Cabin Journal

Retaming the Park

A few days after Rocky Mountain National Park reopened, about three weeks ago, I saw three male turkeys cross the road near the popular Cub Lake trailhead. Since all three had their tails fanned out, apparently to impress the lone female walking behind them, it was a memorable sight, especially because wild turkeys generally avoid roads and trails.

A park shuttle was behind me, so when I stopped at the next parking lot, I asked the driver if he had seen the turkeys. He had and added that he had never seen these huge birds there before. We both wondered if, in these past months of the park being closed—to humans, that is—animals had gradually taken over some of their old territory.

On my hike, I encountered a woman who had been frightened by seeing a bear on the trail. I think the bear was just as surprised to see her, because it immediately fled. For almost three months, it had the trails all to itself (along with some elk and deer, I presume). Now we humans were invading its space again.

I had been hearing stories about wild animals coming closer to town while people were shut in their homes during the pandemic. A friend who lives in Estes Park often saw bighorn sheep near the park entrance, a congested place where, in normal times, cars are lined up to get into the park—an area that shy animals, like the sheep, avoid. Without the humans around, the bighorn sheep were reclaiming some ancestral route or winter home, even if it now is an RV park.

I read a study that found that wildlife—bears, mountain lions, deer, elk, etc.—avoid humans and their trails and roads, keeping a wide berth from us. (One exception is moose, like these young ones, above, at Lily Lake a few years ago, that don't seem bothered by all the humans taking their pictures.) The shutdown of the park since March must have been a treat—and revelation—for them. They didn't have to tiptoe around our human presence. Unfortunately for the animals—and for humans who like peace and isolation—that respite has fast come to an end.

Last week, at Lily Lake (top) for my first kayaking of the season, both parking lots were full and cars were parked along the road. Compared to the past few months of emptiness, it was a scene of mayhem: people not staying on designated trails but treading across hillsides; walking with their dogs (not allowed) and riding bikes (also not allowed); children chasing ducks and throwing rocks in the lake; and a teen boy taking his remote-controlled toy truck on the path around the lake.

I try to remember that people are here because they want to enjoy nature—and everyone does it in their own way. Maybe the teen's toy truck made him feel more comfortable in  nature.

There was nothing for me to do but paddle out to the middle of the lake and watch the natural wildlife: the salamanders that swim like a fish but have legs like a lizard; the ducks that seem unbothered by all the people and the dragonflies that touch the water briefly and then fly off. On the Twin Sisters and Longs Peak, the last light of day shimmers.

I take a deep breath. The park is open for business again, in all its glory and chaos.

 

World According to Birds

Last April, I was walking my familiar trail at the cabin, which goes through a grove of aspen that leads to the pond. In front of me on the ground was a female finch, probably a rosy finch and probably a young one, because it didn’t seem to have the natural fears of an older bird, allowing me to get as close as a foot away.

On one side of the path was a small snowbank, and the bird pecked at the snow. Was it enjoying the wetness or were there bits of food in there, undetectable to a human eye? From small puddles in the path, the kind that I would smash as I walked over them, the bird delicately took sips of water, and I could see the small gulps going down its throat.

How could something so small exist? Have a life most people are unaware of? From time to time it would pause, as if it were sensing things around it, and I imagined life on the ground, feeling every piece of dirt, every small watering hole, every breeze that ruffled its feathers.

In the past few months, as life has slowed to a crawl, my world narrowed to the natural world right in front of me. Rather than long hikes that end at spectacular waterfalls or vistas, I'm watching birds at the cabin and at my house feeder, and entering into their world as much as I can.

One morning at home, I was sitting in the backyard near the bird bath when I saw a house finch followed by young ones. After the parent left, the babies sat on the edge of the bird bath, contemplating, it seemed, this water and what should be done with it. One bird stuck its beak in and took a sip, seemed to like what it tasted, and then took a few more sips. Without warning, it jumped in, bobbing up and down in the water and fluffing out its feathers. I silently shared its joy at discovering water and all its indescribable  qualities.

At the cabin, I've been waiting all spring for the house wrens to arrive; their clear and melodic songs can pierce my heart. Just when I had given up and assumed they had found better lodgings elsewhere, they are suddenly everywhere. On the side of the garage, behind the cabin, a pair has been building a nest inside an old bird box (above).

From the back deck, I watched as one wren landed on the ground in front of me and poked around for the perfect-size twig, which seemed to be around 3-4 inches long, discarding others that were too long, too short or too thick. It then flew to the bird box and attempted to get this four-inch stick into a one-inch hole, having to maneuver the stick around in its beak before it was able to get it in the box. While it was doing that, its mate had found another stick and was waiting impatiently for the first one (males and females look alike) to add to the pile. Sometimes one got impatient and pushed the other one aside, much like a married couple: "Oh, let me do that, if you can't."

On the other side of the garage, the violet-green swallows have taken over the bird box (above), close enough to the house that, from my table, I can watch them swoop and sail at my eye level. They are amazing flyers, able to turn on a dime to catch a passing insect.

Meanwhile the hummingbirds dart from tree to bush and back, while a vulture soars just over the tops of the trees, close enough for me to see its giant wings. One day I saw three ducks fly overhead, an unusual sight here in the mountains where ponds are few and far between. This landscape of dense coniferous forests broken by a few open meadows and cabins would have meant nothing to them. I knew they were looking for one thing: the glint of water, something round and reflective—a safe pond to land on.

There are so many other worlds out there--complex almost beyond our imagining. Through an intervention from the human world, we've been allowed to glimpse one of them. It's taken a pandemic to get us to slow down and notice what's been there all along. For that, I'm grateful.