Cabin Journal

The Sweet Pleasures of a Wood Stove

One of the great pleasures of winter is enjoying a fire in the wood stove at the cabin. It’s a real fire with real wood that comes from real trees—a luxury in our increasingly urbanized environment. Most cities and towns in Colorado have outlawed fireplaces, because the smoke contributes to the air pollution along the Front Range. But my mountain cabin is far enough from the concentration of towns—and humans—that its small output doesn’t measurably affect the air quality—or at least that’s my hope.

Meanwhile, urban dwellers are only allowed gas fireplaces—real flames but arising from metal logs. For those who can’t have gas fires, there’s electric heaters that display moving pictures of fire. So strong is our urge  for fire (at least the controlled ones; wildfires are a different matter) that even fake fires are better than nothing—especially on cold days when it’s snowing.

There must be something buried deeply in our brains, going back to our human beginnings, that associates a fire with a sense of comfort and safety. I was at a Wisconsin resort last fall where a bonfire was lit on the beach every night. Not only did the fire keep away the cold, but it brought together our small circle of humans—some bulwark against the darkness and dangers of the black night.

Getting and keeping a fire going takes some work—chopping logs and storing them in the shed, plus tending to the fire all night. Flipping the switch on a gas stove is a lot easier. But there are real pleasures to be had with a wood-burning stove or fireplace. If you pay attention, a good fire settles the mind like nothing else, because there’s just enough action to keep the mind focused and firmly planted in the present moment, while leaving some gaps for awareness.

I can sit there for hours (and I have) watching the logs burn. With each new log, the silky flames change colors—from yellow to orange to red to blue—and configurations: leaping upward or reaching sideways; embracing the logs and then fleeing them.

Besides the ever-changing visual show, there’s the sound of the wood as it disintegrates—crackling and popping, sometimes sending embers onto the floor—and the quiet whoosh of the winds created by all that motion and energy, flowing upward into the chimney. Each type of wood— pine, spruce, juniper or old fence posts— brings its own fragrant smell—and story.

Right now, I’m burning a log that came from a Russian olive tree planted next to my house in Boulder some 20 to 30 years ago. From the bedroom I could watch the leaves shake in the wind and see the squirrels and birds in its branches. But in its death, I continue to enjoy its presence—and essence.

Each log has a beginning and end, and I’m watching the end of one story.  Although the specifics are different, the stories have the same trajectory:  each tree starts with a seed that is nurtured by a combination of nutrients from the earth and carbon dioxide from the air. Now, as the fire destroys the last material elements of these trees, the wood releases the carbon dioxide that helped it grow—carbon dioxide that another tree will use to thrive.

As I watch, in my small wood stove, the end of one cycle of life and death, I’m overwhelmed by an appreciation for how life works, and a tenderness and gratitude for the tree’s final gift of heat.

Deaths on the Mountain

From July to November last year, four men have gone missing on Longs Peak and the adjoining Mount Meeker, the mountain that looms above Meeker Park and my cabin. (That's Meeker on the left and Longs on the right in the photo.)

Two bodies were found last summer, but searches for the other two men have been suspended until spring, as mountain storms made it too dangerous for rescuers. And, by this time, snow has covered up any trace of their bodies.

According to the National Park Service, two people on average die every year attempting to climb Longs Peak, one of the more famous fourteeners (that is, above 14,000 feet) in the state and especially predominant along the Front Range, where it and Mount Meeker dominate the mountain skyline.

Besides being tragic, three deaths (two of them presumed) on Longs Peak in a five-month period is unusual (plus the one  on Mount Meeker)—and unnecessary. Each was hiking alone, not a recommended practice for mountain climbing. Three were from out-of-state so may have been unfamiliar with how quickly weather conditions can change at high altitudes—from a warm, sunny day to cold and snowy—even in summer (the photo below, shows snow on Longs Peak in July).

At least two seemed unprepared for mountain climbing. The body found in August on Longs Peak was a man from Illinois who had attempted the 14-mile (round trip) climb several years ago but had been unable to make it down before dark and spent the night on the peak before being rescued. And yet, on his second attempt this summer, he didn’t start the hike until 2 p.m. Seasoned climbers of Longs Peak begin their ascent around 5 a.m. because it takes most hikers about 15 hours to complete the hike that climbs 4,855 feet along steep ledges. Starting at 2 in the afternoon  means getting to the summit around dark. What often happens is that unprepared hikers try to find a shortcut back down, often across steep—and deadly— slopes of loose rock.

In November, hikers coming down from the top of Longs Peak advised a young man from the Air Force Academy that the weather conditions were stormy up ahead and urged him to turn around. Reportedly, he was wearing a sweatshirt, jeans, sweatpants, a hat, lightweight gloves and tennis shoes—an outfit that is inadequate for conditions sometimes described as Arctic. Even in summer, tennis shoes and sweatpants will not keep you warm if it rains, and such shoes are hardly capable of navigating steep, rocky terrain. His is one of the two bodies not yet found.

You can’t blame the National Park Service for failing to warn people. On its website, the federal agency doesn’t mince words when describing the route to the top of the peak:

The Keyhole Route is not a hike. It is a climb that crosses enormous sheer vertical rock faces, often with falling rocks, requiring scrambling, where an unroped fall would likely be fatal. The route has narrow ledges, loose rock, and steep cliffs.

For most of the year, climbing Longs Peak is in winter conditions, which requires winter mountaineering experience and the knowledge and use of specialized equipment. Disregard for the mountain environment any time of year has meant danger, injury and even death.

The website  goes on to warn that climbers should “Be prepared to turn back during sudden, drastic weather changes. . . .  Don't have summit fever: Enjoy the experience, but be willing to turn around at any time.”

I know it can be hard to turn back, to admit failure. Even on comparatively short hikes, I’ve sometimes pushed myself more than I should in order to reach a scenic waterfall or alpine lake, with the result that coming back down I’ve been almost too exhausted to make it to my car. And if you’re a young man who has told all his friends that he’s going to climb the famous Longs Peak, it’s got be even harder to admit defeat, especially when you can take a picture of yourself on top of the mountain and immediately share it with your social network. It’s an instant record of your amazing accomplishment.

That’s what the climber who died on 13,900-foot Mount Meeker (above) last July did before descending, and so we have a photo of him on top of the world, grinning, surrounded by sharp mountain peaks. But something went terribly wrong afterward, because it took searchers almost a month to find his body in steep terrain below the summit.

I don’t know why these four men (one who was in his 60s but the others  younger) drove themselves to challenge the mountain, possibly beyond their capabilities or skills. Was it a desire to impress others or to prove something to themselves? Was it arrogance  or ignorance that made them push on when they should have turned back?

I just wish they would have taken the advice of the National Park Service, as well as others who posted online comments, like this one, about their climbs on Longs Peak:

Best advice I can give you is take your time, every place you step, make sure you are on solid rock, and hug the walls on the ledges and narrows, keep your balance and you will make it. One small mistake could very well be your last.

Take lots of breaks and don’t be afraid to turn around!

Temporary Rewilding

I’m not happy that the government shutdown has caused nearby Rocky Mountain National Park to close. It means I can’t get up to my favorite winter trails— Dream Lake,  Glacier Gorge or the alpine portion of Trail Ridge Road that’s closed to cars in the winter.

And yet I relish the thought that the park is returning to some wild state—if only temporarily. At Wild Basin in winter, normally the road is plowed half way up to the trailhead (that goes to Ouzel Falls), but with no park staff to plow the road, the gate is now closed at the entrance station. This week, when I skied down the road (below) that I usually drive, it felt like the landscape was returning to some  natural state, with the snow piling up on the dirt road and being pushed around by the wind rather than a plow truck.

Most visitors to the park hike in only a mile or so from the trailhead, so if they are starting at the now closed entrance, that means most of the park is empty of humans.

I wonder if the animals notice the difference. Suddenly, they don’t have to be careful crossing the road and don’t have tourists with cameras following their every move. With the new blanket of snow, the trails and unplowed roads blend into the landscape. Maybe best of all, there’s complete silence—no motor noise, no human chatter, no garbage cans or restroom doors clanging. Maybe even the hibernating bears can get some sleep.

I’ve read that humans have more of an impact on nature than we know, that animals stay clear of human trails. Without humans, maybe the elk feel calmer, or the bobcats and coyotes are better able to hear the sounds of their prey—mice scurrying through the grasses, for example. Maybe the stellar jays are talking among themselves—they love to chatter —about how quiet it is. Where did all the humans go?

We’re waiting, some of us not so patiently, on the edges of the park, for it to reopen. Meanwhile, beyond human reach— in the ponderosa forests, open meadows and high mountains— nature is taking a deep sigh, enjoying the quiet and slow pace before the government opens again, the entrance gates come up, and humans rush in with all our noise, trash, speediness and self-obsession.

 

For the Love of Cold

A bulge of arctic air descended on Colorado last week. When I went cross-country skiing on Saturday, the high was 15 degrees. But out on the trail, enjoying each stretch of the skis through powdered snow, marveling at the thick layers of snow on the high peaks, and feeling the comfort of the sun’s rays, I didn’t mind the cold; in fact, it felt good. After a summer of hot weather and little precipitation—a weather pattern that extended into the fall—the cold seems like a luxury, something to enjoy, relish and be grateful for.

Last November, I was inside the cabin staring out at the few inches of snow on the ground—an early winter gift. On my computer I saw a story about a fire that destroyed the town of Paradise, California. At first I couldn’t make my brain compute—trying to correlate the snow on the ground here with the videos of the gray ruins of a town and flames ravaging forests. Surely, this was some technical glitch on the Internet, producing a story from last summer. When I realized the horrifying truth, I could only wish for snow and cold to descend on California, as it eventually did.

In this age of climate change and increasing fires, winter has become a respite. After worrying all summer that a fire would break out among the cabins and forests in Meeker Park and the rest of Colorado, and watching the ponderosas, aspens, willow bushes and flowering plants start to suffer from lack of moisture, I relax now, knowing that the blanket of snow is replenishing the trees and other vegetation.   

After days last summer of smoky skies and air from fires to the West, for the next few months I don’t have to worry about breathing in the noxious air when I  go for a walk. And I don’t have to avoid going for a hike in the middle of the day because it’s too hot. Instead I can enjoy our clear skies, deeply blue once again, inhale the sharp, cold air and even enjoy the natural warmth of the sun.

More than that, the cold feels like a challenge, like something alive, something that wakes us up. Cold reminds us that the world can be hostile and that we have to be constantly alert. A small thing like accidentally getting my glove wet (dropping it in the snow, for example) when I’m out hiking or skiing can lead to serious consequences, like frostbite. Or if I take the wrong turn on a trail and got lost, even if for a short period of time, I could suffer from hypothermia if I can’t find my way back before early darkness and cold descended.

On the other hand, warmth puts us at ease and lulls us into a sense of security that might not be warranted in this day and age when glaciers are melting, the sea is rising, and a whole town can be wiped out by a catastrophic fire.

Even as I write this, the temperatures here in the mountains have climbed into the 50s—almost unheard of at 8,500 feet in January and another ominous sign of global warming. The snow is starting to melt around the edges, and the creeks are already thawing. I’m already looking forward to the next cold snap.

Let There Be Light

The winter days here in the mountains, at 8500 feet, are shorter than the days on the plains where I live, at 5400 feet. That’s because every morning the sun has to work its up way up all the ranges of foothills and then down into the canyons and up into the foothills again before it reaches our small valley, surrounded by hills and mountains.

When I take my afternoon walk, I’m well aware that the sun will slip behind Mount Meeker all too soon. Actually, “slip” is too passive a description. It feels more like the massive mountain has snatched the sun from the sky, abruptly cutting off the day and leaving me in darkness too soon.

On my walk, I keep my eye on the sun’s orbit, how it hovers just above the pine-covered hill to the south. If the trees on the top ridge are taller than the rest, I  momentarily lose my light, so I scurry down the road to where the sunlight—and warmth—are still lingering. There, along the willow bushes and the valley bottom, I’m greeted by two Scottish Highland cattle (left), their thick, shaggy fur helping them withstand our frigid winter nights.

Although we have snow, it hasn’t been enough to crush the tall grasses, which still stand golden and tall. Across the meadow, the tops of the small grove of white aspens catch the last bit of sunlight. When I finally get back to the cabin, I stand on the road, not wanting to go inside yet, not ready to let go of the light, especially as each day gets shorter as we approach the solstice.

Looking to the east, the last of the sun’s rays illuminates the peeling logs of my neighbors’ cabin, where two sagging wooden chairs on the porch sit empty. Beyond, I can see back to the meadow, and my heart aches at this tender light, as if this last burst of sun is being distilled into something pure, as if it could quench some unknowable sadness. Perhaps as we age, those last bits of light seem even more precious.

Then the switch goes off, and the world returns to gray. I go inside, turn on all the lights, close the curtains against the darkness and wait for morning.

Winds Aloft

On the ground, the air was relatively calm, almost eerily so. Most of the time it’s windy at the cabin, especially in winter, so when the trees are standing still, it feels like something is amiss: that the ponderosas and aspens are just poised for another round of bad news.

The sky told told its own story—one of turbulence. Not only were the clouds streaming across the sky, they were being stretched and pulled like taffy, leaving strange formations I couldn’t quite make sense of: large quotation marks, oversized hats, flying saucers, lines of white birds with wings outstretched, and dolphins, sharks and turtles chasing each other across the blue sky.

These were not roiling summer cumulus but horizontal winter lenticulars with a mass of contradictions: dark grey and pure whites, definable shapes and ethereal wisps. It was pure chaos, and my head was spinning to keep up with the constant movement.

The energy of the heavens felt palpable, and I wished I were one of the ravens I see flying above Meeker Park, able to leave this solid ground and dance among the clouds. But I’m down here with the pines and aspens, their roots sunk into the ground, just as surely as gravity keeps my feet on the forest floor. When the wind descends, the trees roll and shake, before it pulls back up into the higher altitudes.

I may be rooted to the earth, but I’m keeping my eyes to the sky.

Forest Bathing

While planning for a trip to Germany last May, I sought the advice of a native German about whether the Black Forest in Bavaria was worth a side trip. “It’s just trees,” she said, directing me instead to the more spectacular Alps.

I’ve been thinking about her remark ever since. In doing more hikes in the Colorado forests this summer and fall than I have in the past, I’ve come to realize how much I love being among trees. Maybe because the world has become a scarier place, I feel protected among the aspens and ponderosas. As the world has become more crowded and chaotic, I treasure the sense of quiet and stillness in the deep forest. As I’ve gotten older, I move to a slower pace, and trees offer a deep and measured respite. Or maybe the hot summer made me appreciate the coolness and filtered light.

I grew up among the tall oaks and maples in the Midwest and spent summer vacations among the pines and birch trees of northern Wisconsin. Last month, I was in Wisconsin and discovered an old-growth forest so thick and dark, the light barely penetrated (left). It consisted mostly of dark pines, but even the lighter birch forests (above), aglow in fall, seemed almost impenetrable, as if they were a world unto themselves and nothing existed beyond them. In Colorado, there’s more light and space, especially among the aspens and ponderosas (below), so the forest feels less protected but more cheerful. And nothing matches walking through a redwood forest, which offers something so ancient and huge that it’s on a scale way beyond human.

Like the rest of the world, I’m coming to appreciate trees, and at a time when they are imperiled by climate change, when forests are being replaced with farm fields,  and cities are encroaching on natural areas. At the same time, scientists are discovering how complex trees are and how they benefit humans.  

Reportedly, living near or among trees contributes to better health, including decreased stress hormones, blood pressure and anxiety, while boosting immune function. Scientists are reluctant to give reasons for these health benefits, although trees are known to filter out pollutants from the air. But I think it’s more than that.

Popular new books about trees, like The Hidden Life of Trees, are showing us that trees are capable of communicating with other trees and plants, and are part of a larger network that includes underground micro-organisms. When we’re in a forest—whether aspens, ponderosas, oaks or redwoods—we’re in the presence of a web of invisible connections—all working silently together. One of the most amazing discoveries for me was that soil fungi connect the roots of different trees and provide not just nutrients but information about incoming harmful insects and other possible dangers to the tree.

Although we can’t see this support network, surely, on some level, we can feel life surging and interacting, can feel an intelligent presence beyond our own. A Japanese practice called shinrin-yoku—forest bathing—involves opening all your senses to nature, especially trees. The Japanese have a history of forest worship, including the annual springtime ritual of walking among blossoming cherry trees.

In this country we have our own forest rituals, notably enjoying the fall colors, whether the maroon maples of Vermont or the lemony aspens in Colorado. But my experience is that most people drive past the trees, stopping only to take photos.

To really experience their magic, you have to walk into the forest and bathe in the light, smells and sounds. Or lay on your back and stare up at the web of interweaving branches.  Turn off your thoughts. Strip yourself of all your defenses. If you’re quiet enough, you might hear the fungi passing secret information or the trees softly inhaling and exhaling.

The Pack (Rat) Is Back

So is the snow on Mount Meeker and in Rocky Mountain National Park, the mountains covered in white all the way down into the trees (right). And the ice has returned to the creeks and ponds. In some places, it’s just a lacy fringe on the edges, while the creek still flows strong and pure through the middle (like on the Big Thompson, River, below). In other places, it’s an opaque green shimmer or side eddies where the aspen leaves were trapped and froze in place.

While I’m just now confronting the reality of winter, the woodrat (more commonly known as a pack rat) in my shed started getting ready for the cold and snow last summer. It was sometime in early fall when I noticed garlands of aspen branches, with the leaves still green, laid down around the base of the stairs. Upstairs is a platform that holds lumber in what used to be a garage (when cars in the 1930s and 40s were small enough to fit). It was in this attic space that I first laid eyes on the pack rat a few years ago and found similar wreaths of aspen branches, in what seemed artistically arranged, on top of piles of wood up there.

At the time I discovered things missing from the shelves: paint can openers, empty metal food cans and yogurt containers that I used to wash off paint brushes. Woodrats are known for collecting shiny objects, although I couldn’t find any research about why.  I did find an article (from Wikipedia) that says that climate scientists are using their middens—nests—to measure changes in vegetation, because materials in the midden (such as sticks and leaves) can be preserved for up to 50,000 years (through a urinary process you probably don’t want to know about).

When I first discovered the woodrat several years ago, neighbors warned me about what would happen if the pack rat got into the cabin: basically reshuffling all my belongings and pooping on everything else. So I made a point to leave the garage door open, just to let the animal know that the shed wasn’t a safe place. Eventually, it disappeared, and I haven't seen any evidence of the animal for a few years.

I don’t know if the pack rat midden I found a few weeks ago was made by a new rodent or perhaps by a descendant of the original. I’m assuming the garlands of aspens are meant to be a nest, because the same article said that woodrat babies are born naked and helpless and thus must be protected in a safe place. But I’m more baffled by the new installation (below) I found two weeks ago:  small pieces of wood precariously piled up in front of an old refrigerator (that former residents used for extra storage).

 When I looked more closely, I found wood paint stirrers (some covered with the sage green paint that I used to stain my decks) among the wood, plus a yellow nylon cord, an unused paint brush, a metal bracket and stalks from Canada thistles. I had bagged them up last summer, intending to dispose of them, but the little rat devil had gotten into the bag, letting loose hundreds (thousands?) of fluffy white seeds, which have now infiltrated every part of the shed, and making off with the thick stalks to add to its décor.

Inside the shed/garage are other large plastic bags in which I store kindling, tinder and pine needles to use for my wood-burning stove. I picture this creature going through the bags, carefully choosing pieces and then piling them up, one by one, and then walking along the shelf that holds cans, nails and other hardware, and selecting the paint stirrers, nylon cord and paint brush to add to its fixture.

But what is the point of this installation? My most likely conjecture is that it is a  barricade to stop predators or other animals from getting close to the nearby aspen nest. But who knows what goes through the mind of a pack rat?

This is an animal that most people would put at the bottom of their list of interesting animals. Yet the woodrat has not only managed to create an elegant nest but a fortress of sorts, and make it aesthetically pleasing. Some people would say I should destroy the nests and piles, do everything I can to get rid of this animal. But in these harsh times, how could I have anything but love for something that is so inventive and so determined to survive?

The Trail Less Traveled

This past summer I deliberately sought out trails I once considered boring. They lack the all-encompassing views from mountaintops, dazzling alpine lakes or dramatic waterfalls—all the reasons people visit or move to Colorado. But what these unexciting places lack in spectacular scenery they make up for in a wilder and quieter experience.

Last year more than 4 million people visited Rocky Mountain National Park, with most of the visitors arriving in summer. The roads are choked with traffic that comes to a complete halt every time someone spots a moose or elk near the road, and then tries to get as close as possible for a good photo.

The parking lots are packed, and the trails crowded. On the popular trails, I spend a lot of time stopping to talk to fellow hikers about where they’re headed, how far it is, what the trail’s like, and where they’re from. I enjoy these interactions, but it makes for a different experience than being alone in nature.

At the popular alpine lakes, every available boulder with a good view is taken. At times you can’t see the forest for the folks. Last summer, at one of my favorite spots, Mills Lake, I saw a man do a dramatic dive into the lake from a tall cliff and then perform handstands on a boulder that was visible from most of the lake: Was he craving attention or just celebrating nature in his own way? It’s hard to know, but more and more there’s a circus-like quality to the crush of humans on these trails.

 

 

 

 

 

So last summer and into fall, I’ve sought out  the less-popular trails. These are places where it’s quiet enough to feel nature’s own rhythms, where the natural world operates on a different scale than that of humans. Even the most relaxed animals (and I think of the ground squirrels, right, that pose seemingly without a care in the world) are always on the alert, not just for predators but for food or any changes in their surroundings. Their survival depends on being constantly aware.

But we humans blithely enter this realm chattering away or listening to our headphones, intent on finding the best place to take a selfie. We subtly—or not so subtly---alter nature. As the number of humans fill up the wild spaces, we drown out the quieter and more attentive presence of nature.

When I left the beaten path last summer, I found trails where I passed no more than 10 fellow hikers, compared to the maybe 50-70  I usually encounter on the trail to Mills Lake. On these lonely trails, I found a rare orchid along a hidden stream that led to a tundra empty of people but full of wildflowers, and groves of aspens taller than what I usually see on the eastern side of the mountains.

One trail that I hadn’t been on for at least 20 years follows a creek through dense pine forests so quiet and peaceful that the cry of a vireo can pierce the air, and the blue grouse (left), which usually blends into its surroundings, became visible. Best of all, I felt myself slowing down and becoming more alert to everything around me, aligning myself with the pace of the creek, the wind, the birds, the trees.  

 

 

 

Even in the park, I’ve found trails that most visitors don’t bother with. One ascends a hillside that provides views below of a wide meadow where a creek meanders back and forth among tall grasses.

Another park trail near my cabin, one bypassed by most people who instead aim for well-known waterfalls, puts you almost face to face with  Mount Meeker (above); at the top is a hillside covered with aspens, where I can listen to the leaves in the wind or sit by the small murmuring creek without being disturbed by any voices except the chickadee.

Last month on a popular trail west of Nederland, I took the trail that diverged from one that goes to a popular lake. Instead, it leads to a wide open meadow (above) with views to the north of a cirque of  bare, dark peaks and to the east toward hillsides of aspen. As I sat taking in the view and enjoying the silence, a moose emerged from the woods. There was no else to see it, just me, and when the moose wandered back into the forest, it was almost like it never happened.

Soggy, Finally

Last Wednesday at the cabin was one of those fall days you want to grab ahold of and hang onto as long as possible: a fresh wind, yellow aspens decorating the cabin, chipmunks underfoot, a perfect blue sky, wild turkeys murmuring while they did their daily neighborhood perambulation.

By Sunday, everything had changed. The turkeys were still doing their circuit, but now through mist, drizzle, fog and intermittent rain. As I did my usual walk around Meeker Park, the landscape was bathed in dripping gray, the ground soft and yielding instead of crispy and brittle, as it had been most of the summer. I could almost hear the tree roots sucking up the water. On top of Mount Meeker, when the clouds parted for a few minutes, I spotted snow, the first of the season.

In the morning, there had been a brief period of sunlight, while the clouds were kept at bay, but then the fog started moving in from the east, engulfing whole hillsides.

In the eerie silence of the fog, I heard and saw chickadees, juncos, jays and blackbirds. Earlier, two red-tailed hawks had spun around each other in the air. In this monotone landscape, the few aspen leaves still on the trees glittered like dazzling earrings.

I had planned a long hike, eager to stretch my legs, but the dampness and the cold temperatures made me turn around. On my way back, I walked along the creek and through grasses that looked bleached, so pale that they shone with their own light.

On this Sunday, up and down the road, summer residents were closing up cabins for the winter. The earth had shifted; I could feel it, even before the clouds moved in. It wasn’t just from summer to winter (fall only lasts a few weeks in the mountains) but from something open and soft to something closed and harsh, a world a bit more unyielding.