Cabin Journal

A Steller Bird

Maybe I was just looking for a bit of color in the landscape last week, when I threw out some birdseed on the front porch. The snowstorm had rendered almost everything white, except for glimpses of the green needles and brown tree branches underneath the snow clumps. Almost instantly bits of blue descended from the trees, one by one, their wings flashing on the way down — three shades, at least, of blue, enough to dazzle eyes made somnolent by the white blanket. Disparaged for their aggressive behavior (like stealing food), with noisy raucous cries, yet today the Steller’s jays brighten my landscape, bringing some life to this frozen day.

Aside from their striking plumage, including the jaunty black headpiece that wiggles with every movement, the Steller jay (named for the German naturalist who first recorded it) is not a poster child for any kind of save-the-wildlife campaign. It’s a little too rude and argumentative, its movements, as it eats the seeds on my porch, are herky-jerky, not graceful. It has no beautiful bird song, like the meadowlark; in fact, its calls are more like fingernails on a chalk board.

Last fall I was hiking on one of the trails west of Boulder, when I saw a man carrying a tripod and camera, stopping often to scan the trees. Figuring he had spotted an exotic bird, perhaps migrating through, I asked him what he looking at. “I’m trying to see the Steller’s jay. I’m from the east, and we don’t have them,” he said by way of apology for wanting to see something so common in Colorado that most people don’t give the bird a second glance.

A little pushy, obnoxious, arrogant—maybe that’s how you get when you live at 8500 feet in the winter, where the cold and snow have pushed other birds to lower altitudes and easier conditions, where any food must be dug through the snow and nighttime temperatures hover around zero. These creatures survive where others can’t.

Known as intelligent birds, Steller jays have a complex social and communication system, with a variety of calls, postures and displays. They’re social birds, quickly relaying the news that a two-legged creature has emerged from her cabin and thrown out some apple cores. When I don’t have any food to share, I’m greeted with catcalls.

They’re survivors, tough, opportunistic, eating whatever comes their way, whether it’s seeds, insects or someone’s sandwich or potato chip left unguarded for a moment on a picnic table. They have a right to be a little cocky, to confidently flash their blue wing. Along with their compatriots, the magpies and ravens, they’ve earned my respect.

Strut your stuff, Steller!

Alone in the Park

On a good summer day, Rocky Mountain National Park sees about 24,000 visitors. On a fairly nice winter day, the park is visited by about 1,600 intrepid souls. Last Wednesday, I was one of them, although where the other 1,599 were I couldn’t tell you.

I admit the park is not as beautiful as in summer. There are no colorful wildflowers to admire, and the aspens are but pale skeletons. You can’t relax in a sea of grasses in Moraine Park next to the encircling river and gaze at the clouds streaming above the cirque of dark mountains to the west. Your chances of feeding a cute chipmunk are zero, nor will you be able to spot a bear high in the ponderosa pine, taking refuge from the tourists.

This time of the year the predominant colors are variations of brown, and the winds are strong enough to uproot tall pine trees. This week, the high peaks were enveloped in voluminous clouds that occasionally retreated enough so I could see the mountains’ jagged outlines, illuminated by the sun as the winds whipped over their tops.

But winter is the only time you could truly say that Rocky Mountain National Park is wild, when nature is largely undisturbed by humans. Only one car had stopped in Moraine Park to observe a herd of about 50 to 60 elk; the rest of the year, traffic jams form when one elk is spotted and mobbed by camera-wielding tourists. This week the parking lot at the Fern Lake trailhead, one of the more popular hikes in the park, had only one other car; in summer I drive up and down the road waiting for someone to pull out or I end up taking the shuttle from the lower parking lot.

On the trail Wednesday, I didn’t see anyone, except for the large bull elk (above), and once he decided I was no threat, he went back to chewing the grass. To be alone on a trail in the park is a rarity, an experience to be savored. It’s just me and nature, undisturbed.

The wind feels sharper, more intense. The mountains look closer. I’m aware of every gurgle of the river, every sigh of the wind through the tops of the trees, the moaning of entangled tree branches in the wind. In the silence, every bird cry pierces me, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a clearer light on the golden cliffs.