Come for the Beauty, Stay for the Wildness

I’ve come to realize that people love the mountains for different reasons.

Most people are drawn to the mountains in the summer, when nature puts on its best face: flowers blooming everywhere, the tundra carpeted green, elk and deer roaming the valleys, chipmunks and ground squirrels delighting tourists, and hummingbirds chasing each other. But when the flowers stop blooming and the aspen leaves drop, the fair-weather types leave.

I too love summer, look forward all winter to being able to hike to the alpine lakes or through meadows filled with Indian paintbrush, columbines and larkspur. But it’s not just beauty that draws me to the mountains, especially now, when the landscape is a bit tired and worn. What little snow that fell in the past two months melts quickly with our warm temperatures this winter. Left behind are sodden clumps of snow in shaded areas. Even the tall grasses I love all year have been flattened by the snow into messy piles (like the ones at Lily Lake, left). On these almost snowless winter days, the predominant color is brown, and on days when the long lenticular clouds barely budge, a somber grayness pervades the valley.

There’s hardly enough snow for skiing or snowshoeing. For another type of mountain lover—the one who craves the challenge of skiing down steep hillsides or climbing frozen waterfalls —this winter is a disappointment.  I sympathize, because I love moving through nature—whether on snowshoes, cross-counry skis or hiking boots. But I’m not an adrenaline junkie, so something else compels me to come up to the mountains now in the dead of winter.

 

Last week, with strong winds and gray skies, not many people were venturing outside. But, after a week spent in the too tame confines of suburban Chicago (not to mention the overly regulated senior facility where my mother lives), I craved something wild. I headed for Glacier Gorge in Rocky Mountain National Park, where I found snow—old snow, but still better than the barren hillsides at lower elevations. To the west, the high peaks were black and ominous, and the outline of Hallett Peak looked extra sharp, like you could cut yourself on its ridge line if you weren’t careful.

I hadn’t put on enough layers to withstand the strong winds that were shaking the trees, so I never warmed up. I felt that slight edge of danger, maybe that same place that the adrenaline seekers crave or that the wild animals feel all the time (like the bald eagles, above and right, at Lake Estes, trying to grab a fish from the icy waters). For the bobcats, gray squirrels, rabbits, moose and other animals, it’s always a fight for survival, made even harder in winter with a meager food supply and often harsh conditions. For wildlife, there is no safety or refuge from living on the edge of survival.

We humans brush up against that world before returning to the safety and warmth of our homes. There’s something about these stark winter days that chills the soul, reminds us that there are places that aren’t meant for comfort, that aren’t hospitable to humans.  Under the shadow of these high, dark peaks, I touch something elemental, non-human, slightly dangerous and unpredictable.

It was just what I need.

Comments

[shoney]

Love the bald eagles....especially after photographing them in Wisconsin a week ago. This is a wonderful love letter to the mountain. Thank you.

[Brent]

I like the clumps of grasses in the wetlands photo. The wetlands are a nice spot to see dragonflies in summer. And what wonderful photos of eagles. I'm at that point in winter where if there's another snowfall, I will have to consider other places to dump it. The snow piles are getting higher. It might get above freezing for a few hours next week. Other than that, it will be below freezing for a while longer. That's fine with me though, because it is the middle of winter, ya know. Been enjoying the sunshine lately and the longer days. I especially enjoy the dawn and dusk twilight time on my neighborhood walks–the days are getting longer. The winter birds are going crazy over my bird seed. The finches have crowded out the other birds. While observing the feeder last weekend, there must have been a couple dozen finch birds at one given time. My resident black-capped chickadees were squeezing in between for a bite whenever they could. There was a finch bird with it's brilliant yellow colored feathers. I thought that was unusual, because I thought they all put on there winter color coat.

[Jennifer Woodhull]

I'm with you, Kathy. There's something about the edge of darkness and danger that draws me, too. Here in Colorado Springs, we finally got a real snowfall—our first this winter. The kind of danger posed by climate change, sadly, lacks the kind of attraction you so exquisitely describe …

[Kathy Kaiser]

Brent, the clumps of grasses are by Lily Lake, which gets hordes of dragonflies in the summer. Sounds like you are having a real winter in Wisconsin, especially good if you like to ski and snowshoe.
On this cold day here (20 degrees), at the feeder we have red finches, gold finches (but still in winter plumage), chickadees, an occasional flicker and even a rufous towhee. And lots of robins come to our backyard birdbath to drink.
I love the snow, but here's hoping for spring, especially for you in the Midwest.