also, please note that while I'm painfully aware of this year's terrible heatwaves, drought, and storms that have affected much of the country as a whole, that is also beyond the scope of this diary. Many other diaries in this week's series have addressed those issues, and addressed them well. My focus today - in now way comprehensive; merely the briefest of snapshots - is on the myriad threats, direct and indirect, that climate change poses to Indian Country specifically, and to our peoples' cultural and physical survival.

Baapaase

Photo copyright Ajijaakwe, 2014; all rights reserved.

Downy Woodpecker.

It's been at least two or three years since any woodpeckers at all have been here, despite the fact that they're native to the area in the winter.  And that last time was in June or July, completely out of season.

More casualties of climate change.

He parked himself overhead in the aspen closest to the door and went to work.  He was willing to stop and listen to me greet him, and willing to have his photo taken.

This little guy is the first.  He may be the only.  But I'm glad he's back.

Copyright Ajijaakwe, 2014; all rights reserved.