Cabin Journal

Forest Bathing

While planning for a trip to Germany last May, I sought the advice of a native German about whether the Black Forest in Bavaria was worth a side trip. “It’s just trees,” she said, directing me instead to the more spectacular Alps.

I’ve been thinking about her remark ever since. In doing more hikes in the Colorado forests this summer and fall than I have in the past, I’ve come to realize how much I love being among trees. Maybe because the world has become a scarier place, I feel protected among the aspens and ponderosas. As the world has become more crowded and chaotic, I treasure the sense of quiet and stillness in the deep forest. As I’ve gotten older, I move to a slower pace, and trees offer a deep and measured respite. Or maybe the hot summer made me appreciate the coolness and filtered light.

I grew up among the tall oaks and maples in the Midwest and spent summer vacations among the pines and birch trees of northern Wisconsin. Last month, I was in Wisconsin and discovered an old-growth forest so thick and dark, the light barely penetrated (left). It consisted mostly of dark pines, but even the lighter birch forests (above), aglow in fall, seemed almost impenetrable, as if they were a world unto themselves and nothing existed beyond them. In Colorado, there’s more light and space, especially among the aspens and ponderosas (below), so the forest feels less protected but more cheerful. And nothing matches walking through a redwood forest, which offers something so ancient and huge that it’s on a scale way beyond human.

Like the rest of the world, I’m coming to appreciate trees, and at a time when they are imperiled by climate change, when forests are being replaced with farm fields,  and cities are encroaching on natural areas. At the same time, scientists are discovering how complex trees are and how they benefit humans.  

Reportedly, living near or among trees contributes to better health, including decreased stress hormones, blood pressure and anxiety, while boosting immune function. Scientists are reluctant to give reasons for these health benefits, although trees are known to filter out pollutants from the air. But I think it’s more than that.

Popular new books about trees, like The Hidden Life of Trees, are showing us that trees are capable of communicating with other trees and plants, and are part of a larger network that includes underground micro-organisms. When we’re in a forest—whether aspens, ponderosas, oaks or redwoods—we’re in the presence of a web of invisible connections—all working silently together. One of the most amazing discoveries for me was that soil fungi connect the roots of different trees and provide not just nutrients but information about incoming harmful insects and other possible dangers to the tree.

Although we can’t see this support network, surely, on some level, we can feel life surging and interacting, can feel an intelligent presence beyond our own. A Japanese practice called shinrin-yoku—forest bathing—involves opening all your senses to nature, especially trees. The Japanese have a history of forest worship, including the annual springtime ritual of walking among blossoming cherry trees.

In this country we have our own forest rituals, notably enjoying the fall colors, whether the maroon maples of Vermont or the lemony aspens in Colorado. But my experience is that most people drive past the trees, stopping only to take photos.

To really experience their magic, you have to walk into the forest and bathe in the light, smells and sounds. Or lay on your back and stare up at the web of interweaving branches.  Turn off your thoughts. Strip yourself of all your defenses. If you’re quiet enough, you might hear the fungi passing secret information or the trees softly inhaling and exhaling.

The Pack (Rat) Is Back

So is the snow on Mount Meeker and in Rocky Mountain National Park, the mountains covered in white all the way down into the trees (right). And the ice has returned to the creeks and ponds. In some places, it’s just a lacy fringe on the edges, while the creek still flows strong and pure through the middle (like on the Big Thompson, River, below). In other places, it’s an opaque green shimmer or side eddies where the aspen leaves were trapped and froze in place.

While I’m just now confronting the reality of winter, the woodrat (more commonly known as a pack rat) in my shed started getting ready for the cold and snow last summer. It was sometime in early fall when I noticed garlands of aspen branches, with the leaves still green, laid down around the base of the stairs. Upstairs is a platform that holds lumber in what used to be a garage (when cars in the 1930s and 40s were small enough to fit). It was in this attic space that I first laid eyes on the pack rat a few years ago and found similar wreaths of aspen branches, in what seemed artistically arranged, on top of piles of wood up there.

At the time I discovered things missing from the shelves: paint can openers, empty metal food cans and yogurt containers that I used to wash off paint brushes. Woodrats are known for collecting shiny objects, although I couldn’t find any research about why.  I did find an article (from Wikipedia) that says that climate scientists are using their middens—nests—to measure changes in vegetation, because materials in the midden (such as sticks and leaves) can be preserved for up to 50,000 years (through a urinary process you probably don’t want to know about).

When I first discovered the woodrat several years ago, neighbors warned me about what would happen if the pack rat got into the cabin: basically reshuffling all my belongings and pooping on everything else. So I made a point to leave the garage door open, just to let the animal know that the shed wasn’t a safe place. Eventually, it disappeared, and I haven't seen any evidence of the animal for a few years.

I don’t know if the pack rat midden I found a few weeks ago was made by a new rodent or perhaps by a descendant of the original. I’m assuming the garlands of aspens are meant to be a nest, because the same article said that woodrat babies are born naked and helpless and thus must be protected in a safe place. But I’m more baffled by the new installation (below) I found two weeks ago:  small pieces of wood precariously piled up in front of an old refrigerator (that former residents used for extra storage).

 When I looked more closely, I found wood paint stirrers (some covered with the sage green paint that I used to stain my decks) among the wood, plus a yellow nylon cord, an unused paint brush, a metal bracket and stalks from Canada thistles. I had bagged them up last summer, intending to dispose of them, but the little rat devil had gotten into the bag, letting loose hundreds (thousands?) of fluffy white seeds, which have now infiltrated every part of the shed, and making off with the thick stalks to add to its décor.

Inside the shed/garage are other large plastic bags in which I store kindling, tinder and pine needles to use for my wood-burning stove. I picture this creature going through the bags, carefully choosing pieces and then piling them up, one by one, and then walking along the shelf that holds cans, nails and other hardware, and selecting the paint stirrers, nylon cord and paint brush to add to its fixture.

But what is the point of this installation? My most likely conjecture is that it is a  barricade to stop predators or other animals from getting close to the nearby aspen nest. But who knows what goes through the mind of a pack rat?

This is an animal that most people would put at the bottom of their list of interesting animals. Yet the woodrat has not only managed to create an elegant nest but a fortress of sorts, and make it aesthetically pleasing. Some people would say I should destroy the nests and piles, do everything I can to get rid of this animal. But in these harsh times, how could I have anything but love for something that is so inventive and so determined to survive?

The Trail Less Traveled

This past summer I deliberately sought out trails I once considered boring. They lack the all-encompassing views from mountaintops, dazzling alpine lakes or dramatic waterfalls—all the reasons people visit or move to Colorado. But what these unexciting places lack in spectacular scenery they make up for in a wilder and quieter experience.

Last year more than 4 million people visited Rocky Mountain National Park, with most of the visitors arriving in summer. The roads are choked with traffic that comes to a complete halt every time someone spots a moose or elk near the road, and then tries to get as close as possible for a good photo.

The parking lots are packed, and the trails crowded. On the popular trails, I spend a lot of time stopping to talk to fellow hikers about where they’re headed, how far it is, what the trail’s like, and where they’re from. I enjoy these interactions, but it makes for a different experience than being alone in nature.

At the popular alpine lakes, every available boulder with a good view is taken. At times you can’t see the forest for the folks. Last summer, at one of my favorite spots, Mills Lake, I saw a man do a dramatic dive into the lake from a tall cliff and then perform handstands on a boulder that was visible from most of the lake: Was he craving attention or just celebrating nature in his own way? It’s hard to know, but more and more there’s a circus-like quality to the crush of humans on these trails.

 

 

 

 

 

So last summer and into fall, I’ve sought out  the less-popular trails. These are places where it’s quiet enough to feel nature’s own rhythms, where the natural world operates on a different scale than that of humans. Even the most relaxed animals (and I think of the ground squirrels, right, that pose seemingly without a care in the world) are always on the alert, not just for predators but for food or any changes in their surroundings. Their survival depends on being constantly aware.

But we humans blithely enter this realm chattering away or listening to our headphones, intent on finding the best place to take a selfie. We subtly—or not so subtly---alter nature. As the number of humans fill up the wild spaces, we drown out the quieter and more attentive presence of nature.

When I left the beaten path last summer, I found trails where I passed no more than 10 fellow hikers, compared to the maybe 50-70  I usually encounter on the trail to Mills Lake. On these lonely trails, I found a rare orchid along a hidden stream that led to a tundra empty of people but full of wildflowers, and groves of aspens taller than what I usually see on the eastern side of the mountains.

One trail that I hadn’t been on for at least 20 years follows a creek through dense pine forests so quiet and peaceful that the cry of a vireo can pierce the air, and the blue grouse (left), which usually blends into its surroundings, became visible. Best of all, I felt myself slowing down and becoming more alert to everything around me, aligning myself with the pace of the creek, the wind, the birds, the trees.  

 

 

 

Even in the park, I’ve found trails that most visitors don’t bother with. One ascends a hillside that provides views below of a wide meadow where a creek meanders back and forth among tall grasses.

Another park trail near my cabin, one bypassed by most people who instead aim for well-known waterfalls, puts you almost face to face with  Mount Meeker (above); at the top is a hillside covered with aspens, where I can listen to the leaves in the wind or sit by the small murmuring creek without being disturbed by any voices except the chickadee.

Last month on a popular trail west of Nederland, I took the trail that diverged from one that goes to a popular lake. Instead, it leads to a wide open meadow (above) with views to the north of a cirque of  bare, dark peaks and to the east toward hillsides of aspen. As I sat taking in the view and enjoying the silence, a moose emerged from the woods. There was no else to see it, just me, and when the moose wandered back into the forest, it was almost like it never happened.