Cabin Journal

An Unexpected Fire

 

Just when I thought it was safe to go for a hike in Rocky Mountain National Park—when most of the tourists had cleared out, when the haze from all the fires had disappeared, and when the weather finally turned cool enough so hiking was enjoyable—I end up being witness to a late season forest fire.

I was hiking up Deer Mountain on Tuesday, which provides glorious views of the park from all directions. To the south is Longs Peak and the ridge of peaks with Moraine Park below it; to the west the high peaks were strangely snowless, looking a bit bare, and to the north  and below was Horsehoe Valley surrounded by aspen forests. As I started my hike, it looked like wisps of smoke coming from above Moraine Park, where the Cub Lake and Fern Lake trails take off from. But I told myself it was a campfire.

But what seemed like only 10 or 15 minutes later, huge clouds were being created, ominously pink and yellow and greyish white, roiling upward in huge formations, propelled by high winds. Soon, Longs Peak had disappeared and then within a matter of a few minutes part of Moraine Park.

I had never been this close to a forest fire, probably five miles as the crow flies, and it’s a beautiful thing to see, if you don’t think about the acres of forest that are being consumed, the animals and humans having to flee this fast-moving fire, the possible danger if the winds shifted and the smoke started blowing toward me. I wasn’t the only one mesmerized; people stopped along the trail, sat down to watch, as if we were at a movie theater. Down below me, on  Trail Ridge Road, cars had pulled over, with people focusing their cameras, on the smoke and fire rather than the elk herds.

Strangely, at the same time, a cold front was moving in from the east, so huge white clouds, a purer white than the dark clouds to the west, were moving in slowly, filling in the valleys below with feathery plumes (above). When I drove down to Horsehoe Park, maybe 500 feet lower than Deer Mountain, the temperature dropped by at least 15 degrees. On top, people were wearing shorts and T-shirts; down below, down parkas were necessary.

 And yet the cold front and hot fire never met, so the fire continues to burn, as I write this, consuming at least 660 acres despite temperatures at night in the 20s and even a few inches of snow—an unnatural late season fire in a unnatural year.

Cutest Cabin—I Win

I’d like to nominate my cabin for the cutest cabin, the most adorable, in the world, or at least in Meeker Park. I’m not sure where I enter my nomination, but I know I would win, if I could find the right contest.

Just look at it, tucked among the golden aspen trees, which happened to be glorious last week, with that blue door and the green deck. It could be an ilustration from a fairy tale, where the elves emerge, half sleep, stretching in the light of the day. Ideally, smoke should be uncurling from the chimney (that will come soon).

Sure, there are grander cabins around Meeker Park, some more architecturally interesting, with bigger stone fireplaces and better views of Mount Meeker. Some have screen porches screened by aspen trees and overlooking the creek, while others are almost hidden in aspen forests. I’d probably get some competition from the cabin just down the road, with its neat stack of logs against one wall and its rustic wooden rocking chair on the front porch and green shutters. It might be even be a little smaller than mine.

And then if you add in the cute chipmunks, adorable ground squirrels, soft furry rabbits and perky chickarees around my cabin, it’s a knockout, no question about it.

Anybody want to argue?

Aspen in a Time of Transition

 

Despite a summer of record-breaking heat and drought, plus smoke haze all summer long, the aspen changed colors right on schedule, the third week of September. I thought they might give up earlier, succumb to the lack of water and heat, but somehow they stuck in there, and made it through with flying colors. In this summer of abnormalities, it was good to see something go right.

It wasn’t just the heat and haze and no rain. In Rocky Mountain National park, a major road construction project has made it difficult to get to my favorite trails. Everything seemed off. I couldn’t even enjoy my favorite places.  Last week, when I wanted to hike to Loch Vale, one of the most spectacular settings in the park, the ranger told me it would take several hours on the mandatory shuttle bus, because they were laying concrete on the road. And the road to Twin Owls, a beautiful hike through the aspens, was closed due to construction. It seemed that in every direction I turned this summer I was thwarted. Even when I made it Mills Lake or Isabelle Lake, the white skies from the smoke made the landscape unfamliar.

So it seemed an unexpected gift when the aspens switched off their chlorophyll and let the golden colors emerge. When I went for my walk around Meeker Park two weeks ago the aspen were all in their glory, suffusing the whole valley with light. On the valley bottoms, the willows were reddish brown and golden while some of the grasses edged from green to red.

Last  week, the landscape was a bit more somber, as the wind chased the leaves from the trees, sent them flying, and the road was littered with small gold coins. Some of the groves of aspen were naked, while others were only dressed on the bottom half. Two weeks ago the grasses along the creek were upright and green, while one large green leaf was caught by the water. Then last week, the leaf was soggy and brown, crumpled, and the grasses were tawny blond.

And then it rained, and when the clouds parted, there were the high peaks smothered in a brand new blanket of snow. And so one season closes down and another season emerges.