Cabin Journal

The Giant Among Us

I’ve worshipped this magnificent tree since I’ve been at the cabin. It’s a huge ponderosa, tall and wide enough that it would take two people to encircle it with their arms. This giant pine grows by the creek, partly obscured by a thicket of other ponderosas that are dwarfed by the big one.

A few years ago a young couple bought the cabin and property that holds this tree and celebrated their marriage by carving a huge heart into the bark and tying a massive white ribbon around it. At the time I worried that they had done damage to this elder of the forest but also upset that they had treated this ancient being with such disrespect.

But the tree has survived, just like it has endured hundreds of years of storms, strong winds, droughts and fires. My neighbor who now owns the property recently found that the tree is likely 450 years old. Ponderosas can live for 600 years, but most are much younger—around 200, so this one is ancient.

This venerable ponderosa humbles me because I realize that this tree has more claim to this land than me. I’ve only “owned” this third of an acre for 15 years. In the tree’s more than four centuries of life, rivers have changed course in this valley and uncountable numbers of wildlife have passed through—herds of buffalo, elk and deer plus smaller animals like coyotes, wolves and foxes.

It may have stood alone for decades before its seeds birthed other pines, which helped create this forest. Hundreds of generations of birds would have built nests in its branches. An occasional group of native people may have passed through—also finding a haven under its arms and by the creek, under the imposing presence of Mount Meeker.

It was only 100 years ago when white humans started establishing themselves in this valley: cutting down trees to build houses and barns, establishing roads, digging ditches and raising farm animals, including cattle and horses. Somehow this tree was left alone while humans busied themselves with civilizing what was once wilderness.

While this tree was just sinking its roots into the earth in the mid-1500s, across the ocean, civilization was progressing in fits and starts: Leonardo da Vinci was impressing kings and queens with his inventions and creations; Shakespeare was drawing audiences to his plays; Mary Queen of Scots was beheaded; and astronomer Nicolaus Copernicus was riling up people with the radical suggestion that the earth moves around the sun.

Yet even though this tree has endured a lot, it will likely be the last of its kind. Due to warming temperatures, logging, wildfires and insect infestation, the tall ones are becoming rarer. At a watershed workshop last summer held not far from my cabin, a forester said that when these old trees die, they are not being replaced because it’s becoming too hot and dry for younger ones to thrive. To escape these hostile conditions, the ponderosa species is moving higher up the mountains or farther north where it’s cooler and wetter. As the trees disappear, we’ll start seeing more grasslands.

By tree standards, the ponderosas’ lifetimes don’t necessarily measure up to other species. The California redwoods can live to over 2,000 years, and higher up in the mountains here in Colorado the bristlecone pines can be 1,000 years old, growing at a rate of 1 inch a year while clinging low to the mountainside to avoid strong winds.

But having this ponderosa pine so close is a visible sign that the human presence is short compared to not just this tree but others around me. It forces me to imagine what this place looked like before humans—before me. It reminds me that my place in the world, and other humans, is small and that this tree will likely outlive me and will oversee a world that I can’t even envision.

The world has changed a lot in its 450 years, and yet this ancient tree goes on, still providing shelter for all the creatures—birds, squirrels and humans like me. In a world that’s becoming constantly faster, I’m in awe of something that measures time in decades not minutes, a gentle reminder to slow myself down, to be patient and to endure anything and everything. I bow to its wisdom and perseverance.

Great Expectations

When we had a late start to spring, including the aspen trees leafing out one or two weeks later than usual, I expected that the aspen would last later into fall, maybe through mid-October. Plus, the summer was so bountiful, how could my good fortune not continue into fall?

But something went wrong, because the colors are fading away and turning pale instead of their usual brilliant gold. Maybe we got too much rain, and all that moisture caused a blight, because the aspen leaves have brown splotches on them. Instead of the colors lasting until mid-October or even later, the trees have taken a quick death, going before their time—or at least before the time I expected. Now the flashiest color is the red of the rosehip (below), which was bountiful this year.

Most autumns, I have a schedule for seeing the fall colors. I start out hiking in areas that will be first hit by frost—up in the high country, close to tree line. I then move lower down the mountain to trails where the aspen bloom later, and finish the fall celebration in the foothills above Boulder. I know where the best pockets of changing aspen are, and it’s still a mystery why two stands of aspen, 100 feet apart, are on different schedules.

Although most of the aspen around the cabin have shed their leaves, this week I found a tall stand near Fritz’s Pond (below). I sat in this light-filled grove and listened to the leaves in the wind— the closest thing to silence yet a soft and tender reminder that the world was alive. It sounded like yearning—for fall to never end, for winter to never start or for life to continue.

The next morning I sat outside in the cold chill, letting the sun warm me. When the aspen leaves started chattering, what I heard was “hurry, hurry, hurry,” as in get ready for winter, like the frantic gray squirrels running up and down the fence carrying pine cones to their winter dens. Don’t waste life on useless thoughts; get moving.

But when I listened deeper, I heard “accept” and a reminder that life continued. Even though the aspen trees and willow bushes were shedding their leaves, and the grasses have all turned brown, life was still here, although it had retreated underground, where it would renew itself all winter. I could hear the hum.

The Big Flood

Ten years ago, I was witness to the power of nature when it’s out of control. It had been raining for two days when I came up to the cabin to see if it had floated away yet. When I got there, a quarter of the living room had water leaking from the ceiling: falling on the carpet, dripping down from around the fireplace, and soaking the antique side table and wooden floor. I called the man who had installed my roof a few years before, and he drove out from Estes Park, threw a tarp over the chimney, and miraculously the leaks stopped.

But that was the last time anyone would be able to get in and out of Meeker Park for four days because that night the storm unleashed its full fury, enough rain falling on top of Mount Meeker to cause the landslide that is still visible. My neighbor who lives on the creek told me that he heard chaos all night: trees and boulders crashing down from above.

The next morning, the rain had slowed, and we went to observe the damage: the valley flooded by what used to be a creek small enough to jump across, and the gaping hole over Cabin Creek where there had been a bridge the day before (left). In the other direction, north, the rains had carved a deep enough hole in the dirt road to make it impassable. We were trapped but we didn’t know for how long, and we didn’t know if we were the only ones affected by this devastating storm, because our phone lines and Internet were down.

It's a strange feeling to be stranded, to have no communication with the outside world. It leaves you in a state of unknowing, unsure what to do, what will happen next. The few neighbors that were here that week started to share as much information as we could. One group from Louisiana, who had unfortunately picked a bad time to take a vacation in Colorado, got partial TV reception, and so we found out that the flood had affected other parts of the state.

Only later would we find out that at least three of the canyons that lead to Allenspark and Estes Park were partially destroyed and impassable; and that the town of Lyons, north of Boulder, was cut off from the rest of the world by the flooding of two streams on either side of town, which had engulfed the town in mud and destroyed a trailer court near one of the creeks. Only later would we learn that 18 inches of rain had fallen—more than our yearly average precipitation. Four people died in the floods, 11,000 people were evacuated, some by helicopter; 18,000 homes were damaged or destroyed. The destruction was later calculated at about $2 billion. Weather analysts, searching for words to describe the torrential rains, deemed it “biblical.”

On the edge of Estes Park, raging Fish Creek had knocked out parts of the road (above). When I saw the damage several weeks later, I was stunned to see up close what water can do when there's no stopping it: leaving whole chunks of asphalt in disarray, with mud and sand thrown to the sides. Upriver the flood had washed away a beaver lodge, and I still wonder what happened to the animals.

It took years to rebuild the South St. Vrain Canyon, my main route from the valley to the cabin. Driving through the canyon today, I can still see the places where the wall of water careened across the canyon and carved out one hillside at a depth of at least 50 feet. I try to imagine this flood filling up the canyon where the river now is not more than a foot deep in most places. Luckily, the damage was done at night, so no cars were tossed by the flood; no lives lost here.  

After the rains stopped, the sun came out. I wanted everything to be normal again, and all the right signs were there: a brilliant fall day with the aspens changing color. But it wasn’t normal, because these floods occurred in September, one of the driest months of the year; the amount of rain that fell was unprecedented; and several days after the rains stopped water was still pooled everywhere. I badly wanted to hike among the golden aspen, like I do every fall, but I couldn’t get up in the hills, because the flooded creeks made it impossible.

But nothing is normal anymore. I’ve come to realize that the 2013 flood was just the first of disasters caused by climate change that I’ve witnessed. I know it won’t be the last.

An Embarrassment of Riches

We’re having one of the most glorious springs and summers that I can recall. Even the winter was a gem, with snow falling regularly but in small enough amounts that it didn’t break my back when shoveling the driveway. All that snow led to a spring that brought out more flowers than I’ve ever seen. While most are gone as we creep toward fall, the hillsides and fields now are covered with sunflowers, which usually appear in August, but not in the numbers I’m seeing now. When I walk through them, the flowers are so tall and at such heights that I feel surrounded by sheer golden brilliance as they billow in the wind.

Starting last May, the hillsides and meadows were so green I wondered if I had been transplanted to Ireland. Even now, in mid-August, after weeks of hot weather, the landscape retains some lushness.  

Nature has responded to the record amount of rainfall with more life—and not just flowers. With plenty of food, the ground squirrels have produced several consecutive litters, ensuring that there's always a new crop of cute babies. Around the cabin, new generations come by to check me out, standing up to get a better view of this strange creature. Because there’s plenty of insects, the resident population of swallows has produced several broods, and often the sky is full of their acrobatics. For the first time in years, I’m hearing the nighthawk, a bird that devours insects.

Along the Front Range, the reservoirs are full to overflowing so I can indulge in swimming without having to endure shrinking and muddy lakes. Small mountain streams that usually dry up in July are still running, bordered by an abundance of Parry’s primrose and mountain bluebells.

Even the thunderstorms have been spectacular: dark clouds from which emerge lightning bolts and loud claps of thunder followed by rain that lasts long enough to water the gardens and fill up the lakes again. Often the final act has been a rainbow stretching across the sky. Who needs TV when you can be entertained by the skies?

While the Northeast and Midwest have had to suffer from smoke that descended from Canada, our skies in Colorado have been mostly clear (except for days when the ozone levels were high), with a few brilliantly blue days.  This year, unlike past years, we’ve been spared from destructive wildfires.

I feel guilty enjoying this perfect summer. Every day there seems to be a new climate disaster: most recently, the horrible and tragic fire in Maui; the continuing stifling heat in the South and Europe; hot waters off the coast of Florida; flooding in Vermont; farmers who have to deal with either drought or too much rain.  Somehow this year, most of Colorado was spared.

But I know that disaster can hit any time. Ten years ago we had a flood of epic proportions, destroying roads in three canyons, causing rock slides and nearly wiping out the small town of Lyons. Three years ago we had wildfires that leapt over the tundra, burned more than 400,000 acres and caused the evacuation of thousands.  Almost two years ago, a rare December fire burned 1,000 homes in the nearby suburbs, an event that no one previously thought possible.

I walk up my favorite trails now, admiring the tall pine trees that look so lush, the streams still flowing in August, the flowers still blooming. I even appreciate the heavy rains and hail. I know this won’t last.

Flowers Galore

During this spring and summer of plentiful rain and then sunshine, it’s easy to get overwhelmed by the bounty of wildflowers. I’ve seen whole hillsides of blue and purple penstemon (right) in the foothills.

At the cabin, the front yard is filled with blue lupine, yellow cinquefoil and pink geraniums. I can barely see some of the flowers hidden in the tall grasses through which the chipmunks, ground squirrels and rabbits move stealthily, so I only know they are there by the sudden jerk of the grass.

 

 

 

In the wetter areas are patches of wild iris (purple flag), more than I’ve ever seen here, sometimes mixing it up with golden banner (top).  Another flower that likes the marshy fields is the tall angelica. Every week it seems to grow another few inches, rising above the surrounding grasses. This week the round buds are starting to unfold.   

Most people don’t notice stonecrop (above), because it’s low to the ground and not a traditionally beautiful flower, but anything that can grow seemingly out of rocks has my admiration. I especially love their strangely twisted stems. This year they’ve taken over whole layers of rock.  

Last week, the cow parsnip (right) suddenly emerged, its branches floating above the grasses. It’s an unattractive name for delicate looking flower that raises its arms in a beseeching way. This week, the wild roses are blooming everywhere, a delicate pink that is more subtle than their flashy cultivated cousins; their smell is faint, so I have to lean over to catch it.

 

 

On one of my favorite paths at the cabin, past Fritz’s pond, the columbine (left) border the path for hundreds of feet, climbing up the hillside, draping themselves around the aspen and protruding from a juniper bush. When I stop to admire them, I try to refrain from just taking photos and moving on.

I want to absorb their beauty and complexity:  how two in one cluster are open while the others are still buds, tightly folded; how the white petals and purple sepals are positioned for maximum aesthetic effect; and ponder the purpose of the purple sepals that curl up from the main flower. I stand here because a photo can’t capture everything else going on: the wind through the aspen leaves, which tenderly sway the flowers; the bird calls all around me; how I feel sunk into this earth and enclosed by the  mountains.

If I let myself be swayed by these flowers, I also become aware that the next week, or the week after, when I stop to admire them again, they will be dying or gone. And I will have to wait for another year to enjoy their splendor.

 

 

 

 

While the flowers here at 8,500 feet are cycling through their weekly changes, above 10,000 feet the flowers are just starting to emerge. Where the snow has recently melted, patches of the tundra are still brown. Yet with a growing season that can only be a month long, the flowers can’t wait for the tundra to green up.

Some of these flowers are miniature versions of flowers that grow tall down in the lower valleys and meadows. The chiming bells (above) are only inches high, although the blue/purple color is more intense than its bluebell cousins down in the valley. The alpine sunflowers, marsh marigolds, buttercups and forget-me-nots hug the ground to stay out of the fierce winds and cold at this high altitude.  

Or they find shelter next to or under boulders, which also protect them from the intense sun while providing moisture that gathers alongside the rocks. Small rock gardens are created out of the rocks covered with orange, green and blue lichen. Winter’s freezing and thawing have pushed some of the rocks straight up, forming waves of rocks and flowers.

The phlox (above and right) and moss campion survive by forming mats of moss, which holds these small plants in place and allow moisture to collect. It seems a brilliant survival tactic up here on the tundra, with the short growing season, temperatures that average 50 during the day and 30 at night, and strong winds.

Yet somehow they survive, using taproots that go deep into the soil, which is more rock than dirt, while dense hairs on the stems and leaves protect against the winds. These small flowers demand attention, so I bow down to greet them. The alpine sunflower beams back at me so brightly, especially on a cloudy day, that I’m cheered beyond rational measure.

Make Room for Wildlife

I was hiking around Meeker Park with a neighbor who has lived here a long time and remembers when things were different: when few people lived here all winter long; before moose arrived but after some animals disappeared.

Along the creek she pointed out Marmot Rock, a place where marmots once sunbathed on the rocks. But I haven’t seen marmots in the 15 years I’ve lived here. Where did they go? She thought coyotes got them. It’s possible, but in the more than 50 years I’ve lived in Colorado, I mostly see marmots at high elevations—especially on the tundra, where I’ve never seen coyotes. They are safe from predators above tree line, where their biggest challenge is eight months of winter. Or did something else push them up there? Some change in the climate so it was too warm at lower altitudes? Or did human encroachment chase them away?

Around the planet, humans are slowly pushing animals out of their habitats, which are taken over by new subdivisions, energy development, and ranching and farming. During the pandemic, when people were shut in their homes, wildlife started moving into human realms—along highways, into towns and into bays and rivers where ship and boat traffic had ceased. But when human activity returned, wildlife retreated. Studies show that most wildlife seek to avoid contact with humans when possible—such as circumventing hiking trails or coming out only at night when people are in their beds.

It's happening all over the West, as population growth forces wildlife into ever smaller areas. It’s happening here in Meeker Park. In addition to the long-gone marmots, raccoons and porcupines have apparently disappeared, according to another neighbor. I used to regularly see coyotes, but it’s been several years since I last heard their eerie cries. Is that due to more year-round residents, so the coyotes have moved farther from humans and their habitations?

A few weeks ago, I was startled to see a herd of elk come by the cabin. Elk are rare here because it’s mostly wooded. These large animals prefer open fields with plenty of grass to eat and where they can see predators coming.  With its big open valleys, Rocky Mountain National Park is a perfect habitat for them. But when they leave the park, especially in winter as they flee the snow, the elk encounter a bustling city. Unfortunately for the elk, more people are moving to Estes Park every year. Some are retiring in this tourist town, while others who can work from home choose a beautiful natural setting that also has urban amenities: restaurants, a hospital, rec center and library.

Every week it seems I see new development—bulldozers tearing up a field where I often saw elk. Where do the animals go now? They somehow have to thread their way through neighborhoods and shopping malls and cross busy roads to find places to graze and rest. People think it’s amusing to find elk on the golf course in winter, posing in front of motels or crossing the main street. But this is the elk’s historic winter grounds, where they’ve been coming for centuries, much longer than the (white) human usurpers.

This is happening all over the world: monarch butterflies losing their jungle home; sea life pushed farther out by commercial ship traffic; animals killed by cars as highways sprout everywhere. Soon the majority of wildlife will be like the marmots: clinging to one small habitat while humans take over the globe.

During the Deluge

With storms almost daily, I can’t complain about the weather being boring. At the cabin, the aspen are just leafing out, about two weeks later than usual. (Was it the cold spring that delayed their coming out? Or maybe not enough sun to spur their growth?) When the trees first leaf out, they're tentative, as if not totally confident that snow won't return to freeze the leaves. Yet they emerge in bright colors, as if life is brazenly announcing itself.

With all the rain, cloudy skies and patches of snow on the high peaks, the landscape is two-toned: the lime-green aspen and the different shades of gray in the clouds. I can’t stop myself from soaking it all in and taking pictures, especially when I know these soggy days won’t last. It’s our wet season, with more rain than usual, almost an embarrassment of riches when wildfires are racing across Canada, bringing destruction to maritime provinces, such as Nova Scotia, that have rarely experienced them.

Meanwhile, here in Colorado, rivers are up to their banks, the ground is saturated enough that water pools in low-lying areas. With every new rainfall, water finds its way through the cabin roof and onto the wooden floor, which never gets a chance to dry. The front door is so swollen with water that it will hardly shut or open.

Can I be allowed to enjoy this deluge, especially when we’ve had too many summers with wildfires? All too soon, the skies will dry out, wringing out all the water from the ground and cabin, and the dry days and heat will return.

Life Unfurling

When hiking on these early spring days, I spend a lot of time looking downward, which isn’t always a good idea when a fellow hiker warns you that there’s a moose on the trail up ahead. But that’s where life is now, as plants slowly emerge from the ground.

On a hike on the Fern Lake trail in Rocky Mountain National Park last week plants that disappeared last fall are poking up from the dirt: plants that haven’t yet revealed their identity, although I recognize the leaves of the heart-shaped arnica. Perhaps if I were a better botanist, I could identify them from their stalks or leaves, but mostly I recognize these plants by their flowers, and it will be another month probably before most produce their blooms.

So now I can only appreciate their budding beauty and the promise of summer when the plants explode and crowd each other out as they reach for the sun. Now they are just hints of the future. Maybe that’s why spring is so precious, because it carries promises of a fuller, more extravagant and richer world, something to anticipate and believe in.

The soil on this trail is still black from the huge wildfires that swept through these mountains almost three years ago, so the flower buds of the grape holly (above), an early spring plant that hugs the ground, pop out in their brilliant yellow as if framed in black.  

 

 

On these walks, growth is also happening next to the trail. In the willow bushes the yellow and red branches are putting out small buds that in some places have already started to flower—fuzzy blossoms that I want to stroke. Above me are the aspen branches that have put out their own dangling earrings of flowers.

By the time I get to the moose, it’s off in the willows by the creek, chewing up the yellow blossoms. Though I hate to see the flowers disappearing down the long gullet of the moose, I’m almost certain that this huge animal is thoroughly enjoying these delectable tidbits after a winter spent eating the only available food source: aspen and willow bark. We all appreciate life from a slightly different perspective.

Fifteen Years Ago

April is one of the least attractive months in the mountains. The snow is mostly melted, except for the high elevations, but little is growing. Yet it was in April—15 years ago—that I first saw the cabin and fell in love with it. If I could love it then, when the earth was brown, the snow dirty, and the swallows and hummingbirds hadn’t yet returned—then I would love it even more when the aspens leafed out, the columbine bloomed, and the house wrens sang.

But over these 15 years I’ve discovered that it’s not just the beauty that attracts me, but the wildness and the isolation. The cabin has given me a refuge from the world, a place to meditate where I can breathe to the sound of the wind through the pine trees. I’ve learned that I need solitude to rest and recharge without being distracted by the busyness of the world. The cabin has given me a place to be with myself, to learn more and go deeper than I ever thought possible.

 

I’ve learned the pleasures of a simple life. With no plumbing, I don’t worry about pipes freezing, and I enjoy the everyday chores of pumping water from the well to wash my dishes and carrying wood from the shed to build a fire. With no TV and no cell phone access (I admit to having a computer), my biggest source of entertainment is watching the pine trees sway in the wind and the clouds surge above the hills. Because the cabin is small (600 square feet or so), there’s no room to store anything that’s not essential (including books), so it feels uncluttered and manageable.

 

I’ve learned to appreciate the joys of a small community, where neighbors stop to chat on their way to the mailboxes at the end of the road and compare notes on the progression of the season. We may have different philosophies or political views, but we all share a love of this place. During the great flood of 2013, ten years ago in October, I saw how stranded neighbors came together to help each other when all the roads out of Meeker Park were washed out, and we provided information and food to each other.

 

 

One of the best advantages of having a cabin is that I’ve been able to observe nature up close. It’s different than a weekly mountain hike where I might accidentally stumble upon a moose near the trail. At the cabin, moose sometimes hang out in my front yard, and bobcats sit on the front deck. Just sitting on my deck, I’ve developed relationships with the local chipmunks and ground squirrels; observed the aerial shows of hummingbirds; and seen how the purple pasqueflowers bounce back after getting a foot of snow dumped on them. I’ve seen the elusive goshawk fly through the trees and land on my fence; and learned how the house wrens and swallows build nests and feed their young.

My lifelong love of nature (starting with the forest preserves near Chicago) has only deepened. I’ve stood with the tall ponderosas and felt what it was like to sink your roots into the earth. My mind has slowed down enough that I can latch onto the clouds skimming across the sky, tremble with the aspen leaves or plumb the deep pool in the creek where the fish sometimes hide.

In the intervening 15 years, I’ve discovered more places to hike, found the best hillside for seeing columbines, discovered the small pond where dragonflies emerge in the summer. I figured out how to sneak into Wild Basin when the Park Service mandated timed entry permits. I’ve learned how to make a decent fire in my wood-burning stove and reap the rewards: being mesmerized by the sweet crackling and curling blue and orange flames as the logs burn.

In the time I’ve been here, I’ve seen small changes: a few more houses and more people living here year-round, and more fences and private property signs. But there’s no subdivisions springing up every week or office buildings, like the building boom on the plains. When I walk these dirt roads, I can convince myself that I could have enjoyed the same view 100 years ago—especially from the east side of the valley where an old ranch house and pasture are backed by the mountains. It’s a view that I never get tired of, one that I’ve photographed dozens, if not hundreds, of times. I can delude myself into thinking this is how it will always be; that my soul can settle into this place and never leave.

Of course, that’s not true. My body won’t last forever, nor will this valley. Three years ago the wildfire that came over Trail Ridge Road and threatened Estes Park was only a few miles away With the world getting hotter and drier, the chances are good that a wildfire could wipe out these forested hills and cabins. I witnessed how the 2013 flood turned a small brook into a river that filled the whole valley and took out at least three bridges. Even the cabin itself was built to be transitory: sitting on a foundation of tree stumps. If one tree stump collapses, so does the whole cabin. I take comfort that a) we don’t have termites here; and b) the cabin has lasted 84 years.

Nothing is permanent, so I can only enjoy these days of peace and quiet, of a new crop of pasqueflowers coming up and aspens soon to leaf out, and hope that the wildfires won’t come this year, that the cabin’s stumps will hold out a bit longer; that the hummingbirds and house wrens will return along with the ground squirrels. It’s too much to ask for another 15 years, but in the meantime I can squeeze as much out of this precious time and place as I can.

As I was writing this, two elk walked down the road. It’s a thrilling sight, because it’s like brushing up against another world, one that exists outside of the narrow human realm. Even better, it feels like I’m part of that world. I’m not just visiting, I belong here.

Rise Up

To paraphrase singer Joni Mitchell, you don’t know what you’ve missed till it comes back. With the snow mostly melted at the cabin (until the next snowstorm) and warmer temperatures, I’m suddenly seeing and hearing birds that have been gone all winter.

This week I heard woodpeckers and flickers rapping on trees and telephone poles. Chickadees and flickers trilled, and I thought I heard the sound of the house wren, a warbling melody. While I was sitting outside basking in the sun, two young juncos paraded by my feet, with an air of self-importance, as if they knew exactly where they were going and what they needed to do.  

I saw my first chipmunk of the year and the first pasqueflower, a solitary one that was still closed but ready to open at any minute, just waiting for a bit of sun. My first water ouzel of the year flew down the creek and bobbed on a boulder.

I was surprised to see a brown butterfly fly past me. How could something so delicate emerge from this still harsh landscape where temperatures dip below freezing at night and the winds are strong enough to blow down a row of mailboxes?

At Wild Basin, a few hundred feet higher than the cabin, the creek is mostly melted, rushing down the mountain in brown roiling currents, partly fed by the two feet of snow that line the river. The ground plant that often stays green all winter, the kinnikinnick (above), has brightened up and shines in the dark woods.

As I walked up the road, trying to avoid the piles of snow while listening to the joyous sound of the creek, an orange butterfly flew up from the ground. It felt like spring rising up to greet me.