Cabin Journal

Time According to Cattails

I haven’t been able to get to the cabin for several weeks now: too much work and obligations, which has caused a lot of stress. I forget to breathe, to notice the late afternoon light in the backyard or the stream of geese across the sky. I become single-minded to get everything done, and it feels like I’m going at twice the speed I’m comfortable with, always pushing myself to do more.

In the middle of this, I was part of a meditation group last weekend that took to the outdoors to do something called “aimless walking.” The place was Walden Pond, which, together with its neighbor Sawhill Ponds, would seem to be one of the least natural places around. It’s east of Boulder, on the plains, just a mile or so from my house, so I visit it often. It’s an old gravel mine that has been turned into a nature preserve, all the gravel holes filled with water (from Boulder Creek on its east side) to provide lakes that attract a variety of geese and ducks as well as shorebirds. Over the decades, cottonwoods, willows, grasses, and cattails have grown up around and in the water. It’s become home to coyotes, foxes, hawks, eagles and a lot of migrating birds. Nature has reclaimed this place.

What I call sauntering, aimless walking is something I cultivate. It’s following your heart or curiosity, seeing where it takes you: across the field to a bench overlooking the lake or up a tree or into the woods. It’s like being a kid again, where there’s much more interesting things in the woods or on top of the hill than following a boring old path.

I started out walking on the boardwalk that goes by the lake, which was covered with geese, gulls, mallards, green-winged teals and other birds I couldn’t identify, but all making wonderful ducky sounds—murmurings, squawks, beeps—that formed its own cacophony. I stopped among the tall cattails that border the lake so I could listen to the birds, observe them through the grasses. And then I became captivated by the leaves, the way they swayed in the slight wind, the way the slender stalks are delineated and yet they all move together as the wind stirs them, making a slight rushing sound. I was mesmerized, caught up in their movement, and had no interest in moving on. Gradually, with every breath, I felt myself slowing down, my body and soul becoming aligned with the movement of these cattails

And all the week’s worth of stresses dropped away, just like that. I made a pledge to myself: The next time I get caught up in the whirl of modern life, I’ll find a field of cattails (or patch of clouds or spot of river) and immerse myself. From now on, I’m on cattail time.

 

The Bones of November

Once I’ve settled down and admitted that summer is gone, I start to appreciate November. Everything has been stripped bare, down to the bark and down to the streambed, so I can see things that are usually veiled behind leaves or under the water. Nature is exposed, its bones and structure more obvious and more easily admired. Soon, snow will cover everything, so there’s just a short period to admire the landscape in its elemental form.

The grasses of summer, now golden, are still standing, not yet flattened by snow and wind. Everything seems alert, as if waiting for winter to descend. Ice is forming on the ponds, a keen translucent blackness

On the St. Vrain River in Wild Basin last week, not only wasn’t there any snow (except in pockets of shade) but the creek still ran effusively, with enough energy to spray water into the air, as if it were spring, and life was just beginning, not soon to be winter.

And yet the creek is low enough that I can see what’s usually hidden under water, like the creek bed sculpted by decades of rushing water, now exposed to the sunlight (left).  With the water down, I can stand on the rock, almost feel the stone ripples.

And I can see the very beginnings of the creek becoming frozen. For now, ovals of ice are forming on top of rocks, like ice hats, and icicles are lingering where the water is falling slow enough, getting longer each day as it gets colder.

With the foliage gone, I notice more the boulders, can see more clearly their shapes and heft, how they dominate these mountain forests, how they interact with the trees, forming some mutual partnerships.

Everything is open, naked, vulnerable. The aspens are like dancers, their arms open, twisting and turning in some still-life dance, their branches silhouetted against the boulders or the sky. If I had time, I would mentally trace each limb of each tree and delight in each movement. In the stark autumn light, the aspen trunks gleam. By the creek, the red willow branches spread out their thin branches, catching the last light of the day (above).

I want to hold that light, even as it slips away.

The Rain Barrel (or Going Low Tech)

I hate waste and will go to great lengths to not throw anything away that can be reused. I recycle all my plastic bags, compost all my food wastes and wear clothes until they’re threadbare.

That’s why it bothered me for a long time that the rain and snow that came off my cabin roof washed onto the ground around the cabin. The only beneficiaries were the grasses and few aspen trees growing next to the building.

I know that water law in Colorado says that rain isn’t mine anyway, even though it’s falling on my property. Supposedly, someone has claim to that water, which tunnels down through the bedrock, heading to the nearest stream and joining other bigger streams, ending up on the plains where a farmer or municipality has a legal right to a certain amount of acre feet. If I tried to keep that water, it meant the farmer is not getting his or her share.

But recently, Colorado law changed to allow landowners in places where no municipal water system exists—which is my situation—to keep the water. So now I have a rain barrel to collect the water, and I’ve learned a few useful things: first, the water freezes in winter, so I have no access to it. Second, it doesn’t take much to fill a rain barrel; a good half hour of an afternoon summer thunderstorm is enough to send it spilling over.

When I’m at the cabin, I empty it, which is labor intensive, because it involves carrying heavy pails of water to the pine and aspen trees on my property. When I’m not there, and we’ve had rain or snow, water spills onto the ground where it’s not needed.

So I rigged up a hose from the barrel and set it in a rain gutter, which I propped on a rock near the plastic barrel, high enough that it flows down toward the base of the tall ponderosa pine in front of my cabin, thus providing free water with little effort on my part. However, I have at least five good-sized ponderosas and maybe 20 small to medium-size aspen trees scattered around the cabin. I thought about cobbling together a system of gutters all over the yard so I don’t have to carry pails of water.

But it would look ugly and would require some maintenance to keep it all in place and running smoothly. Besides, I love those trees. With all the diseases threatening both the ponderosas and aspens, I want to do everything I can to keep them alive and thriving. So I’ll just consider it a labor of love and keep toting—unless winter comes.