Cabin Journal: New Beginnings

Coming back from a week in California, where the hills are starting to turn brown, and small fires are cropping up across the state, it’s a joy to be at the cabin where new life is just beginning its seasonal cycle. It’s my third chance to experience spring: first down on the plains near my home, then the tail end in California, and now at 8500 feet. Higher up, on Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park, are places where it’s still winter, where 10-foot-high snow drifts tower above cars on the road.

At the cabin, the grasses are a few inches high, and the columbine next to the front deck is starting to leaf out; in a few weeks, hopefully, the elaborate purple and white flowers will surprise me once again with their lush beauty. The aspens in the back yard are just starting to leaf out—their leaves small and fragile, some still curled up like a fetus, awaiting a new birth

The hummingbirds have settled in, and the violet-green swallows are snatching insects from the air and delivering them to the babies inside a bird box next to the garage, a box that has been used by many generations and species of birds.

A mama moose and her two young ones have been sighted around the valley, and last night a male moose walked down the road in front of my cabin and went into my neighbor’s yard, where he proceeded to strip all the leaves off the young aspens (above). Later I saw three deer in the front yard, happily chowing down the fresh new greenery. In the park, the elk have shed their raggedy, winter coats and now sport sleek brown fur with newly furred antlers that look soft and tender, like you might want to touch them.

Along the creek in nearby Wild Basin, purple larkspur cover the hillside at lower elevations. Higher up, in the wet meadows, the strange primitive-shaped horsetail plants (above) are just emerging from marshy areas. It’s a strange sight: a miniature remnant of the lush Paleozoic forests of 100 million years ago, incongruous among the dry rocky hillsides.

Small rivulets that will dry up in a few weeks are rushing down the hillsides, watering the hundreds of small plants now hugging the ground. In a few weeks, these plants will unfurl and start climbing toward the sun. But for now there’s just the promise of lushness on the mostly bare ground.

On the Hollowell Park trail in Rocky Mountain National Park, the willows along the creek are a soft, tentative green. Above the willows, on the steep hillside, the creek spills through these newly leafed aspen like quicksilver, shiny and brazen, showing off its energy (above). Along the creek hidden among the leaves of the heart-shaped arnica are one or two gleaming yellow flowers (above).

Even with all the snowmelt, the rivers haven’t yet reached capacity, as the mountains still hold onto the snow. Apparently, our cool, wet and delayed spring is linked to something happening thousands of miles away. The Arctic and Greenland ice is melting at high rates, releasing cold moisture into the air that is making its way south. One scientist described it as a refrigerator door being opened and letting the cold air flow out.

As it does every year, nature comes forth, offering hope and beauty, even though humans have done little to warrant such optimism. It’s more hope than we deserve.