Spinning Yarns

I went to a beginning crochet class today and learned the chain, single, and double crochet stitches and how to read a pattern. My first project is a twisted cowl scarf of super soft Malabrigo Silky Merino. This is my first step toward learning to properly knit and crochet so I can make good use of all that nice yarn I'll be producing as a shepherdess.

I'm not entirely unfamiliar with wool crafts--I tried felting, and I have two somewhat secret hobbies, one of which involves a Knifty Knitter loom and the other of which involves a latch hook and color-coded mesh canvas. Yes, the Knifty Knitter's target market consists of pre-teens (so I've been told), and latch hook kits are popular only among unicorn-loving octogenarians (as is apparent from the plethora of unicorn-themed patterns). What can I say? I have multi-generational interests. In my defense, let the record show that I make cute hats on my little loom, and I only latch hook moderately cheesy landscapes. No unicorns or kittens!

Big Tom

This past weekend the Wrangler and I went to an open house in an equestrian community here in the OC. The house itself was nothing special. I was making a beeline for the car but stopped when I saw the Wrangler squatting down and talking to something in the side yard. I peeked around the corner and was met by a friendly tortoise. The name "Big Tom" and a phone number were written on his shell. (Apparently, Big Tom has a tendency to wander.) Big Tom crawled swiftly over to me to say hello. "How cool is that?" I asked the Wrangler rhetorically. I already was thinking about how pleasant it would be to have a Big Tom of my own lazily sunning himself on our back patio. The Wrangler and I chatted with Big Tom for a few minutes and then politely excused ourselves. As we checked out the rest of the yard, we noticed a raised garden bed that held not produce but tortoises of different shapes and sizes. The sellers had a little tortoise farm! Thankfully there were only four tortoises, i.e., not a gross number of reptiles. Just enough to be interesting.

Thrills and Spills

I fell off Francie during my lesson on Saturday. Things had been going moderately well--I'm still pretty timid when I ride, and this is reflected in my posture. I've developed a bad habit of hunching forward as a protective mechanism, which actually does nothing to protect me and instead puts me at risk of losing control and balance. I'm scared to ride without my stirrups, which used to be a fun challenge and great way to build leg strength. When it comes down to it, the prospect of falling off again is ruining a once merry pastime.

Saturday's lesson was going okay, and I had just rounded the corner of the arena in a posting trot when Francie was spooked by a horse walking on the trail outside the arena. She spooks every now and then, usually at mundane things like a flag blowing in the wind or a person running down the hill. After a sudden lurch and slight rear--while I grab her mane and the reigns and hold on for dear life--she recovers. This time, she kept lurching a little longer than usual. I'm not exactly sure what happened, but I didn't fight hard enough to stay on and found myself airborne. "Well, here we go again," I remember thinking, mid-flight. I braced myself for that horrible lifeless feeling when I broke my arm and sacrum last time. I landed in a heap in the sandy footing. Miracle of miracles, nothing hurt! I could tell immediately that I was fine.

"I'm okay," I yelled, and jumped to my feet. Francie, the little brat, was standing quite calmly a few yards away. I walked over to her, grabbed her reigns, and promptly began to cry. I was glad that her huge body shielded me from the stares of the other riders. (Of course, the riders in the advanced class were practicing jumps at the other end of the arena and witnessed my ineptitude.) My wise instructor comforted me but made me get right back on. After a fall, you really do have to get back in the saddle. We ended the lesson with some confidence-building walking exercises and just the slightest bit of trotting.

I landed on my right side, which proves that my broken arm is in fact now healed--it took the brunt of my fall like a champ. I'm still a little sore, but I suffered injury only to my pride and spirits. I get teary-eyed thinking about things. I'm sad that I'm not a more competent rider; I'm frightened by the certainty of future falls; I'm frustrated that I can't get over my fear; I'm mad that a pursuit that was once exhilarating is now terrifying; I'm puzzled by my inability to do something that even 10-year-olds can do quite nicely and with far less drama. But I. Will. Not. Quit. I am not a coward.

But I might be an idiot.

Day Trip

The Ortega Highway

The Ortega Highway runs from San Juan Capistrano here in south OC and winds east through the Cleveland Mountains and several national forests and state parks. It descends into the Lake Elsinore valley in Riverside County, and then continues on into the Palm Springs area. The approximately 45-minute drive over the pass and down to the I-15 is gorgeous this time of year. Yesterday the Wrangler and I headed over to Temecula, which is about an hour and 15 minutes (without traffic) from Laguna Beach, and I enjoyed the ride despite getting a little queasy from the curves and twists. Our mission: to check out some sheep-friendly residential areas.

We did find a cute equestrian community just 10 minutes from Old Town Temecula. After touring a property, we couldn't resist a stop in Old Town to visit the Temecula Lavender Company, the charming retail store for a small lavender farm in Temecula wine country. I picked up some lavender soaps and lotions. Around the corner is the Temecula Valley Cheese Company. We were served a delicious aged cheddar from a woman who makes her own gouda and has a prominent "I love cheese" tattoo on her bicep, with which the Wrangler was fascinated.

"Is that permanent?" he asked our cheesemonger.

"Yep," was her gruff reply.

"Then I guess you are all in," he observed, with admiration.

Logistics

Hellhole Canyon Preserve

Well, I have not heard from the second breeder yet, so I currently am expecting only two sheep. I hope that this changes, though! Two sheep really aren't enough. They are herd animals and need companions. It's good to have a spare sheep or two, just in case.

I'm getting slightly anxious about finding a place to live with pasture for the sheep. I try to remind myself that I have two full months, but I am prone to worrying these days. I considered moving to northern San Diego county, which isn't too far from work. There are plenty of ranches at reasonable prices when you're about 30 minutes east of the 5. The area always has struck me as unbearably hot, dry, dusty, and prone to wildfires. But, just like the parents who eschew their hip urban lives in trendy but sketchy neighborhoods to raise their young in the comfort of the 'burbs, perhaps I too must make concessions in order to give my little lambs a proper home on the range. The hot, dry, dusty, wildfire-prone range.

Resigned to this fate, I put my chin up and started looking for homes in the area that still is within reasonable commuting distance from work. I located the community on Google Maps and noticed that it is near a large nature preserve. "How nice," I thought, zeroing in. Oh. The preserve's official name is Hellhole Canyon. I paused to consider. "Yes, my thoughts exactly." On to the next plan.

(Actually, as you can see above, the area looks perfectly lovely for a desert-terrain type of cowgirl.)

Alisal Ranch

View from horseback

Last week the Wrangler and I and some good friends headed out of the OC and up to the Santa Barbara area for horseback riding, spa services (for the girls), and golf (for the boys). It was my first trip to Santa Barbara, which was more beautiful than I'd expected. I loved every minute of our drive up the 101--the wildflowers were blooming, goats grazed on grassy rolling hills overlooking the ocean, waves crashed against rocky shores, and clouds covered the tops of the gentle, distant mountains.

The Alisal Ranch is just outside of the town of Solvang, a strange little town that consists of (1) kitschy Scandinavian-themed tourist fare and (2) wine tasting rooms. (It's the town featured in the movie Sideways, which now is just that much funnier to me.)

We had sunny skies and temps in the mid-70s while we were there, but it snowed just one day after we left! The views from horseback were spectacular. At the sight of all those trees and green grass, I was this close to driving back to Laguna Beach, throwing all our stuff in a U-Haul, and moving up to Solvang--kitschy Scandinavian-themed tourist fare-be-damned. But, like anyone suddenly finding herself in a magical paradise, where the sun glistens off a silvery lake, nothing can be heard but the sounds of a bubbling brook, and baby deer dance just yards from the horse trail, I was skeptical. "Does it always look like this?" I asked our wrangler. "Like, what happens in July?"

"We've had an unusual amount of rain this winter," he admitted. "It's usually pretty dry and brown 'round these parts."

I knew it! I looked back at the Wrangler, who was riding a Clydesdale-mix with furry feet. "No need to get that U-Haul just yet," I informed him. But I just can't seem to reach that itch to move to greener pastures...

Wether or Not

Huh. The Wrangler took the news of our impending road trip and the possible doubling of our flock in stride. Perhaps he's grown accustomed to my little surprises, or maybe he's just thinking, "Well, it could be worse." At any rate, we have a sheep pick-up plan. All we need now is some pasture.

We were expecting two sheep, but now it looks like we'll be getting four. This can't be much different than parents who are expecting a baby and learn that they're having twins, right? You just adjust to the idea and then start preparing. There's never any question that you'll welcome the extra bundle of joy with open arms. This past winter, I researched breeders of Southdown baby doll sheep and reserved two sheep from a reputable farm. The thing is, breeders can't easily predict how many and what type of lambs will be born; they can't exactly guarantee that everyone who reserves some sheep will get what they asked for. Thus, we buyers just have to wait for lambing season and hope we get the call. Waiting lists and uncertainty make me nervous. I decided to err on the side of prudence and reserve sheep with a second breeder as well. Both breeders had emphasized that their waiting lists are long. Reserving a total of four sheep seemed like the safest way to ensure that I'd receive two. Unfortunately, the farms I fell in love with are both located a couple days' drive from Southern California. I suspected that the Wrangler might balk at the prospect of a two-day road trip with sheep in the back of an SUV (they will be too little to travel in a trailer), and so I just might have glossed over some details.

I've been, as my dad would say, "hangin' tight" these past few months, reading my sheep books and making my way through the home study sheep course. And then I got the all-important email yesterday. My sheep will be ready. I had requested two wethers, one black and one white. Because I was the first to respond to the breeder's announcement, I have been assured of my picks. They will be ready to leave their home near Branson, Missouri, on any Wednesday or Saturday in June.

I sent an APB to some of my contacts to inquire whether anyone knows of a sheep-friendly hotel chain for the drive home. Oddly enough, I did not receive any recommendations. I did, however, receive invitations to post-up for the night at the homes of friends along the way. Charmaine, the plucky Six-Button Cowgirl in Denver even offered to come along for the Branson-Denver leg.

"Here's what we'll do, " I told her excitedly. "I'll fly you into Branson and will meet you there for a night of fun, and then we'll pick up the sheep in the morning and drive the 13 hours to Denver in one-shot. The Wrangler will fly to Denver, we'll spend the night at your place with the sheep, and then we'll do the 15-hour drive home in one day." It did occur to me that the discussion concerning "meeting in Branson for a night of fun before picking up the sheep" probably had never occurred between two female attorneys under age 40.

Charmaine didn't blink an eye. "If Branson is anything like how it is portrayed on The Simpsons, I have no doubt that there's fun to be had." She followed up with another email notifying me of her husband's gracious offer to refrain from mowing the lawn between now and then. Clearly, our Denver hosts are appropriately focused on the needs of the sheep.

The other breeder, located in Washington state, send word yesterday that she will notify me of my exact place on the waiting list next week when all of her lambs have arrived. When it rains, it pours.