Cabin Journal

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.

Sky, Clouds and Aspen

While people flock to the mountains this time of the year to admire the golden aspen, the trees themselves are exhausted and ready for a good hibernation. According to fascinating book, The Hidden Life of Trees, deciduous trees in autumn are expending the last of their energy breaking down chlorophyll and storing energy for winter.

Somehow I sense their exhaustion. Maybe it’s that the colors this year are lackluster, fading into a pale yellow rather than erupting into brilliant gold, orange or even red. Or the fact that so many aspen died off a week or two earlier than usual, as if they had enough of this hot, dry weather and are ready for a good, long snooze.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Still, I’ve let myself enjoy every single minute of the aspen’s last hurrah of the season: the light that pours out of the aspen and into every pore of my body, the soft clacking of their leaves, the smell of ripe vegation, or how the wind stirs everything—the branches, the grasses, the hair on my arms.

This year, instead of being awed by whole hillsides of quaking aspen, I’ve been drawn to the smaller views: how the aspen drape over the rusting well handle and prayer flags behind the cabin; how the ripe colors mix with the peeled wood of the shed; how an aspen glows at the end of a  dirt road among the somber ponderosas.

 

 

I take photos, even though I know they won’t capture the totality of the light, the wind, the smells, the sounds. Sometimes I just soak it all in, letting myself feel the sadness of another summer season gone, knowing that time is fleet-footed and the best I can do is pause and feel it all.

 

And if that moment includes a few luminescent aspen framed against a depthless blue sky and some pure white wispy clouds, that’s enough.

Out of Control

Five years ago, the skies opened up and dumped 18 inches of rain in the mountains here, more than we get in a whole year. The flood wiped out the roads in three canyons extending from Estes Park, including the South St. Vrain, my route to and from the cabin. The flooding isolated at least three towns, destroying homes and lives.

When I think back to that time—I was stranded at the cabin for four days—what sticks with me is the power of nature to alter the landscape. Our small Cabin Creek, usually four to five feet wide, had spilled its banks (above) and cut off the main road leading out of Meeker Park.

Up close and personal, I learned that we are powerless in the face of nature’s forces that are far beyond our control. The first day I arrived at the cabin, after only a day of rain, water had already gotten into the attic and was seeping down into the living room, destroying the floor, furniture and ceiling. There was little I could do but put out pails and watch the water permeate the wood.

I just wanted the rain to stop—although not as much as my neighbors who lived directly on the creek and watched it rise with each passing hour—and day—while storing their valuables in their car, so they would be ready when the time came.

It was on the third day of the relentless rain that nature couldn’t hold up anymore, and everything came loose—hillsides, car-size boulders, roads, ponds, houses—anything in the flood’s path. I can’t imagine the force of the water that pushed its way through South St. Vrain Canyon and removed whole chunks of the road, gouged 100-foot holes in the hillside, tore trees out of the riverbed and carried boulders miles downstream. The stream bed was permanently altered, although in our current unstable weather mode, nothing is permanent anymore.

And now, five years later, we’re facing the opposite situation in the mountains: drought. (The photo above, taken this week, is in the same location as the top photo of a flooded Cabin Creek.) There’s been no measurable precipitation for at least a month, and temperatures were in the 80s this week, when they should be in the 60s. The ground is so dry it feels as if my hiking boots hitting a rock could spark a fire. To make things worse, the winds have been strong all week,  enough to blow over the metal chair on my front deck.

I just want the winds to stop and for the heavens to open up again. Two inches of rain, even an inch, would help. But, as we learned five years ago, and as the people in the rain-soaked Carolinas are learning now, we’re powerless. In a time when the climate is changing faster than we can keep up with, maybe that’s a good lesson to learn.

Gratitude

I’ve decided to stop lamenting what’s missing this summer and start appreciating what there is. On a walk on the hill behind my cabin last week I found a single gaillardia. Since blanket flowers emerge mostly in July,  I felt a tenderness for this lone flower’s fortitude in blooming when everything else is dying. I felt the same way toward the single fern growing on what seemed a dry hillside (below). What force propels these plants to keep going?

 

 

And although the summer’s dryness deterred the usual August mushroom crop, I found three mushrooms nestled in a rotting tree trunk, where they were able to gather enough moisture to grow.

The hummingbirds are gone now, fled to lower elevations or else started their long migrations. But the ground squirrels appear to be on their second brood of the season. I’m having fun watching the young ones do silly things that the wiser adults wouldn’t do, like run right up to me when I’m sitting on the porch, curious about what I am, or slip and slide down the side of the wood garage (kudos for trying, kid).

I’ve haven’t heard of any bear sightings this summer—perhaps they didn’t survive the winter or have stayed up higher in the mountains—but there’s the flock of turkeys, including 17 young ones, that roam Meeker Park.

Although a male moose was found dead at Lily Lake last month, a mama and her two young ones surprised a bunch of us last week, when they softly slipped into the lake on an early summer evening.

 

 

 

 

 

After a summer of hazy skies from the fires to the West, either the blazes have lessened or the wind pattern has changed, because suddenly our brilliant blue skies have returned. The whole landscape feels different, as if a curtain has been lifted and I can see clearly now—for better or worse. Everything is vivid—from the sharp gray outline of Mount Meeker to the grasses that have now taken center stage since the flowers are gone, each grass seed clearly illuminated, bending and dancing in the clear, strong light.

Sometimes a Village

For a few months in summer, this collection of cabins in Meeker Park becomes a small village. Cabins that have been empty for nine months are suddenly full: two or three cars parked in the driveway, families crowded around picnic tables. From my cabin, I can hear children yelling and dogs barking, and see people walking up and down the road.

Although a  few bicyclists brave the dirt roads, more common are the horseback riders from a nearby ranch. Even if I don’t see the horses, I can hear the swish of their tails and clomping of their hooves, the intake of their large breaths (and know to avoid the smelly piles they leave behind). 

It’s a sound that briefly takes me out of the 21^st century and puts me in a place and time where a community thrives—a place where people wave to each other on the road, and neighbors stop and chat—face to face—rather than emailing or texting. There’s a sense that we all share this place, tucked off from the main road, together.

 

 

It’s far different than my Boulder subdivision, where neighbors stay inside their air-conditioned homes, interacting more with their computers than people. If they are outside, it’s in large fenced-in backyards, where I can sometimes hear but not see them.

But in Meeker Park in the summer there are signs of life everywhere, even if it’s the sound of a wooden screen door slamming, accompanied by a creaky spring, a sound that’s become almost obsolete outside of old cabins whose owners, like me, have never gotten around to getting the newfangled metal screen doors.

In the absence of city noise, I can hear voices from all around me: neighbors greeting visitors, the sound of laughter, wishes for a safe drive home. From my front porch or even from inside, while working at my computer, I can see my neighbors  walking by: to get their mail at the end of the road, walk their dogs, visit friends or just survey the neighborhood—see who’s renovating, what flowers are blooming or search the willow bushes for hummingbirds.

Often, a walk can turn into an impromptu party. Walking with fellow villagers Maria and Connie, we stopped to chat with neighbors who were renovating their cabin. The five of us stood out by the dirt road, waving to other cars passing by, and talked about recent travels, the health of an aging neighbor and the flock of wild turkeys (left) that  had been hanging around the neighborhood for the past few weeks. Had anyone seen a bear yet this summer?

Last summer, Maria called to tell me she saw a mama moose and her two young ones down by the creek, across the road from me. I called Connie to tell her, and the three of us were joined by our other neighbors, Steve and Tammy, to watch these huge animals from a respectful distance, while the sun dropped behind Mount Meeker and it became too cool to be outside.

On my summer walks around the “park”—the valley encircled by hills—I’ve shared notes with other bird watchers, been invited to dinner by a stranger (one familiar to me by name) and been been offered a tour of a neighbor’s cabin. There’s an openness and geniality here that’s hard to find elsewhere in this increasingly impersonal world.

Of course, because we are now in the 21^st century, rather than in a slower and more quiet epoch that I might sometimes prefer, I also get to hear the sounds of modern civilization. Last Saturday someone was using their chainsaw to cut a downed tree into logs; another neighbor was testing his ATV; from behind the cabin I could hear a weed whacker; and someone down the road was mowing his lawn.  When I walked to the other side of the valley to escape the noise, a backhoe operator was digging a hole for a septic system.

Luckily, by the time I got back, in mid-afternoon, all the noise had stopped, as if everyone had given up for the day and was taking a long nap. It was a warm, sunny day, mid-summer, and the whole landscape had gone still. Even the birds were silent. I was happy to just sit on the porch listening to the grasshoppers click and the aspen leaves whisper.

But then I heard the sound of a motorcycle on the main road and a car door slam. I can’t complain. It will be quiet enough here next month, when all the summer folks—and the hummingbirds—have gone, and those of us remaining go back inside our cabins for nine months of maybe too much peace and quiet.

Limber On

Although Crested Butte is famously known as the wildflower capital of Colorado, hiking there two weeks ago, I found very few flowers. On the wonderfully named Oh-Be-Joyful trail, which follows the river through mountain meadows, the only flowers I saw were one or two Indian paintbrush with pencil-thin flowers. All the grasses were brown and some were flattened, as if the unusual heat had made them  give up.

 

I should have expected this lackluster scene: The southern part of Colorado is in an extreme drought. I had thought that being high up in the mountains, it might be cooler and wetter. But even at 9,000 feet, the temperatures were in the 80s and the river thin and weak.

In the northern part of the state, we've been spared the worst of the drought, but last week on the Blue Lake trail in the Brainard Lake area, something was not quite right. At an altitude of about 10,000 feet, I was happy to find flowers—mostly purple asters, yellow groundsel and elephant's heads (left)—but many of the ponds along the trail were already dried up, and the sky was a heavy gray, filled with smoke from all the fires in the West. On top, where the krummholz grow in thick clusters of fir to protect themselves from the fierce winters, I saw many with brown/red needles (below). Even these tough trees are having a hard time with this unfamiliar weather.

On both these hikes, I started distancing myself from nature—without consciously knowing I’m doing this. I want my familiar and beloved summer mountain landscape: the jagged peaks outlined against the deep blue skies, fields of flowers and creeks brimming with snowmelt. Instead everything seems wrapped in a muggy haze, the heat paralyzing the landscape, so it seems to have been lulled into a stupor

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But I realized I was separating myself from what I love, cutting myself off from my source of joy. Challenged by the dry and hot weather, the trees, flowers and grasses were doing everything they could to survive: producing smaller flowers, reducing their growing season, bravely withstanding the heat. The least I could do was recognize their courage and endurance, be on their side, cheer them on, recognize that we’re all in this together. If they are brave enough to withstand a new world, so can I.

On my drive back from Crested Butte, near Fairplay, I hiked to a grove of limber and bristlecone pine trees that are 1,000 years old (left and top). It’s almost impossible to imagine what they have faced over the millennium: droughts, floods, strong winds, freezing temperatures and deep snows. Their twisted trunks are a testament to their ability to do whatever they need to survive: turn away from the fierce western winds, cling to the rocks among which they grow, digging their roots down wherever there was a space between boulders—and a little water.

Sitting among these trees that predate much of human settlement in this country—and mark the mere beginnings of Western civilization—gave me hope in a hot, dry summer. Life has endured for a long time, and we can only hope that it finds ways to survive into the unknowable future.