Cabin Journal

A Brief Thaw

 

Last week, on the Big Thompson River, I witnessed this group of pines breaking free from the layers of snow, as the temperatures warmed into the 50s. In this spot, where the river was wider, the sun's warming rays had melted the snow and opened up this clear pool. I could have sat there forever, watching spring emerge, and I was lucky enough to see a river otter run along the bank—only the second time I’ve ever seen an otter in Colorado.

But this week, returning to the cabin, I found more snow—one neighbor measured 18 inches—and the landscape again is all white. I can’t get back to the Big Thompson, as the government decided to close Rocky Mountain National Park. So life goes now: a little opening and then it’s shut. We’ll have to take our openings where we can.

 

Life Goes On

Some people deal with uncertainty by having a glass of wine, others by immersing themselves in TV. When I’m feeling besieged by the world on all sides—money lost in the stock market, fears for myself and friends about getting the coronavirus—I head to the cabin and listen to the trees.

My thoughts spinning off in 100 directions, I ground myself by taking my familiar walk around Meeker Park. Most of the snow has melted from the south-facing slopes and the valley bottom, but spring is still a month or so away, when the aspens blossom and the pasqueflowers emerge.

On this still winter day, with strong winds, I start off mentally labeling everything around me, an effort to slow my thoughts: ponderosa tree, aspen bark, the stream starting to melt. As I pass a ponderosa, I put my hand on its furrowed bark, as if maybe I could feel its heartbeat, connect with its inner strength that I need now.

When I find the two Highland cattle in the eastern edge of the valley, I’m happy to see them, like running into two friends I wasn’t sure I would see again. In their characteristic manner, they barely acknowledge my presence, both sitting on the ground, chewing the grasses, their backs to the strong wind. They glance up at me— they’ve seen me before—and go back to their chewing. Nothing disturbs them. I envy their placidity.

Around Meeker Park, I find all the cabins’ simple rectangular shapes comforting and reassuring, each one seemingly planted firmly in the soil. When I come to one of my favorite cabins,  made of pine logs with shutters covering the windows, I sit on a rock and ground myself even more firmly in this place. I feel about as far away from Wall Street and fears of the pandemic as I can be.

I dig deep into myself and that place where nature moves forward, goes on  without asking anything of the human world, except maybe to be left alone.

On my return walk, I start noticing more: the red berries of the wild rose bushes, almost the only color in the landscape now; the intricate lines of the aspen branches against the blue sky; and the grasses, dried stalks and seedheads from last summer’s flowers, now free of the weight of the snow. I feel a strange joy. Life goes on, in its own way.