Cabin Journal

In the Deep Midwinter

On a hike in early winter, before the snows covered the ground, I stumbled over a plant lying on the ground (left). It was about three feet tall, brown, with a thick stalk and a rounded cluster on top that looked like it could enclose flowers.

Although a shadow of its former self, I recognized it as the flower angelica. Blooming in July in wet areas, like meadow bottoms and around ponds, angelica (right) is a lush plant, with a profusion of small white flowers and a thick green stalk that turns brilliant red as the plant matures—the opposite of this dried-out, hollow stick.

I picked it up and brought it back to the cabin. At this time of the year, when the landscape appears lifeless, I needed a reminder that what thrives and blossoms every summer and disappears in the winter will return again in the spring.

But, in fact, life doesn’t die but goes underground to nourish itself.  Long after the flowers turn to seeds and the stalks become hollow and brittle, the roots of plants —this angelica, as well as the columbine, purple lupine, yellow golden banner and other flowers that bloom around the cabin in summer—replenish themselves in the dark earth.

In winter, the aspen trees are one of the few bits of nature that stand out, especially against the mostly brown landscape. Although they don’t start to leaf out until late May or early June, their large, inter-tangled root systems are regenerating now, getting ready to produce flowered catkins in just a few months.

Most of the animals have withdrawn now, too, settled into a dormancy or hibernation. The chipmunks and ground squirrels stay underground all winter, while the bears hole up in caves. The winner for the longest hibernation is the marmot (left), the big, roly-poly furry animals that inhabit the tundra in summer (and can be detected by their piercing whistles). In their tundra dens, buried under snow, marmots hibernate for seven months—more than half of their lives—which is the reason, I’m convinced, that they seem so happy and relaxed in the short summer.

But even in their winter dens, life continues. These animals give birth in the dead of winter, so by spring the young ones are strong enough to take advantage of fresh greens and other food.

But how do animals that live in water survive in winter? In the warmer months, the beavers build themselves a tightly made, secure lodge and munch on the saplings they cut down in the summer. Similarly, the muskrats are snoozing the winter away in their lodges or burrows built into the banks of lakes or streams.

Nor do fish die when lakes and creeks freeze over. Instead, they sink to the bottom of the stream or lake, where the water is warmer, and go into a kind of dormancy, where their hearts slow down and they have less need for food and oxygen. I picture the small trout that hang out in summer in a deep pool in Cabin Creek, near my cabin, now floating almost motionless in a dark cavern underneath ice and snow.

Like the rest of life, they are just waiting for the earth to angle itself toward the sun again.  In the darkness, life pulls itself together, gathers its strength for a full leap back into the sunlight. Out of darkness will come life.

 

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.