Cabin Journal

A Few of My Favorite Things

It's the time of year for everyone's top 10: movies, TV shows, news stories, businesses. What I love are animals, so here's my top 10 favorite  animal encounters from 2010. Enjoy.

 

(Right) I got this close-up photo of a chipmunk at Blue Lake (in Brainard Lake Wilderness Area) last summer. 

 

This coyote (below) was stalking something in the grass near my cabin, perhaps a mouse or vole. In the fullness of summer, its coat is thick and healthy. 

 

The hummingbird (below) was one of a group of around 20 hummers that arrived last May in the middle of  snowstorm.  

  

 

 

 

  

  

 

On the cabin deck (left), this ground squirrel first tried my wine but decided the water tasted better. 

 

Last summer, a black-headed grosbeak (right) landed on the post outside the kitchen window at the cabin.

 

My favorite encounter last summer was with this young moose (below) that swam across Cub Lake in Rocky Mountain National Park.

 

(And, in descending order): It was snowing hard when I photographed these sandhill cranes at Monte Vista wildlife refuge in southern Colorado in March.

 

It appears this prairie dog in the foothills west of Boulder was a little overwhelmed by all the snow we received last year.

 

This young marmot I discovered at Blue Lake (at Brainard Lake Wilderness Area west of Boulder) seemed as curious about me as I was about it.

 

The mountain bluebird is one of the first birds to arrive in spring, often when the ground is still bare.

 
 

Must Be the Season of the Wind

 
 
Driving up to the cabin last week, all was calm until I came around the corner in the South St. Vrain Canyon and all the trees started shaking. It wasn’t an earthquake but the winds that have become synonymous with the Allenspark area. It’s not for nothing that the local newsletter is called the Allenspark Wind. With almost no snow this December, it’s becoming clear this is the season of winds.

In winter, Mount Meeker and the nearby Wild Basin area are almost constantly shrouded in clouds of snow blowing off the peaks. In other directions, the clouds are pulled apart, like taffy, by the winds (above). At the cabin last week, the winds blew all day and night, never slowed down, never paused to catch their breath, and in the morning were still going strong. In the big gusts, the whole cabin creaks, as if all its joints were loose. When I hear a particularly large gust, I imagine the metal roof being blown off in one piece, landing in the side yard on top of the propane tank.

I hiked up the road at Wild Basin, the winds making the trees dance with abandon, pulling and pushing, their tops swaying back and forth. The St. Vrain River was only partially covered with ice. The creek must have frozen over at one point, but then the warm weather had opened it up again, so huge blocks of ice had sunk down and partially crashed into each other (right).

In other places along the river, I could see the water running swiftly under a thin layer of ice, like looking through thick glass, the river slightly distorted. As it pushes up against the ice, it makes a somewhat muffled but melodious sound.

In an open field, a stalk of grass pushed by the wind had created a piece of natural art: a half circle where the hand of the wind had dragged the grass back and forth across the white canvas of snow (below).

Walking down the road that has become a winter trail, I heard the loud roar, the wind streaming through a thousand trees on the mountainsides. As it got closer, it picked up steam, and then finally punched me with huge gusts while the noise reached a crescendo, only to pull back briefly while it gathered itself again. Accompanying the roar was the sound of trees rubbing against each other, one tree fallen against another, a high-pitched sound that only adds to the general sense of mayhem.

A lot of people hate the wind, and when it’s so strong that the house shakes, it can set my teeth on edge. But being out on the trail, the world felt alive and powerful, and I felt energized. The world was roaring and pushing me along. I couldn’t resist.

 

When Clean Is Too Dirty

I read an article in the New York Times recently about how people are not embracing new cleaners that are less powerful but more environmentally friendly. It seems people have gotten accustomed to their plates shining after they come out of the dishwasher, and if they can’t see themselves reflected in their plates, people assume they aren’t clean.

I think about that, because at the cabin I’m committed to using as little “natural” soap as possible. With no plumbing, I toss the water onto the yard when I’m done washing dishes, so everything goes into the ground. There’s no sewage pipes to take the water someplace out of sight and dispose of it.

After the dishes dry and I’m putting them back in the cabinet, I notice they don’t look clean;  instead of being shiny, they have a dull finish, sometimes even with grease marks. Because I’m not using a strong detergent, my dishpans constantly have a grease slick around the edges. And it’s not just the grease. The water I use to wash dishes comes out of the ground pump and is delivered from underground with a fine coat of sediment. In addition to the grease, my dishes often have a reddish brown tinge.

I think most people couldn’t tolerate that greasy or dusty film, would find it disgusting. But it doesn’t hurt me. I’m more than willing to give up shiny plates in return for not polluting my environment. Maybe it’s easier for me than for most people, because I can see where the soapy water is going—onto the rocky soil where grasses, flowers and aspens have an already tenuous grip on survival and don’t need any pollutants thwarting their growth. But most people don’t think about their chemical-filled water going into rivers or lakes or oceans. Out of sight, out of mind.

A few months ago, I realized that the little black pellets I’d been wiping off my counter and cutting board were mouse droppings, and that I’d been using the same sponge to wash dishes, plates and bowls off of which I ate. It’s a little gross, I admit, and yet I’m still standing, haven’t succumbed to any mouse diseases yet.

I like being part of my environment, accepting that mice are going to get into the cabin, that my dishes will be coated with the same dirt that makes up the land around me. I’m not walling myself off from the world around me. I’m part of it, dirt and all.