This Kid Cracks Me Up

Somewhere along the way, my baby has grown into a little person.  In the last few weeks, Emily (now 10 months old) has grown mentally leaps and bounds.  I'm constantly amazed at the amount of information she is retaining and learning.  A few examples:

• While playing in the bathroom drawers (a favorite pastime of the 10-month old set), she located my hair comb and brush and set them aside to find the next treasure that awaited her at the bottom of the drawer.  I looked a the pair on the floor and said, "Look Em, it's a comb and a brush, now all we need is a bowl full of mush, like in Good Night Moon."  (Good Night Moon is one of about 10 books we rotate through reading, which are kept in our living room.)  Emily stopped pulling out my curling iron, dropped to her hands and knees and promptly crawled to the living room where we keep her books.  She dug through the stack, located Good Night Moon and held it up to me.  I tried to pass it off as coincidence, but I'm pretty sure my kid is a genius.  Outdoor Dad's response to this act of intellectual acumen?  "We better start watching our language around her."  
• Our dogs used to have the run of our house.  Oh who am I kidding?  As far as I was concerned, they had the run of our lives.  Now, because Emily makes them nervous when she's on the floor, the dogs spend quite a bit of their day outside.  I noticed now that when I ask the dogs if they need to go outside, Emily will crawl around to the kitchen and the backdoor to "help me put the puppies outside."

Emily knows my redneck sign language sign for all done.  She'll crawl to the backdoor when she hears the garage door open because she knows that means DaDa is home from work.  She nickers like a horse when prompted.  If you hear her nickering and there isn't a horse in sight, chances are good she's pooping.  Somewhere along the way, she's also developed the beginnings of a sense of humor.  Emily loves to be chased.  She also thinks it's funny to put her binky in my mouth (the handle, not the sucky part, that would be  an overshare).  

Lately, she's taken to cracking herself up with her ball popping elephant and stacking cups.  I shot some video of her playing with the cups and squealing in delight.  I myself laugh every time I watch this video.

It's truly amazing to see how much her little mind has grown in just a few short months.  I can't wait to see what developments the coming weeks and months bring as we approach her first birthday.

Better Change the Population Sign

Boulder, Wyoming, got a new resident last week. Ben and I welcomed Emily Catherine Milner to our world at 8:53 p.m. on June 12, 2012. She weighed 7 pounds and measured 20 1/2 inches in length. While she came into this world without much fanfare or drama, she has since turned the world of her mama and daddy absolutely upside down. But in a wonderful, awe-inspiring way. Who knew something so tiny could hold your whole world in her hands?

Inspired by my friend Lucy, author of Bronco Babies Blog, I thought I'd capture our own journey as our baby daughter grows and Ben and I navigate our way through parenthood. As my life generally holds its share of hilarity and ridiculousness, I can only imagine how the edition of a new tiny human will affect our sleepy little world. And so, friends and family, the story of Emily C. Milner begins...

The Labor
I woke up around 3 a.m. the morning of June 12 with contractions. They are right about real contractions...you know them when they hit. The contractions started at about 12 minutes apart, and got closer together as they night wore on. I woke Ben up at 5 a.m. He asked how far apart the contractions were and if he needed to pack the car. I told him they were still eight minutes apart and not to worry. He fell back asleep until his alarm clock went off at 6:30 a.m.

Ben called from work at 10 a.m. My contractions were 5 to 7 minutes apart, but the doctor told us not to head to Jackson until they were 5 minutes apart for an hour. Poor Ben was so worried and distracted, he couldn't concentrate. I called Gros Ventre, and they said to pack our bags and head up to get checked out.
The drive to Jackson was uneventful. We didn't have to speed or race around roadblocks and we didn't even get caught in construction. Around Bondurant, we did find ourselves in the middle of a cattle drive. Only in Wyoming can you get caught in a stampeede on the way to have a baby!

We got to the clinic about noon and they checked me out. Despite nine hours of contractions, I hadn't really made any progress from my exam the week before. Discouraged, Ben and I left the clinic to eat some lunch and walk around. We had an awesome sandwhich at Pearl Street Market, then walked the trail at the elk refuge. By then I couldn't talk during contractions, which were about 2-3 minutes apart. Ben tried his best to distract me and make me comfortable. His only mistake was making me laugh at just the wrong moment. Turns out laughter isn't the best medicine for labor.

At 4 p.m. we headed back to the clinic. I had made some progress, so it was time to be admitted to the hospital. I think the nurse was disappointed I didn't need a ride to the hospital in a wheelchair! In the hospital, we found out the baby was face up, meaning her face was facing my belly instead of my back. The nurses warned me that would make labor and deliver more intense. I discovered that intense was code for painful.

Dr. Roberts examined me at 5:30 and broke my water at 5:45. Her parting words were "Your contractions will get a little more intense without that bag of water as a cushion."

Or sure, now she tells me. And there was that word again...intense. Two contractions after she broke my water, I had a whole new definition of painful. It felt as if my back was being ripped in half, and I felt the pain clear into my knees. It was so bad I ended up throwing up the entirety of my lunch and asking for an epidural ten or fifteen minutes later.

The process of getting the epidural was a little traumatic. It felt as if the doctor bumbled his way around my back for hours before finding the right spot and getting the needle inserted. I had to sit on the side of the bed, hunched over and not moving through the horrible contractions. It took the doctor so long I thought Ben was going to reach across the bed and strangle the guy with a catheter. But once it was in and flowing, I had so much relief I felt like sleeping.

The Delivery
Once I was settled and dozing, Ben decided to go to the car and get our bags. While he was out, Dr. Roberts came back in to check me. To my surprise, I was dilated to 10 cm and told it was time to start pushing.

"Wait! Ben's not here!" I panicked. The nurse and Dr. Roberts laughed and said we wouldn't start without him. Ten minutes later, Ben was holding one leg, Nurse Irene was holding the other and I started pushing. Irene had warned me because the baby was face up, I could be pushing for up to two hours. But after two sets of contractions, Irene told me to stop pushing so she could get the doctor. About 10 minutes after that, Emily joined the world.

"It's a girl!" Ben exclaimed. We hadn't found out the sex, but I had it in my head that we were having a boy, so it came as a bit of a surprise that he was actually a she. Irene laid Emily on my chest for a few minutes before they took her for weighing, measuring and a good clean up. Ben kept a watchful eye on our daughter while Dr. Roberts finished up with me. Before long, Emily was dry and swaddled in a bassinet at my side.

A lot of my friends have described having epic battles with their spouse over naming their child. Ben and I must be the exception, because the naming process was fairly simple. Emily is a family name on Ben's side, and a name I liked. We discussed other names, but kept coming back to Emily. Catherine was my contribution to the name game. It was the name of my godmother, Catherine Mooney. Aunt Kate, as I always called her, was a wonderfully kind woman that loved me as if I were her own niece. She was sassy, funny, kind and loved animals, writing and watching birds. I couldn't ask for a better namesake for my daughter than Aunt Kate. I wish she were still alive to see our beautiful little monkey, but I know she'd approve with all her heart.

And so my pregnancy ended. It was nine long months, the first half of which I spent sick as a dog, throwing up as much as twenty times a day sometimes. I got to do two stints in the hospital, a month of home IV therapy and learned the hard way there are some foods that are really, REALLY bad to throw up. But in the end, it was all worth it to hold this tiny, perfect person in my arms at last.

If you can't do the time, don't do the crime

It's not every day a girl gets presented with a mink by her husband!

Outdoor Guy had been matching wits all weekend with this little bugger. The mink had gotten into one of the outside circular raceways and had been munching on Yellowstone cutthroat trout.

Mink are carnivores. A mink will kill its prey by biting it on the back of the neck. They eat muskrats, rabbits, mice, chipmunks, snakes, frogs, birds and fish. And a few hundred fish in a relatively small, enclosed space was simply more temptation than this juvenile mink could stand. I'm pretty sure he stuck his head into the covered circular, saw the swarm of fish and thought "All-you-can-eat buffet here I come!"

Outdoor Guy noticed him swimming with the younger brood fish, and almost managed to catch him in a net. But the mink ducked and dodged and escaped the encounter unscathed. He left a few dead fish in his wake, however. Round one goes to the mink.

The mink doesn't know that my husband is a lean, mean, trapping machine. Outdoor Guy figured out where the mink was getting into the circular and set his trap there. He baited it with one of the dead fish, complete with mink teeth marks and a missing hunk of flesh. Outdoor Guy checked the trap the next morning and no mink. No fish either. It had stolen the bait. Round two goes to the mink.

Not to be outsmarted by a mustelid (member of the weasel family), Ben adjusted the trap and baited it again. Yesterday afternoon as I was gardening, he came up to the house and asked if I wanted to meet his nemesis. There in the trap, the mink seemed pretty innocent. He was just a little over a foot long with sleek, dark brown hair and a bushy tail. I read somewhere that when a mink is happy, it makes a purring sound like a cat. This mink was definitely not happy. And he stunk. Outdoor guy said mink spray like skunks and use their scent to mark territory.

Sure, he's just doing what a mink does, eating fish. Ben pointed out three or four fish with bite marks on their backs swimming in the circular, and that was in addition to several dead fish he'd already removed. No matter how cute, critters who eat fish simply aren't tolerated at a fish hatchery. Round three and the match went to Outdoor Guy. As the old saying goes, if you can't do the time, don't do the crime.

Screw you summer...

Was it only six weeks ago that I was bemoaning the spring weather and wishing for summer? Now, I can't do anything but gripe about the heat. The last few weeks in the canyon have been absolute scorchers, with temperatures in the mid 90s a good deal of the time and much more humidity than I can remember from my previous two summers here. It makes for miserable working hours for my husband, and because it's too hot to go play on the badlands, it also makes for three hyper dogs. Ugh.

In desperation to beat the heat and get the dogs some exercise, I took the pound up the mountain. I figured we would find cooler temperatures and a small piece of the Big Horn National Forest in which to frolic to our hearts content. Instead, we found cows or tourists galore in all of our favorite places and some seriously muggy conditions. I finally found a good spot off the old U.S. Highway 16 and let the dogs out of the truck to run off some of that energy. Ten minutes later we were all back in the pickup headed for home. The dogs got too hot before they got any real steam wore off and I tired of defending my succulent flesh from the hordes of hungry mosquitoes. I went to bed with itchy arms and ankles where a few of the dirty buggers had managed to find a place to snack on my skin.

The next morning, I woke up with two large, weepy blister like bumps on my arm and a surrounding patch of my arm that was red and swollen. What I thought were mosquito bites are apparently something else entirely and they itch like the dickens. I can't decide if they are spider bites or if I ran afoul of some hazardous plant while wandering through the foliage up the road. But since I can't shoot silken web from my finger tips, it was probably just a boring old mountain spider and nothing radioactive. Dang...no superhero movie deals in my future.

Now I'm hot and itchy and my allergies are going haywire. I've had it with bugs and sun and out-of-control plants. So I'm making fall my official favorite season. Screw you summer!

Love is In the Air

The alarm rang way too early for my taste, but while love knows no bounds, it does know sunrise, at least for the sage grouse. Outdoor Guy and I were up before dawn to watch one of the most talked about residents of the Wyoming landscape in its annual mating ritual.

Each spring, Wyoming's sage grouse gather on breeding grounds, known as leks, to strut their stuff for a potential mate. In our many adventures, Outdoor Guy and I had seen numerous sage grouse in the badlands between Ten Sleep and Wyoming. I'd heard about their crazy mating ritual, and asked my husband if we could find a lek and watch sometime. Thanks to our Game and Fish connections, we had directions to a lek about 30 minutes from our house. So yesterday, at 5 a.m., we loaded up in the big white pickup and headed for the badlands.

As dawn broke, Outdoor Guy spotted a lone black spot up ahead on a hill. As the sky grew lighter, soon we could make out the tell-tale point tail feathers of a male sage grouse in full strut. He'd strut to the left, puff out his chest and cock his head, listening, I presume, for a response from an interested female. Getting none, he'd strut to the left and repeat the process. Unfortunately for him, no revved up sage grouse hotties could be found.

"Tom said the lek was pretty hot and heavy last week," my husband told me. "Maybe we missed it by a week."

That was disappointing. Seeing sage grouse up close was something I'd wanted to do since last spring. But if all I got to see was this one, lonely male doing his thing, it was better than nothing.

Several minutes later, we decided to drivedown the road a little in hopes that there were more birds over the next ridge. Ben put the pickup in drive and we performed what he lovingly calls the "three-quarter ton sneak" down the BLM road.

"That guy must be lost, because all the others are up ahead. Look up there in the lighter colored grass. All those black lumps are grouse," Ben said, pointing out the windshield.

Jackpot. Ahead of us was the lek, with about two dozen birds of both sexes in various stages of coitus. We watched for the birds for almost an hour.

My favorite moment was when one male took umbrage with another male who was vying for the affection of a particularly pretty hen (at least I'm assuming she's pretty...but I'm no male sage grouse, so what do I know). The males puffed their chests and made their weird noises and chest bumped one another around for several minutes. The bigger male must have been declared the victor, but when he turned to reap the reward of his spoils, the lovely female was nowhere to be found. In his fervor to banish the competition, he took his eyes off the prize, and she got bored and wandered off. The male looked all around, could not locate his true love and deflated like a guy getting shot down at a singles bar. I laughed out loud at his apparent despair.

Sage grouse are dependent on sagebrush-dominated habitats. Sagebrush is a crucial component of their diet year-round, and sage grouse select sagebrush almost exclusively for cover. As people expand their own habitat for residential and energy development into the habitat of the sage grouse, populations have declined from around 16 million birds 100 years ago to about 200,000 birds today. Predators like coyotes, ravens and other raptors also take their toll on sage grouse species. Environmental groups have tried to get the sage grouse placed on the Endangered Species list twice before. In 2010, the Department of the Interior said the sage grouse was "warranted but precluded," essentially putting it on a waiting list behind more critically threatened species in need of federal protection.

I'm no bird biologist and I don't pretend to have the answers for balancing the needs of people with the needs of wildlife. But I do know I got to witness something pretty special that morning on the Washakie badlands, a native species doing an ancient dance of love. Here's hoping we can all work together so the party can go on for generations to come.

Skiing makes me cross

Outdoor Guy and I rented skis in town this weekend and headed up to Willow Park to enjoy a breathtaking afternoon in the Big Horn Mountains and soak up some sun.

Willow Park offers 13 miles of groomed trails and a variety of skill levels. It promises skiers the chance to enjoy loops, hills, ridges and wonderful scenery. The weather was great, the scenery wonderful indeed, the skiing...not so much.

The day started out well enough. We tried one of the easier loops, and the first leg of it was enjoyable. Our house sits at the bottom of a canyon, so from about mid-November to mid-February, we don't get the sun at our house. After two months in the shade, the mountain sun felt great on my face, like putting on a favorite, well-worn sweatshirt after days in a constricting business suit. Our skis easily glided along the trail, making quick work of the first half mile or snow.

Then the turnoff came. The first bit was slow going, requiring us to break trail.

"Want to turn around?" My husband asked. "I think this is just sticky because it's been in the sun."

"Nah, it'll get better further down the trail," I replied. It didn't. We worked our way across the trail segment, walking in our skis instead of actually skiing. Occasionally, I'd have to stop and scrape the sticky, wet snow off the bottoms of my skis. Frequently, my ski would stick, my ankle would roll and I'd topple over to the side. Walk, walk, scrape, wobble, wobble, fall to the left, curse. Walk, walk, scrape, wobble, wobble, fall to the right, curse loudly. Walk, walk, wobble, wobble, fall on my ass.

Ahead on the trail wasn't any better for Ben. He was dealing with the exact same conditions I was, but I never saw him fall once. I threw my hands up in protest and promptly fell back on my butt. Again.

"How's it going back there?" Ben called.

"Never better," I replied. "This is so much fun we should do it every weekend!"

We may have only been married 18 months, but Outdoor Guy knew me well enough to understand the snide cheerfulness. Ben ignored my sarcasm and we continued along the trail. Every so often, he'd point out something he saw along the trail...squirrel or rabbit tracks, owl scat or just a weird looking tree. I'm sure the area was pretty, but by that time I was so wet and frustrated, I wanted to cry. The only good thing about the day was that it was going better than the last time we tried skiing. Then, I'd lost control on a slight downhill slope, panicked and threw myself into a snowbank to stop my momentum lest I crash into a tree. Instead, I bashed my knee on a rock buried in the white drift, tearing my pants and giving me a substantial limp for the next three weeks. Today, I couldn't pick up any real momentum, so my spills were considerably less spectacular.

Finally, we hit the intersection where our trail met another. This trail was a main thoroughfare, so trail had been broken and the going became much easier. In theory.

Ahead, my husband shushed along the luminescent path, pausing every so often to look back over his shoulder at me. My skis would now actually glide on the snow, but the trail was so icy, if I got going too fast, my foot would fly out from under me and I'd wobble, precariously unbalanced. Three times out of five, I wound up on my backside yet again. After one massive yard sale fall that required my husband's assistance to right me, I gave up. I took off the skis and powered my way through the snow the last 200 yards to the parking lot.

God curse this wretched sport, I thought. I'll stick with summer activities from now on. But I didn't want Outdoor Guy to feel bad. I'd suggested skiing, and it wasn't his fault I was a complete and total klutz. I tried to smile and said things about how it would be more fun next time, or that maybe I just needed more practice. My crabbiness must have been etched on my face, however, because my husband wasn't buying any of it.

"Now I know why they call it cross-country skiing," Outdoor Guy said, wrapping me in a bear hug and planting a big kiss on my frowning face. "You are seriously crabby."

Maybe next time, we'll just go bowling.

How I Became an Outdoor Woman

I've never been really "girly," but I'm also not exactly what you'd call "outdoorsy." So when I accepted a position as the Information/Publications Manager with the Wyoming Game and Fish Department last spring, friends and family were more than a little skeptical.

"You don't hunt or fish," was the standard response.

"I don't have to hunt or fish to enjoy Wyoming. But I support hunting and fishing and really do want to play a role in conserving our wildlife and heritage. I love Wyoming and our wildlife resource is a big part of who we are as a state," I'd explain. "Besides I love the outdoors."

After working in the agriculture industry for several years, I was ready for new challenges but still believed in working for a cause and protecting our natural resources and rural heritage. The mission of the Game and Fish and its dedicated staff convinced me it was a job I'd love and could do well.

I'm not altogether without skills or ability. I have a college degree in communications and experience in writing, editing, web design and policy. Initially, I launched my career with the National FFA Organization, but decided the Indiana grass wasn't greener and moved back to the Cowboy state. After some graduate work in agriculture economics and a stint with 4-H, I spent the last several years working for the Wyoming Association of Conservation Districts. That eventually lead to a position with the Wyoming Game and Fish.

But the part about loving the outdoors, well, that may have been stretching it just a smidge.

"Weekly outings to the dog park, mini-golf and Wyoming Cowboy football games hardly qualifies as loving the outdoors," my dad told me.

I admit it, I'm more comfortable riding horses, showing hogs and playing sports than trap shooting or hiking in the high country. This outdoor novice may be more than a little out of her league here at Game and Fish with lifetime hunters and skilled anglers. My idea of roughing it is Motel 6 when I forget my blow dryer. I've never hunted, I barely fish and my outdoor adventures were confined to trekking back and forth to the Capitol in dress shoes in January for the legislative session.

Thus began my quest to become a true outdoor woman of Wyoming. I wrote about these goals and my efforts in a column for the Game and Fish E-newsletter, sharing my progress and follies with my readers. Some months I wrote about Game and Fish projects I covered, teaching about the work of the Game and Fish or wildlife conservation. Sometimes I shared funny stories about my attempts to immerse myself in nature. Later, after I’d fallen in love with my now husband (herein referred to lovingly as Outdoor Guy), I’d tell funny stories about our relationship with the outdoors and each other. And some months, I just wrote what was in my heart. Hopefully, my readers enjoyed reading about my misadventures as much as I enjoyed trying to accomplish my goals.

Now, Outdoor Guy and I live in Ten Sleep, Wyoming, at the Wyoming Game and Fish hatchery. He still works for the agency, while I’m trying to launch a writing career. We share our home with three hairy dogs and all spend out time learning more about one another and enjoying all the beautiful Wyoming landscape has to offer.

This blog shares excerpts from my columns and stories of my life as I adjust to life in rural Wyoming and take on new phases of my life as a wife, freelance writer and resident of the great outdoors. This is my quest to find my my inner-outdoor woman.