A Very Different Summer

I know it’s been a smoky and somber summer when the first thing I do when I see blue sky is reach for my camera to record this rare moment. It’s not only the blue skies that startles me but the sight of the aspen turning golden. Of course that also causes sadness, because it means the season of life is coming to an end here in the mountains. Already the summer birds, including the hummingbirds, have migrated to their seasonal homes, and the ground squirrels have gone underground for the winter.

I have to remind myself that the aspen aren’t dying; it’s just their outer appearance changing as their leaves drop. The trunks and limbs will endure as long as their root systems can dig deep into the earth and find water and sustenance.

As summer closes out, I realize all my usual summer routines have been disrupted. What I expected didn’t happen, and the unexpected made frequent appearances.  All winter long, I looked forward to my favorite summer hikes to high alpine lakes or to the tundra—places that exist above the normal human world. These are my touchstones, the places that take me beyond myself. But circumstances beyond my control—or anyone else’s—forced a change in plans.

First, the pandemic caused two of my favorite places—Rocky Mountain National Park and the Brainard Lake wilderness area—to restrict the number of visitors. It was difficult, if not impossible sometimes, to get permits that would work with my schedule.  Even when I was able to get an entry permit, smoky skies made it unhealthy to do long and strenuous hikes. And as I get older, I get tired more easily, so it takes longer to reach my destination—if I’m able to make it that far.

What do you do when the places you love become unreachable? I’ve had to find other places, and in the process my world has opened up. I’ve had to be willing to try different destinations  rather than stay on the same heavily trod trails. But I’ve also come to appreciate the old familiar hikes.  

I’ve found that I rather hike on trails that are less spectacular but less crowded than ones where hikers form a continuous line going up to the waterfalls and coming down. I experience nature best when I have a singular relationship, where I can pause on the trail to admire the view or a well-shaped tree without blocking traffic.

This week I returned to a trail that led to a lake I once rejected as boring. But I knew the area wasn’t as heavily used as the popular Bear Lake location and that the hillsides of aspen are enough to take your breath away (top photo). They didn’t disappoint. But more surprising was that the lake (Bierstadt) was just what I was looking for without knowing it—calm blue waters surrounded by dense pines and grasses. When I first got there, I was the only one there, and so for maybe 15 minutes I got to enjoy total peace and quiet.

Like everyone else in the world, I’m adjusting to a new world, with a lot of scrapes and bumps along the way, frustrations but also new discoveries—even new joys, especially a new appreciation for Colorado's deep blue skies.

Comments

[Rachel Maizes]

Thank you for this beautiful essay.

[Rosemary Carstens]

Lovely, evocative post, Kathy. Being in beautiful natural spots with no one else around are among my favorite outdoor memories. It is there that a person can feel they are a part of something sacred and larger than one's self. You can hear the universe then without distraction.

[Kathy Kaiser]

Rosemary, that's a beautiful thought that you can hear the universe.