Cabin Journal

Path of Destruction

In an effort to escape from the destruction and chaos I –and the whole country—witnessed this week in our hallowed grounds of the U.S. Capitol, I headed to one of my refuges: Rocky Mountain National Park. A few weeks ago, the Park Service had announced the reopening of several areas in the park that had been consumed by wildfires in October.

One of them was Moraine Park, one of the iconic places in RMNP, a broad open valley surrounded by high peaks, with a creek that meanders in summer through tall grasses and willow bushes. In fall, it’s the favorite place to view the huge elk herds that come down from the high country and to listen to the male elk  “bugle” their threats against other bulls.

But there were no elk in Moraine Park this week, because there’s no grass to eat. Instead, a swath of black scorched earth ran in a straight line through the valley, like a river of destruction. Many of the willow bushes were burnt or gone altogether, and aspen and ponderosa trees were toppled. Instead of grasses surrounding the creek, it was bordered by charred soil. The blackened trunks of pines lay on the ground, and whole hillsides were devoid of anything except boulders (left). A  large juniper tree had lost all its needles, while the branches stretched out, as if pleading with the heavens.

It was a scene of desecration, a ruined and mostly empty landscape, and I could only imagine the ferocity of the flames that tore through this valley, whipped up by strong winds. I can only imagine the number of small animals, such as chipmunks and ground squirrels, that couldn’t escape the inferno. The silence testified to their absence.

And yet, a surprising number of trees still stood. Although some of the giant ponderosa pines were blackened at the bottom of their trunks, with their roots sunk deep into the rocky ground, the rest of the tree still looked healthy with green needles.  Around one of the trees was a clump of pine cones— perhaps a promise of new life. Some of the aspen also were burned at their base, yet remained standing, although it will be spring before we see if the leaves emerge and how many survived.

I remembered the last time a fire raged through Moraine Park in October 2012. When I visited the park the following June, the grasses in the park were more lush and thick than I had seen in decades.

In this blackened and too quiet landscape, there’s hope. Hope that the grasses will return in summer, that the pines still standing will survive, that the aspens, with their interconnected roots, will leaf out come May, and that the elk and smaller creatures will return.

Amid the dead trees and the smell of burnt earth, I heard a bird sing. There’s always hope.

Out of the Darkness

My favorite holiday story seems even more relevant and poignant during this  pandemic. It took place in a far different time—around 1919—when life was much more difficult than now—colder and snowier winters, hard, physical work and less food—a time when seeing a friend for Christmas meant an eight-mile journey on snowshoes.

Katherine Garetson had a cabin, from which she ran a teahouse in summer, not far from where my cabin is today. She and her friend, Esther, who lived near Estes Park, 16 miles away, agreed one summer to meet the following Christmas at a half-way spot between their two homes. Because there was no way for them to confirm their engagement—no phones nor mail service—each had to set out on Dec. 25 hoping the other would be there.

Writing about her life in Meeker Park (later published as “Homesteading Big Owl”), Katherine said the short and cold days had made her depressed enough to take the chance that Esther would be there. The snow was likely deep, unlike today, where climate change has brought little snow, and I imagine her struggling through deep snowdrifts.

Amazingly, Esther showed up, and the two greeted each other with tears,  cleared out a place in a snowbank, built a fire and sat on newspapers while they dined on soup, coffee and bacon sandwiches. They had only an hour to catch up on each other’s lives—and to curb the loneliness of winter—before they had to trudge back through the cold and snow to their respective homes.

In this time of social isolation, their story reverberates even more. While we have the technological tools—Zoom, phones, email and social media—to keep in touch, we’re missing the human contact. That Esther and Katherine would endure the hardships of snow and cold, even possible death if a snowstorm overtook them, speaks to our innate need for human connection and warmth.

Out of the darkness of this winter, may our hearts keep lit the flame that connects us all, even when apart.

Chased by a Moose

Last week, I set out for my usual afternoon walk around Meeker Park when I spied a moose in the field. If I kept going on the road, and the moose stayed where it was, I would pass within several feet of it. Because it showed no inclination to move, standing as erect and still as a statue—I wisely altered my course and went in the opposite direction.

Having moose in the neighborhood has brought a new awareness when I hike. There’s an animal—one that can weigh as much as 1200 pounds and stand as tall as 6½ feet, not including its antlers—that could run me down, if it wanted. You don’t realize how big these animals are until you see it dwarfing your car or hanging out in your front yard (in the two photos below, taken last summer).

Most visitors to the Colorado mountains are fearful of bears or mountain lions. I see people with bells on their packs, meant to scare off bears. But I know, to use an old cliché, that bears are more scared of me than I am of them, that they’ll go to great lengths to avoid humans. The same goes for mountain lions, the only other big predator here in the Rocky Mountains that could kill me if it so desired.

But moose have poor eyesight, so if you stumble across one and it didn’t hear you coming, it won’t wait to see if you’re friend or foe, but charge you just in case you’re a mountain lion. Despite their huge size and awkward-looking body—a massive torso and antlers, which can weigh 50 pounds, combined with narrow legs—moose are able to run at speeds of up to 35 miles per hour.

I’ve had several near confrontations with moose. Last summer, walking my  usual route around Meeker Park, I saw a male moose standing in the road, so I went up the hill to avoid it, but it kept walking toward me. At some point I realized there was a young moose nearby, so I changed directions, but Dad kept coming.  I wasn’t seriously scared, because there were cabins and cars around where I could have sought help. Eventually, the moose and I peacefully parted ways, but it was a good reminder for me to be always alert.

Despite their huge size, they have an amazing ability to blend in with the woods. I once took a photo of some aspen trees in the mountains, and when I looked at my pictures later, hiding in plain sight among the trees was a moose that I hadn’t seen.

Last fall, when Rocky Mountain National Park was on its permit system, and I didn’t have a permit for that day, I sneaked into Wild Basin along the creek, where the willow bushes can hide a moose. Twice, I emerged from thrashing around in the bushes to find a moose staring at me, while I slowly backed off, uttering what I hoped were comforting words: “Nice moose. Hi moose. I’m leaving now.”

Over the years, as moose have become a permanent fixture in the landscape around the cabin, I’ve learned to make noise when I’m walking through aspens and willow bushes—moose’s favorite food. If I have my hiking poles, I’ll clank them together. Or I’ll clap loudly. Just to let them know I’m there.

Many years ago, I was in Juneau, Alaska, and decided to go for a walk on a dirt road that led up the hill and out of town. Part way up, I suddenly thought: Wait, aren’t there grizzly bears around? I headed back down the hill a lot quicker than when I came up.

Being around animals that could kill you sharpens your senses, makes you aware of every sound, every snap of a twig, every slight movement in the landscape. It keeps me on my toes, keeps me alive.

A Tree Mutilated

In October, my new neighbors had a wedding party at their house, a noisy affair that disturbed the tranquility of the neighborhood. But what was worse was that the happy couple carved a heart into one of the oldest trees in our little community  (and also draped a white sash around the trunk). It’s a ponderosa pine, its diameter so wide that it would take three people to wrap their arms around its trunk. While this is not  large compared to the redwoods on the west coast or some of the oaks in the Midwest, in arid Colorado not only is it a huge tree but an old one—more than a hundred years, at least—and worthy of veneration.

So noteworthy is this tree that, in the realtor’s ads for this house, the tree was mentioned as a selling point. In Meeker Park, old timers speak respectfully and lovingly of this giant ponderosa and might tell new visitors about it in the same way we would recommend a walk to the waterfalls or seeing the moose along the creek.

Carving your initials into a tree is an ancient tradition—especially to celebrate lovers’ relationships; there’s even a name for it—arborglyphs. All over Colorado you can see aspen trees carved with initials and other symbols. Aspens’ bark is soft, easy to cut into, as well as to chew. When other food is scarce, bears, elk and moose eat the nutritious bark (left are their teeth marks).

Some of the aspens don’t survive their wounds, but aspens have short life spans (50-60 years) and are quickly replaced by new saplings. But ponderosas can live hundreds of years. Cutting into tree bark is like cutting into skin that protects the tree’s cells as well as the xylem and phloem that transports water and nutrients between the tree’s roots and its crown. It leaves the tree more vulnerable to pathogens. I once read that the right conditions for a ponderosa to successfully grow occur only once every 60 years. If this tree dies, it won’t be replaced anytime soon.  

When I visited the tree a few weeks after the carving, sap was running from the wound. It hurts to see this ancient, venerable tree treated like this. Because this tree is on private property, this couple could defend their actions by saying the tree “belongs” to them, and they can do what they want. But, in truth, the earth isn’t private property. Native Americans believed we all shared the earth; it wasn’t until non-native  people started erecting fences that the idea of private ownership started. That tree doesn’t belong to any individual, just as the sky or the mountains or the moose don’t belong to us.

We’re all visitors here, walking the same ground and breathing the same air, each of us trying to survive the best we can. I hope the tree survives, just like I hope we all survive our continuous assaults on nature. It's time to be caregivers of this earth rather than destroyers.

 

Welcoming Winter

At the cabin this week, I went for a walk in nearby Wild Basin. It was a cold and windy day, with a few inches of snow on the ground, and the creek was beginning to freeze. I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day.

Just to be on this familiar trail again was a treat because Wild Basin, the southernmost part of Rocky Mountain National Park and just a few miles from my cabin, has been inaccessible almost all summer either because of the fires or the pandemic restrictions. The icing on the cake was that the weather was what it should be  for November. Very little this year has been normal, including our hot and dry weather  that led to our destructive wildfires in October. Two weeks ago at the cabin, temperatures were in the 60s—at least 20 degrees warmer than the average for the beginning of winter here.

But winter, which our local weather expert defines as between October and May in the mountains, is finally taking hold here. At Wild Basin, Copeland Falls was partially frozen, the narrow channel of falling winter fringed by small ice sculptures. The pond below the falls was a sheet of pale green ice covered by a few inches of smooth and silky water.

Enjoying the soft snow underfoot, I walked along the river—a ribbon of water that looped gracefully and quietly between clumps of ice and rocks topped with knots of snow. The air was fresher and cleaner than it had been for months, maybe since last spring. It felt good just to breathe.

Although some areas of the park are still closed because firefighters are  checking on hot spots and determining the damage, some of the outlying areas, like Wild Basin, opened last week. Another place that had been closed most of the summer was Twin Owls, where smoke was visible in September and October from the Cameron Peak fire over the next ridge.

But last week, there was no signs of smoke unless you mistook the plumes of snow whipping off the high peaks for evidence of fire. But it was just the winds—our normal winter winds that can often gust at 60 mph—streaming off the back side of Longs Peak and the range of mountains that extends to Mount Bierstadt.

The weather forecast for this winter is not good: warmer temperatures and less snow. It’s not good for skiers, not good for water users and not good for the West as a whole, which is experiencing a severe to extreme drought. Could next summer bring worse fires?  

 Bring on the cold. Bring on the snow.

The Mysteries of Nature

Every year, like clockwork, a flock of turkeys appears around the cabin. This year I counted 10 of them, as they sauntered between my cabin and my neighbors’, making soft clucking noises. I’m happy to welcome them back, but where have they been all summer and, why do they only come down to the valley bottom in fall?

In the first years I bought the cabin, I was satisfied to admire all the wildlife and nature around me—the chipmunks, ground squirrels and birds, plus the occasional deer, elk, bobcat and bear—without wondering about their lives. But gradually, with a ring-side view of nature,  I started observing patterns and wanted to know more.

After years of being here, I noticed the ground squirrels go into hibernation in September while the chipmunks (left) wait another month before hunkering down for the winter. Yet, I just noticed a chipmunk this week. Why was it delaying its winter rest? I found a partial answer when I read that adult chipmunks hibernate first, followed by the young ones—those born last spring. Which raises new questions: why do the younger ones hang around longer? I can only presume it’s to fatten up as much as possible for the winter. But if their parents have already gone to sleep, how do the young ones know where to burrow down for the winter? And why do the chipmunks spend longer above ground than the ground squirrels?

Similarly, I read that the younger hummingbirds hang around our forests longer than the parents before migrating south. But how do they know the route, if their parents aren’t showing them the way?  It boggles my mind to think that somewhere imprinted in their tiny brain is a pathway to Mexico they’ve never taken before.

Meanwhile, the chickarees—the frenetic gray squirrels—don’t hibernate at all. Why don’t they join their rodent cousins in sleeping away the winter? For one thing, they can escape the snow and predators by living high up in the trees.

Every spring, the house wrens (right) arrive, filling the forest with their lilting songs, and build a nest that I observe all summer. Shortly after their young ones fledge, the birds disappear, sometime in late August. Where are they spending their winters?  According to a Cornell Lab map, they head to the southern parts of the U.S. and Mexico, so now I can imagine them enjoying the warmer weather.

Why do some birds migrate and others stay here all winter long? Can the Steller’s jays, the juncos and chickadees withstand the cold better than the wrens and swallows who leave for warmer climes? My best guess is that the year-long residents’ food source is the nuts and seeds, while the migrating birds depend on insects that die with the cold.

The moose also hang out all winter in Meeker Park, as long as their main food source—the willow bushes—are plentiful. If not, they gnaw at the soft aspen bark. Some questions I have no answers for. Why are there so few deer and elk when neighboring Estes Park is overrun with the elk? Why are there no raccoons here?

Still, the creature that creates the most wonderment for me is the pack rat that lives in my garage/shed where I store my firewood. Since I haven’t needed firewood this summer, I’ve not been paying close attention to the disturbances in the garage. But now that cold weather is here, I went looking for a missing hand saw to cut logs, wondering if the pack rat had made off with it. As I searched the darkest recesses of the garage, I found that the creature had set pine boughs on the floor next to a small structure it had built of foot-long sticks, including two green paint can stirrers—adding a little color to what could have been a drab assemblage. On the other side of the garage, beneath the stairs, it had woven a nest of pink insulation that likely came from underneath the cabin. On the stairs was another sculpture of sticks, which appeared to be placed so as to block access to the upstairs, possibly where the real nest is.

But the most amazing piece was on the wall where I hang paintbrushes and tools. On one of the nails the pack rat had hung an aspen branch that still had green leaves on (right). Amazing because a branch on the wall serves no useful purpose for this animal, unlike the nests and possible barricades on the floor.

This forces me to wonder if an animal, with a brain not much larger than a walnut, could create something purely decorative, with no purpose but to put a little beauty on a utilitarian wall.  And maybe to delight the human next door.

It boggles my mind and makes me wonder what else I don’t know about the animal world. There’s still much to be discovered.

Fire and Ice

A week ago Saturday, as I bicycled home, what looked like clouds of smoke to the north started ballooning up into something ominous and dark, with clouds reaching thousands of feet into the sky. It was the start of what became known as the CalWood fire, and that night I watched from my backyard as flames consumed hillsides of pine trees about 7 miles to the northwest.

All summer long I had been watching the progress of fires across the West, horrified by the pictures of forests and towns being consumed by fire. All summer long I had been breathing in the smoke from fires on the West Coast and on the western slope of Colorado. But this latest fire was hitting close to home. I knew these hills, had hiked and driven through them, and one of my favorite places to hike looked to be burning as I watched.

Two days later, under dry and windy conditions, another fire started, even closer to my home in Boulder. When I read the list of closed streets and canyons, and the areas of evacuation, I knew them all, could picture what was being destroyed. My route to the cabin, the South St. Vrain Canyon, was closed as it became the northern containment line for the CalWood fire.

Meanwhile, another fire, the Cameron Peak fire, in the county to the north had been burning since August, covering the whole Front Range, including Denver, with thick smoke that made it difficult to be outside.

With at least four wildfires burning unpredictably, I came to the cabin last week, hoping to find the sweet spot between the fires where I could breathe clean (or, at least, cleaner) air. But winds from the southeast carried the smoke from the CalWood fire into Meeker Park, and I was soon engulfed in smoke. The landscape (above) is beautiful and horrifying at the same time, because the smoke, like fog, softens everything, and the mountains, trees and grasses have a gauzy look. The sun setting behind Longs Peak (below) looks spectacular until you start to breathe the smoke, your eyes start tearing and your chest hurts. It’s not beautiful; it’s deadly.

But just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did. A fire that started near the western edge of Rocky Mountain National Park, driven by strong winds, beetle-killed pines and extreme drought conditions, consumed 100,000 acres in one day. So powerful was the fire that it leapt over the tundra—a treeless and usually cold terrain at an altitude of 10,000 feet—and sparked fires in the trees below, before heading toward Estes Park.

As the fire, ironically called Troublesome, came down into the eastern side of RMNP, the tourist town was evacuated. I watched the videos and photos of streams of cars heading down the only two open roads under dark orange skies that made daylight into night.

The fires were close enough that Meeker Park was under a pre-evacuation order (meaning, get ready), and most of my neighbors at the cabin headed down into the valley to find shelter. I spent a frantic two days reading every alert that came across my phone and computer, trying to track the fire’s progress to see how close it was to the cabin, hoping that the forecasted snows would arrive before the flames.

As I write this, a blanket of snow has tamped down the fires for now, but fire experts say the fire is so hot that it’s still active, lurking in burnt trees and under the ground, ready to emerge again once the snow melts, the temperature rises and especially if the winds pick up again.

In normal years, heavy snows would be blanketing the high country, and any fire danger would have ended in September at the latest, but it’s almost November now, and those of us who live near the fire are being told to remain alert.

Last spring, it felt like my world went upside down with a pandemic that closed most of the local trails and parks. Although many opened again this summer, the season ended with the national forests and RMNP closed because of fires or the threat of fires. For the fires to be followed by snows that once more shut down our world could seem like irony or something more ominous.

Although right now it appears that I, and the other residents of Meeker Park and Estes Park, dodged a bullet, the gun is still loaded. The conditions that caused the fires—mainly a hotter planet—won’t go away with one snowstorm.

Something’s Blowing In

As the last of the aspen leaves fall from the trees, pushed along by strong winds over the last few days, I feel a shift in the world. It feels like the last few months of smoky and hot weather have ended and something else is opening up. Perhaps the jet stream that was holding everything in place has finally broken down, and new fresh air is coming in. Everything seems lighter, like months of stagnation have ended, and there’s a new world coming. It’s more than the arrival of winter, which has been delayed by our still warm weather and lack of moisture.

Like a tipping point, this time between the heat and dryness of summer and the snow and cold of winter is  brief. It’s like being on the top of the roller coaster, after you’ve slowly, agonizingly climbed up from the bottom, and you’re poised at the top, before the rush downward to something you don’t know. But at the top, there’s a pause, a hush almost, as if everything has been leading up to this moment.

This week, the path along Mill Creek in Rocky Mountain National Park was strewn with dried aspen leaves, as if laid down for royalty or for a wanderer to follow to some unknown but sacred place.  In the creek the bright leaves clung to the dark rocks, thick enough to form small aspen dams. Above me, the tops of the aspens danced in the wind, beckoning me to join them. I let them sway me, while keeping one eye on the trail, in case someone came along and caught me in the act of rapture.

The air was redolent with the smell of drying vegetation, while the wind gathered up the last of the aspen leaves and sent them soaring and tumbling through the air. For now, let the winds carry me where they will.

A Very Different Summer

I know it’s been a smoky and somber summer when the first thing I do when I see blue sky is reach for my camera to record this rare moment. It’s not only the blue skies that startles me but the sight of the aspen turning golden. Of course that also causes sadness, because it means the season of life is coming to an end here in the mountains. Already the summer birds, including the hummingbirds, have migrated to their seasonal homes, and the ground squirrels have gone underground for the winter.

I have to remind myself that the aspen aren’t dying; it’s just their outer appearance changing as their leaves drop. The trunks and limbs will endure as long as their root systems can dig deep into the earth and find water and sustenance.

As summer closes out, I realize all my usual summer routines have been disrupted. What I expected didn’t happen, and the unexpected made frequent appearances.  All winter long, I looked forward to my favorite summer hikes to high alpine lakes or to the tundra—places that exist above the normal human world. These are my touchstones, the places that take me beyond myself. But circumstances beyond my control—or anyone else’s—forced a change in plans.

First, the pandemic caused two of my favorite places—Rocky Mountain National Park and the Brainard Lake wilderness area—to restrict the number of visitors. It was difficult, if not impossible sometimes, to get permits that would work with my schedule.  Even when I was able to get an entry permit, smoky skies made it unhealthy to do long and strenuous hikes. And as I get older, I get tired more easily, so it takes longer to reach my destination—if I’m able to make it that far.

What do you do when the places you love become unreachable? I’ve had to find other places, and in the process my world has opened up. I’ve had to be willing to try different destinations  rather than stay on the same heavily trod trails. But I’ve also come to appreciate the old familiar hikes.  

I’ve found that I rather hike on trails that are less spectacular but less crowded than ones where hikers form a continuous line going up to the waterfalls and coming down. I experience nature best when I have a singular relationship, where I can pause on the trail to admire the view or a well-shaped tree without blocking traffic.

This week I returned to a trail that led to a lake I once rejected as boring. But I knew the area wasn’t as heavily used as the popular Bear Lake location and that the hillsides of aspen are enough to take your breath away (top photo). They didn’t disappoint. But more surprising was that the lake (Bierstadt) was just what I was looking for without knowing it—calm blue waters surrounded by dense pines and grasses. When I first got there, I was the only one there, and so for maybe 15 minutes I got to enjoy total peace and quiet.

Like everyone else in the world, I’m adjusting to a new world, with a lot of scrapes and bumps along the way, frustrations but also new discoveries—even new joys, especially a new appreciation for Colorado's deep blue skies.

Resilience Under Gray Skies

A few weeks ago, on a day when the smoke from wildfires was especially thick, I went out for a walk around Meeker Park, looking for something familiar and comforting. Weeks of white skies, uncharacteristic for Colorado, and lack of any moisture and wind made the landscape seem lifeless and unfamiliar. Even the birds were quiet or had left for cleaner air, wherever that might be.

In some places, the aspen, which didn’t leaf out until June—a month late—were starting to give up, their leaves turning yellow or brown, a month earlier than usual. In the meadows, the grasses were brown, and the tall angelica were reduced to the bare outlines of their starburst shapes.

Yet I was stopped in my tracks by the sight of a black-eyed susan (left) flowering in the middle of this dusty road. It’s about as short as I’ve ever seen one and could get trampled easily by a car’s wheels, yet its emergence from the ground, in these least favorable conditions for growth, signaled some urge for survival, heeding some ancient need to keep its species going.  

I’m constantly amazed by the resilience of nature. A pine cone seed lodges among rocks, and somehow the tree manages to twist itself around and through the rocks and grow, reaching for the sun while digging deep in the rocks for water. Under those conditions, it might only live for a few years, yet it keeps going, even if it landed in the least optimal place to survive. Somehow the tree accepts its fate and still strives for life.

On my drive to and from the cabin, for the past month, I've passed a field of tall sunflowers.  No matter how dark the skies or how little moisture we've gotten, they are always standing straight up, their cheery faces looking toward the sun. My heart lifts every time I see them.

A few weeks ago, I saw a hummingbird on the ground, not a good place for a tiny vulnerable bird. It held one wing out at a strange angle, and I guessed it might be injured. Because it probably couldn’t fly well enough to hover over flowers and get the  nectar, instead it poked through the mud on the ground, looking for a meal of insects. If one door is closed, try opening another. Nature finds ways to survive.

Before our snow this week, the trees hadn’t received any real moisture for more than a month, and yet they endure. Some are more than 100 years old, and they know how to conserve for hard times.

Finding resilience is a lesson humans can learn, because it feels like we’ve squandered too much. So I’ll take heart from the trees, from the purple asters and yellow daisies clinging to life in the heat and smoke and from the blue dragonflies that circle the pond. Keep going. Dig deep. Persist in any way you can. Life is probably not going to get any easier.