Cabin Journal

Rites of Spring

 

It's been two weeks since I’ve come to the cabin. The last time I was here, a three-foot wedge of snow created by the snowplow driver had stubbornly resisted all my efforts to hack at it so I could get my car in the driveway. In the backyard, my picnic table was almost buried under four feet of snow, and I thought I wouldn’t be able to enjoy a meal out there until maybe June.

 

But when I drove up to the cabin this week I was amazed to find all the snow gone, as if some mysterious force—a warm wind, rain, warm temperatures—had conveniently and painlessly removed these huge piles.

 

In its place were the pasqueflowers (left), adorning the brown landscape with purple light. There is no other way to describe them, these small cups of almost translucent purple petals that fill with sunlight. Despite their apparent delicacy, they must be tough because the next morning I found them slightly frozen in the snow (below), after the storm that left an inch or so on the ground.

 

From the meadow below my cabin I could hear the frogs singing, although song is perhaps not the right word for their low-pitched guttural sounds, but it seems like a song to me, because, along with the pasqueflowers, the frogs are one of the first signs of spring up here.  

 

When I went for my hike, I was torn between getting some aerobic exercise, charging up the hill with my heart pounding, or taking it slow, noticing everything. I opted to dilly-dally, stop whenever I wanted to look at something more closely.  

 

Everything had a story to tell. Cabin Creek was a torrent of rushing muddy water, which meant a lot of snow was melting in the high mountains. At the spot where a waterfall  flows over a cliff into the creek, mysteriously, the rock was dry, yet when I retraced my steps about 45 minutes later, some water was flowing down the rock. I’ve never known where it came from, and why would it come and go?

 

I almost passed the huge ant hill without seeing it, but having just watched the “Life” nature show, I was more attuned to the world of insects, which is almost invisible to us. Yet here is a huge complex society, hundreds of ants, all moving in some purposeful way, unknown to me, some carrying pine needles four times their size. What did they do all winter, buried under the snow? And what are they so busy doing now?

 

And on the pond on the other side of the creek, four male mallards (one is shown above) were enjoying the fact that the pond was half melted. But where were their mates?

 

The next day, I walked on the road around Meeker Park, admiring the new blanket of snow on Mount Meeker. Down here in the valley bottom, water was everywhere, running down the hillsides and pooling in the meadow. Aside from the red seedheads dangling from the aspen trees (right) and the yellow and orange branches of the willow bushes, everything is still brown. So the sight of a mountain bluebird, an almost iridescent blue flashing across the brown soggy fields, is like a wake-up call on the wing, startling me out of my thoughts.

 

Wake up, it sings to me. Wake up and smell the pasqueflowers.

 

Let It Be

 

 
Now that the snow has finally melted in my backyard, I’ve been digging out the sod in order to enlarge my vegetable garden.  It’s hard work, because the grass’ roots are thickly entangled in the soil, which makes for better bricks than a fertile environment for spinach, kale, or parsnip.  

 

It takes a lot of digging and whacking at big yellowish clods to break them up into something lettuce might actually grow in. And it needs a lot of compost, a lot of amending, as they say.  But then my whole yard is an artificial environment, because I live on an arid hill where, outside of my subdivision, no trees or bushes grow.

 

On the other side of the fence, there’s only grasses, while on my side of the fence, I have a miniature landscape of trees—cottonwood, locust, maple, pear, junipers, Russian olive, crabapple— bushes, and a lawn, all sustained by a sprinkler system. It’s very pleasant, and the trees are a godsend on hot days, but it’s not a natural landscape, and it takes a lot of effort and water to keep the trees thriving and the flowers blooming, and to prevent the weeds from taking over the flower and vegetable beds.

 

That’s only part of the reason I would not want to mess with the landscape at the cabin. Oh sure, when I first bought it, I had the urge, which seems inherent to modern humans, to do something with the yard, which consists of a few grasses and flowers among the rocky soil.  It was just a little urge, to plant some more flowers and a few more aspens and pines, but after several months of finding enough to do without planting a garden (like taking long walks  or sitting on the deck for long periods of time), I let it go. Not only is the natural landscape just fine, but I like the pieces of furniture and wood walls that have weathered with time (above).

 

And after talking to the cabin’s former owners, who spent 15 years here trying to improve the landscape, I’m even more inclined to let things stay the way they are.

 

While to the south of the cabin there are several large ponderosas and to the west and north a few aspens, to the east is an almost barren field, largely ruled by gophers. I never see the animals, only the bumps where they’ve dug underground tunnels. During the time they owned this cabin, LaVerne and Tom decided they were going to do something with that empty land and tried to get aspens to grow, carrying water from the small ditch by the road, but none of the 40 or so trees they planted over several years survived. Probably the combination of soil that’s more rock than dirt and an area that dries out fast because of its eastern exposure and openness to the wind must have done them in. Or maybe the gophers chewed up the roots.

 

Most of my cabin neighbors don’t bother planting a lawn, and I always wonder why a few  people try so hard to put in a lawn at this altitude (8,500 feet) and in this soil, which is only a few inches deep (above). For me, I’m content to let it be. In this case, over centuries, nature has figured out what grows best here and what doesn’t. Who am I to improve on that?

Winter Won’t Let Go

As I drove to the cabin this week, the fields down on the plains were turning green, just the first hint among last year’s brown grasses. In front yards, I could see daffodils and crocuses, and a few bushes were starting to flower.

 

But at the cabin, at 8,500 feet, it’s still winter. About three feet of snow cover the driveway, and in the backyard the picnic table is buried under several feet. To get to the water pump, I had to dig a path through the snow. Framed nicely in the back window are icicles dangling from the back gutter.

 

I look at this, and I think it’s beautiful. In fact, I thought the picture of the Bill Waite cabin in the snow would make a great Christmas card (above). But it’s April, and I’m ready for warmth and green. Somewhere under that snow, the pasqueflowers are ready too, just waiting to pop from the ground into the sun. I’ll just hang on till then.