Confused Bears, Butt Nuggets, and Sweating Like a Politician Under Oath

The weather has been downright delightful lately—cold nights that warm up into sunny days in the high 60s. I’m feeling much better, but I think nature might be a little confused.

While out walking the other day, we saw a large bear ambling down the mountain, clearly on the hunt for a snack. It’s odd to see bears out this time of year. Folks around here say they don’t actually hibernate all winter—they just take long naps and pop out when the weather’s nice to do some grocery shopping. Still, this was the first bear I’ve personally seen out in January.

I didn’t get a photo because I was busy trying to keep the dogs from unnecessarily chasing it, which was not an easy feat. Maggie is part pitbull, with the rest of her made up of several varieties of hound dog. She has an incredible nose and can find just about anything… she just doesn’t always know what to do with what she’s found.

She’s fantastic for mushroom hunting, except for the part where she sometimes eats them before I can identify them. We are working on it. I really wish she could find truffles. I keep telling Dennis that I need a pig for that, but he says he’ll eat it if I get one. Marriage is about compromise.

Foraging, Medicine, and Things That Taste Like Old Men

We did find a bunch of Old Man’s Beard, also known as Usnea. This stuff has been called nature’s doxycycline and can be used as an antibiotic. It supports respiratory health and has antimicrobial properties.

I’ll dry some and keep it in a jar until needed. The rest will be made into an alcohol tincture for internal use, and I’ll infuse some in oil for topical use.

It puts the lotion on the skin…

It can also be crushed and put into capsules or made into tea, but it tastes gross—probably like an old man’s beard would actually taste. Still, it’s pretty cool to find medicine in the woods. It’s also cool to find magic mushrooms, though that doesn’t happen often enough. (Nature, if you’re listening, do better.)

Sweating, Ice Baths, and Proof That Women Are Superior

Several months ago, we bought a sauna—not the hot rocks and steam kind, but an infrared one. It heats up to 145 degrees, and I basically sit in there naked as the day I was born, sweating like a politician under oath.

I’ve tried meditating while I’m in there, but mostly I just sweat and marvel at how much it feels like Arizona. To be effective, I’m supposed to use it four times a week for at least 30 minutes. I haven’t quite managed four times weekly yet, but I can stay in there for 45 minutes now. When we first started, I was running out after 20.

Dennis can only last about 30 minutes—further proving my theory that women are superior.

After the sauna, it’s recommended that you place your sweaty naked ass into ice-cold water for five minutes. At first, I filled the spare tub with cold well water and added ice from the ice machine. I don’t know how cold it got, but it was cold enough to make me pee a little when I submerged. Once my brain shut off from the cold, it wasn’t so bad.

Now I just do a cold shower for five minutes. Our well water is brutally cold in winter, so that’ll have to do. I could buy one of those fancy ice bath things to keep next to the sauna, but I don’t want to mess with it. If there’s ever snow outside when I come out of the sauna, I will absolutely be rolling around in it at least once—purely for science.

Dennis refuses to do any of the cold stuff, once again confirming my earlier theory.

The sauna was purchased to help with my aching body. I have days—like most people my age and older—when everything hurts. And I mean everything. My daily yoga practice helps take the edge off, but by bedtime I’m usually pretty gimpy. The sauna helps a ton, and it’s made my skin more like butter and less like sandy leather.

It’s well-built, energy efficient, and even has a radio—but we never use it. We can only get one station up here, and I refuse to sit in a hot box sweating my ass off in the middle of nowhere while listening to banjo music. That’s just not okay.

Experiments and Butt Nuggets

The warm weather has increased egg production, so we’re getting more eggs from our feathered friends. We eat a lot of eggs, but they can get tiring, so I’m always trying to find new ways to eat them.

Remember the salt-encrusted quail eggs? I also tried tea eggs—you boil them, crack the shells, and simmer them overnight in tea. They’re pretty, and they taste… pretty okay. The tea flavor isn’t overpowering.

I also tried egg jerky, which is exactly what it sounds like—and it was an epic failure. Boiled eggs sliced thin, seasoned, and dehydrated until chewy. Except they never got chewy. The whites turned into super-crunchy kettle chips on crack, while the yolks stayed the consistency of a hard-boiled yolk.

Not one I’ll be trying again, but when you have a never-ending supply of butt nuggets, you get adventurous.

Petey: Anti–Cat Nip, Pro–Everything Else

No one likes eggs more than Petey.

Petey is a female cat with a boy name because my husband names our cats—all of whom were deemed un-adoptable at the shelter and set for euthanasia. That was the deal: I could bring them home with the intention of making them barn cats, and he could name them.

We now have five indoor/outdoor cats and zero barn cats. The plan was solid. The execution… not so much.

Petey allows petting but not picking up. She’s outside more than the others and usually only comes in at night. She follows me while I feed the quail, chickens, and wild birds, right along with the dogs. I think she was either a farm cat at one point or a chicken farmer in a past life—she knows the drill.

Petey eats everything. Bread? Yep. Eggs? Yep. Cheese? Absolutely.

She’s also the only cat I’ve ever known who has an aversion to catnip. When it comes out, the other cats are like YEAH, give us the good shit, and Petey just nopes out like, “Kids, drugs are bad, mmmkay?”—in true South Park fashion.

Not New Year, New Me—More Like New Year, Same Me

I didn’t set any resolutions for 2026. Did you?

I thought about it for a minute and then decided… meh. I’m just going to keep doing the best I can. What more can I do? I’m not going to beat myself up if I gain a pound or fart in the sauna.

It doesn’t really feel like a new year anyway, probably because the actual new year begins in March—usually between the 19th and the 21st—also known as the vernal equinox. That’s when I can really feel and see the new year taking shape. Days and nights are equal, plants start growing again, animals start poking their heads out—and poking each other.

It’s a magical time of year. Maybe I’ll set some resolutions then.
Maybe not.

Thank You (Seriously)

I want to thank each of you for subscribing to my blog. It still amazes me that so many people want to read the ramblings of a crazy mountain lady, but it’s given me a much-needed sense of purpose at a time when I really needed it.

I’m answering questions as I can, so keep messaging me and I’ll get back to you. I hope January finds you happy, warm, and surrounded by those you love.