In Rocky Mountain National Park last week, I was preparing for a hike up to Cub Lake, when I noticed the car parked next to mine had its engine running. Fuming, I decided I had to say something and rapped on the tinted windows.
“Do you know your motor is running?” I asked the man in the driver’s seat.
“Yes, ma’am.” It was a polite southern accent. “We’re just waiting for someone.” In the back seat was a girl reading her book in air-conditioned comfort.
Heading up the trail, where the grasses were almost as short and brown as they were in winter, with record-high temperatures (above 100 in Denver), a parched valley after little snow last winter, and fires erupting all over Colorado, I wanted to cry.
I couldn’t help but see this black SUV as emblematic of our times. Close yourself off in your big SUV, turn on the air conditioning, and let the rest of the world, which you don’t even see because of your tinted windows, go to hell. It didn’t matter to the man that he was pumping more warm air into an already warm day, more carbon emissions into already polluted skies, partly from the smoke from the fires. He and his little girl were in cool comfort.
It didn’t matter that outside his tinted windows was a stream that meandered through a beautiful valley surrounded by mountains, that he and his daughter could have cooled off in the river or sat and read under the shade of the aspen trees. Instead they had boxed themselves off from the natural world, seeking refuge in an artificial environment.
So when I started out on my hike, I was in a foul mood. In my own way, I wanted to do the same thing as that man in the car—cut off my feelings, put blinders on to avoid seeing the landscape that was suffering from the extreme heat and lack of water. Here in Moraine Park, the flowers were few and far between and half their normal size, while the sky was pale, filled with smoke from the fires to the north, and the stream was half full. I didn’t want to feel this horrible anxiety that nature was going away, that I would lose the thing in life that provided me with the most solace. And so I hurried up the trail, unmindful, just wanting to reach the pleasures of Cub Lake, dip my feet into its cool waters.
But, of course, gradually, I started letting down my guard, started connecting with the aspens swaying in the wind, with the shape of the rocks, with the ferns that gathered around the tall boulders where it was damp and shaded, with the still green grasses that swirled around the boulders near the lake (top). I started hearing all the bird songs around me, rousing me from my apathy.
At the lake, I took off my socks and shoes and let my feet bathe in the cool waters, watched the lily pads be uplifted by the wind (above) and peered into the lake to see all the busy life—baby salamanders and what looked like a swimming beetle—while dragonflies darted above the water. I felt myself opening up to this abundance, and the gloomy thoughts started to dissipate. On the way back down, I noticed what I wasn’t aware of coming up: the grove of tall ponderosas, the warm breezes, the calming sound of the creek, the small duck that dove into the ponds, birds everywhere. At one point a swallowtail butterfly—yellow, black and blue—almost flew into me, and it felt like a blessing. Here was life, continuing, despite everything.
The lily pads! Wow! What a pleasure and a blessing, thank you for sharing them with us. I love that you can show a range of emotions in this blog instead of only the ones that we think are acceptable. Thank you too for sharing a cooling experience with the reader, who like me, may be trying to everything to escape the heat.
Posted by: shoney | July 03, 2012 at 04:19 PM
The dichotomy found (especially in areas such as National Parks) blows my mind. And saddens it too. But what beauty still remains... "Here was life, continuing, despite everything." Great post.
Posted by: Erin Block | July 07, 2012 at 11:08 AM
I loved the transition you went threw in this piece...Anger at the lack of awareness so many people display. They are consumed by their devices and own worlds. But the fact that the environment then brought you that solace you spoke of that healing that we can't help feel out there surrounded by soooo much life everywhere you look, life goes on in the real world. I think in the end nature will do what it needs to do to survive or adapt and we humans if we don't adapt will be wiped out. For sure many humans need a wake up call!
Posted by: Sally | July 08, 2012 at 11:49 AM
The idling engine always gets my blood boiling too, especially in places like these. I first encountered this about ten years ago at a beautiful place in Southern Alberta that was pivotal to the bison hunt for the native people. There is a museum there and an endless view of the wild grasslands. People had actually gone into the museum, which takes at least an hour or two to get through, leaving their engines running and the air conditioning on so it would be cool in their cars when they got back! I later discovered that Albertans did this in winter too, when they went in to shop at the mall, they left their cars running with their heaters on! Fortunately, even in a place where burning fossil fuels is considered patriotic because their economy depends on it, I noticed anti-idling bylaws in place in some towns and cities when I was there this summer . . . so at least someone is trying to stop the madness.
Posted by: Laurel | July 30, 2012 at 11:04 AM
Laurel,
I'm glad to hear that some towns have anti-idling laws. I wonder if that would work in Colorado.
Posted by: Kathy Kaiser | August 03, 2012 at 07:55 PM