Cabin Journal

Someplace Far Away

Coming back from six days in Manhattan, the first thing I did when I arrived at the cabin last week was to stand outside and listen to the silence.

Although the dictionary defines silence as the absence of any sound or noise, it’s more than that. It’s something palpable that wraps itself around me, that calms my being. In this still background, I can hear sounds distinctly and clearly, rather than being ambushed by the cacophony of New York City—a combination of sirens, honking horns, people yelling, garbage trucks and more.

Amid the silence at the cabin, I could hear the soft whooshing of  the raven’s wings above my head, the tapping of the woodpecker on the pine tree, the sound of a car’s wheels on the gravel road across the valley, the tinkle of the wind chimes and the gathering of wind through the pine trees.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I went for a walk later around Meeker Park, I found I was attracted to small landscapes, like the sunlight illuminating the lichen on the boulder (above). After Manhattan’s massive views—from the Empire State Building there are skyscrapers, lights and streets as far as the eye can see—I’m drawn to the outline of a young aspen on a boulder (above), the late afternoon light on the tips of the fir trees, the grasses emerging from the snow (bottom).

Earlier, on my first day back in Boulder, I walked the Eagle Trail near my home, with views all around—the foothills to the west and the plains to the east. I don’t think I’ve ever been as infatuated with how big the sky was, how I could see in every direction, how much openness there was and how I could open myself to all that space, feel myself expanding into it. In Manhattan, I always felt hemmed in by the buildings and by the darkness that permeates the bottom of these steel canyons.

And yet even there, nature manages to get a small foothold. One morning, I heard a constant stream of sirens, and when I went down to the hotel lobby, I found out that someone had tried to set off a pipe bomb at the Port Authority bus terminal, just a few blocks down the street from our hotel. Walking down Eighth Avenue, which had been closed to traffic, I could feel the tension and chaos on the street. No one knew if there were more bombs or more men who aimed to destroy. When I came back up to the hotel room, I looked out at the street scene 25 floors below me, but something else caught my eye.

It was a pigeon, an urban bird with a reputation as a scavenger. Yet from my vantage point, it looked like something beautiful and precious, floating high above the street, making lazy circles in what little sunlight managed to penetrate these high buildings. It felt like an emissary from another world, one where religious fanatics don’t try to kill innocent people. This bird lived in a world where all it needed was a bit of wind current to ride on, far above the messy and chaotic human sphere.

 

The Land of the Free

At this time of the year, before the snow starts piling up and when most of the cabins are unoccupied, there’s a narrow window of opportunity for cutting across the land. I don’t consider it trespassing, especially since I’m following in the path of the old-timers here.

It feels like freedom, like being set loose from a narrow path. I can follow my curiosity and instinct down long driveways, fairly confident that I won’t find someone sitting on their front porch on these 30-degree days. In the process, I’ve  discovered new views of Mount Meeker, old cabins and outhouses tucked in the trees, and the creek running below a small cliff.  Once I discovered an old log cabin that looked to be from the 19th century, the kind an old miner or trapper would have lived in alone.

I know it’s the human condition to buy and demarcate a small piece of land as your own, to put up fences or, worse, “no trespassing” signs. But to ignore the signs, step around the barbed wire and walk across open land feels like reclaiming the earth as it once was: no boundaries, no restrictions.

I often seen faint animal trails, usually to and from the creek. These trails follow the land's natural flow. When I walk across the land, I sense where to go, like some instinct leading me along—to the top of the hill, or a protective grove of trees, or a pond. I like to think I’m becoming more animal-like. Maybe like a bear sniffing its way around the ponderosas, looking for food; or a deer finding the softest carpet of grass to lie down in. Or a turkey searching through the grasses for seeds. Or a moose nosing its way through the willow thickets.

A local once told me that Boulder County thinks there shouldn’t be any homes or structures in Meeker Park, that the land should be returned to the way it was before humans came along—to the elk and deer, the bears, the bobcats. No driveways, no houses, no fences, no outhouses or piles of wood. Part of me is drawn to that idea, to returning the land to some wildness, but there’s the other part that wants to be part of the wildness.

On the other side of the valley is a trail that goes to the top of the mountain.  When I walk the trail, I occasionally run into the owner of the property, who never fails to remind me that his family owns all the land going to the top of the mountain, more than 40 acres.

It’s a thrill to own property, and I’m glad to own my one-third acre here, because it gives me a place in the world that I know is mine, that gives me some buffer from the rest of the civilization.  I like the company of nature, and I wouldn’t live here if I didn’t believe nature and humans can co-exist. That requires some respect from humans for the natural world (no fences, no dogs running loose, no lawns!).

I know what I call “my property” is not really mine. I’m just sharing it temporarily with the animals, the trees, the grasses and the rocks. And my neighbors.