Cabin Journal

Sharing my Space

In some ways I love being at the cabin more in winter than in summer. Summer is glorious (and short)—a multitude of wildflowers and wildlife—chipmunks, hummingbirds and bears—plus roaring creeks and hillsides of green aspen. But winter, with its blanket of snow and absence of people, provides peace and quiet that departs once the summer visitors arrive. Out walking on the lonely roads in winter (the season still lingering after 3 feet of snow last week), where I see almost no one, my heart fills with all the space and emptiness, and the almost depthless sky.

When the summer people start returning (in a normal year that would be in May), I feel some resentment, like they are disturbing my tranquility and invading my space—the one I’ve held all winter—through blizzards, strong winds and bone-chilling cold.

So I can partly identify with the residents of Colorado mountain towns who want to shut their doors to out-of-towners, especially city residents along the Front Range of Colorado who are trying desperately to escape their quarantines and enjoy the mountains. Residents of towns like Vail or Estes Park don't want crowds of Denverites bringing their germs and don't want them buying scarce groceries at their markets.

As both a mountain and plains dweller, I can see both sides. As someone who needs nature, I can understand why people are turning to the outdoors, now more than ever. It’s not just to escape the constrictions of their homes and neighborhoods, but to see and experience a different reality: one that is open and free and full of life now: migrating birds, fields turning green, trees leafing out, flowers starting to emerge. It makes me happy to see so many people using the trails and open space around Boulder. In one of our darkest times, people are turning to nature for comfort.

At the cabin, I’m noticing more cars around Meeker Park, more people looking for places to exercise and be in nature, especially since Rocky Mountain National Park is closed. Most will be met with “private property” signs and fences, which leaves the county roads the only place to walk.

Even as someone who has a cabin in Meeker Park, I resent these “no trespassing” signs that essentially say: This is my land, and you’re not welcome here. Places I used to explore are now closed to me, and the original inhabitants of this valley—the bears, the deer, the elk—have to climb over fences to get to the creeks or up the hills.

For those of us lucky to have a place in the mountains, I think we need to be more open to “outsiders,” more willing to share this beauty and freedom, especially now and especially to those who respect this place and the wildlife, who don’t drive fast on our narrow roads and don’t throw their beer cans on the ground. Perhaps we can see our way out of this catastrophe by focusing on the splendor of nature. Perhaps those visitors who come to our valley seeking hope and respite from the torrent of daily bad news will find it here. I hope so.

 

Love the Place You’re At

These days the old folk-rock song (by Stephen Stills) keeps going through my mind: “Love the One You’re With,” except now it’s my neighborhood I’m with and that I'm getting to know intimately.

In these times of restrictions and shutdowns, I can’t get to many of my favorite places to hike. Rocky Mountain National Park is closed, which means that I can’t enjoy the waterfalls and deep pools along the St. Vrain River in nearby Wild Basin nor see the first bit of green in the meadows below the Twin Owls rock formations, where I often see a herd of elk in spring.

Around Boulder, many of my favorite trails, usually empty during the week, are crowded with hikers, dog walkers, runners and others. Not only is there no place to park, but social distancing guidelines would be hard to maintain on these crowded trails.

So I’ve narrowed my world to within a few miles of where I live, both here in Boulder and at the cabin. A mile from my home is a nature preserve (above), formed after a gravel mining operation left several open pits that filled in with water and gradually became marshes. Over decades, these ponds attracted frogs, ducks, geese, muskrats, foxes, hawks, eagles and other wildlife, while the land was reclaimed by cottonwood trees as well as cattails.

Because it’s so close, I’ve hiked there hundreds of times, so I know the land intimately. I know where the great horned owls roost, and I have a favorite cottonwood tree (above), so massive that its numerous limbs are bigger than most trees.

Because I know this place so well, I slow down and try to notice even more: last week it was an osprey couple on their platform, a kingfisher hovering above one of the ponds and, most gloriously, the sound of frogs emanating from each pond, like a huge chorus of life.

At the cabin this week, I had thought to drive down to Estes Park. Even though the park was closed, I could still walk around Lake Estes or even explore this now almost empty town, usually packed with tourists. But I had a strong feeling that I needed to stay where I was, to get deeper into the place I loved so much, notice all the spring changes around Meeker Park: the small white flowers, the aspens starting to bud out, and the pond now almost entirely free of ice. Two weeks ago, I saw my first bluebird.

If home is where the heart is, I’m just getting closer to my heart.

The Earth Softens

Desperate for something promising in a world that now seems to offer only obstructions and complications, I did my usual walk this week around Meeker Park looking intently for new signs of life. I found it first in the barely discernible new shoots of green sage (below), one of our hardiest plants in this harsh climate. I wanted to inhale its familiar pungent smell, get as close to the earth as possible, so I tore off a small bit of these plants, which hug the ground, staying low in these still cold nights.

Last week, on the road leading to the pond, I had to detour up the hill to avoid the deep snow, slush and mud on the dirt road. But this week most of it had melted and dried, and the ground has become soft and yielding, releasing some bounce in my own step, some joy at this landscape springing back to life.

The aspens are starting to flower, producing catkins—soft furry seeds (softer than my cat’s fur) that will disperse in a few months, sending a green pollen across the valley. And the willow bushes (below) seem more intensely red and yellow. Is it just the spring light or my new vision?

Best of all, the pond is starting to thaw, just an opening at either end, but enough to rigorously spill water across the road, through the dense aspen grove and down into the valley bottom where it will blend with Cabin Creek flowing northeast to merge with the St. Vrain, which makes it way through the canyon before joining with the South Platte and eventually the Mississippi River.

In this time of new restrictions on traveling, I come up to the cabin just for the day. On the drive up, the St. Vrain Canyon is almost empty of cars, and on the roads around Meeker Park I see few cars and no other people, just a huge sky held together by these mountains. When I think of all the people packed into cities, their lives threatened by this virus, I feel grateful for all this emptiness, but the gratitude is combined with sorrow and fear for all of us, mixed like the creeks that blend together almost effortlessly and like last year’s dead grasses lying together with the tender new shoots.