In my first few months of the cabin, everything was unfamiliar: my routine, the landscape, even being alone with myself for two days. I had the sense of stepping into the unknown. For these reasons I was drawn to nearby places that were familiar.
Only a few miles down the road from my cabin is Wild Basin, at the southern end of Rocky Mountain National Park, a place I’ve hiked and skied for decades. It’s a landscape I knew well: the trail that follows the St. Vrain River and heads up to Calypso Cascades, named not for the rollicking creek that cascades from one pool to another, but for the tiny (and increasingly rare) calypso orchid. With the creek spreading over the hillside, everything is wet: the glistening grey and black boulders, and the trees and bushes alongside and in the cascades. It seems a lush, dripping landscape among these dry hills.
From there, the trail from Calypso to Ouzel Falls offers views of the peaks to the west, due to a fire from 1978 that burned hillsides of pine trees and opened up the view. At Ouzel Falls, named for the bird that actually dives into the creek, the water descends several dozen feet over a rock lip, crashing onto the rocks below with such fury that it seems the force of the water could shake the whole hillside loose. But on a hot day, the spray from the falls is a great pleasure.
In years past, I would have headed straight for Ouzel Falls or one of the higher lakes. But now, because Wild Basin is now in my backyard (practically), when I’m at the cabin I’ll take short leisurely walks there and enjoy places that I would have sped by on my way to the falls. One of those places is Copland Falls, only a half mile or so up the trail, where several falls tumble between rock walls holding bushes, flowers, and trees. It’s where worlds collide: the bedrock and the water. Sitting on the bank, I can feel the power of the water rushing so fast it’s a blur.
After a storm came through one summer day, my friend Lynn and I went for a walk. There were still puddles on the path, and everything was glistening: drops on the bluebells hanging over the creek (above) while the woods were dark and somber, rich smelling. I’ve hiked this trail so many times, but when I slow down and really look, there’s so much here: a thousand sensations and observations—fleeting and elusive.
Once again, I’m caught in the moment, and all the questions and fears stop.
Interesting how this trail seems different to you now that it's in your backyard. You're able, to use a cliche, to stop and smell the (wild) roses.
Posted by: Claire Walter | April 09, 2009 at 08:43 PM