Cabin Journal

Another Boring Day in Paradise

A popular bumper sticker in the tourist town of Estes Park sports the saying, “Another Ho-Hum Day in Paradise.” Some tourists are confused by it, but for those of us who live here, it’s a reminder that a ho-hum day in the mountains is better than a fantastic day almost anywhere else.  Even on a gray day when the wind is whipping the pine trees back and forth, you only need to look up and west to see the cirque of high peaks covered in snow, and there’s paradise right in front of you.

When I arrived last week at the cabin, it seemed about as ho-hum day as you could get. The skies were hazy, and melting snow revealed brown ground, seemingly flattened of all life. It was a far cry from the fields starting to green up on the plains.

I headed to Wild Basin, several hundred feet higher than Meeker Park, where the snow was still deep and covered the road that serves as a trail in winter. The landscape was etched in black and white, stark and beautiful in its own way. The dark trunks of the conifers appeared to be growing out of the snow, while in the distance the granite mass of Mount Copeland was engraved in white. Along the creek (above and left), the pale bark of aspen trees contrasted with gray granite boulders. On the St. Vrain river, enough snow had melted in the past week for the creek to break through the chunks of ice, forming ink-dark pools and narrow slits of running water—the creek just starting to edge toward spring rambunctiousness.

Above me, the sky’s mood shifted between sunlight and snowstorms. If I looked up at the top of the cliffs, I could see a blur of white, then watch it sink lower into this valley. Suddenly I was surrounded by big ornate flakes, so thick I couldn’t see the tops of the cliffs. And then the skies would lift again, and some light would be let through, making more shadows in the dark woods.

It was a reminder that in the mountains there are no boring, ho-hum days. Each day brings its own rewards, if we just stay awake.

Mountain Dreaming

Above the Twin Sisters Peak Thursday appeared two thought bubbles in the form of clouds. It was a typical spring day, with clouds forming and reforming, racing at different altitudes, some slow and steady, others whipping across the sky in a rush to be somewhere else. But these two clouds paused for a moment, as if to recognize some synchronicity, some parallel destiny with the rocky spires below.

Some exchange was passed, and the clouds moved on, leaving the mountain in its own thoughts. And leaving me to watch other clouds form shapes that I could barely grasp before they melded back into the atmosphere.

Just Basking

Although there is still a foot of snow on the ground, the temperatures last week climbed into the 50s, enough to melt the edges of the snowdrifts--the places, I like to think, where the pasqueflowers (right, from last spring) will be emerging in a few weeks. In fact, they might be under the snow right now, just biding their time, ready to spring to action when the right time comes.

After a cold winter, is there anything more pleasurable than basking in the warm sun? Because the winds coming off Mount Meeker are still strong, I seek shelter on the east side of the cabin, where it forms an “L” that blocks the strongest winds. Instead, they angle around the edge of the building and become more breeze-like than tree-whipping gale—just enough to cool me off when the sun’s rays become too intense.

Although sitting in front of a heater or radiator provides the same warming benefits, the sun’s rays deliver something beyond heat. The same life-giving properties that cause the pasqueflowers (also known as western anemones) to open or the aspen buds to blossom also nurtures something in humans.

I think of my father, when he was in his 80s and always cold, finding a basking spot in the senior facility where he and my mom lived. In the afternoon, the sun’s rays hit a bench in a hall at just the right angle for an hour or so of good warming. Or my cat, who stretches out his body on the carpet where a wedge of sunlight pours in when I crack open the front door in the morning.

In a few months, I’ll be complaining of the heat and of the omnipresent sun. But for today, it feels just right.