Cabin Journal

Out of the Darkness

My favorite holiday story seems even more relevant and poignant during this  pandemic. It took place in a far different time—around 1919—when life was much more difficult than now—colder and snowier winters, hard, physical work and less food—a time when seeing a friend for Christmas meant an eight-mile journey on snowshoes.

Katherine Garetson had a cabin, from which she ran a teahouse in summer, not far from where my cabin is today. She and her friend, Esther, who lived near Estes Park, 16 miles away, agreed one summer to meet the following Christmas at a half-way spot between their two homes. Because there was no way for them to confirm their engagement—no phones nor mail service—each had to set out on Dec. 25 hoping the other would be there.

Writing about her life in Meeker Park (later published as “Homesteading Big Owl”), Katherine said the short and cold days had made her depressed enough to take the chance that Esther would be there. The snow was likely deep, unlike today, where climate change has brought little snow, and I imagine her struggling through deep snowdrifts.

Amazingly, Esther showed up, and the two greeted each other with tears,  cleared out a place in a snowbank, built a fire and sat on newspapers while they dined on soup, coffee and bacon sandwiches. They had only an hour to catch up on each other’s lives—and to curb the loneliness of winter—before they had to trudge back through the cold and snow to their respective homes.

In this time of social isolation, their story reverberates even more. While we have the technological tools—Zoom, phones, email and social media—to keep in touch, we’re missing the human contact. That Esther and Katherine would endure the hardships of snow and cold, even possible death if a snowstorm overtook them, speaks to our innate need for human connection and warmth.

Out of the darkness of this winter, may our hearts keep lit the flame that connects us all, even when apart.

Chased by a Moose

Last week, I set out for my usual afternoon walk around Meeker Park when I spied a moose in the field. If I kept going on the road, and the moose stayed where it was, I would pass within several feet of it. Because it showed no inclination to move, standing as erect and still as a statue—I wisely altered my course and went in the opposite direction.

Having moose in the neighborhood has brought a new awareness when I hike. There’s an animal—one that can weigh as much as 1200 pounds and stand as tall as 6½ feet, not including its antlers—that could run me down, if it wanted. You don’t realize how big these animals are until you see it dwarfing your car or hanging out in your front yard (in the two photos below, taken last summer).

Most visitors to the Colorado mountains are fearful of bears or mountain lions. I see people with bells on their packs, meant to scare off bears. But I know, to use an old cliché, that bears are more scared of me than I am of them, that they’ll go to great lengths to avoid humans. The same goes for mountain lions, the only other big predator here in the Rocky Mountains that could kill me if it so desired.

But moose have poor eyesight, so if you stumble across one and it didn’t hear you coming, it won’t wait to see if you’re friend or foe, but charge you just in case you’re a mountain lion. Despite their huge size and awkward-looking body—a massive torso and antlers, which can weigh 50 pounds, combined with narrow legs—moose are able to run at speeds of up to 35 miles per hour.

I’ve had several near confrontations with moose. Last summer, walking my  usual route around Meeker Park, I saw a male moose standing in the road, so I went up the hill to avoid it, but it kept walking toward me. At some point I realized there was a young moose nearby, so I changed directions, but Dad kept coming.  I wasn’t seriously scared, because there were cabins and cars around where I could have sought help. Eventually, the moose and I peacefully parted ways, but it was a good reminder for me to be always alert.

Despite their huge size, they have an amazing ability to blend in with the woods. I once took a photo of some aspen trees in the mountains, and when I looked at my pictures later, hiding in plain sight among the trees was a moose that I hadn’t seen.

Last fall, when Rocky Mountain National Park was on its permit system, and I didn’t have a permit for that day, I sneaked into Wild Basin along the creek, where the willow bushes can hide a moose. Twice, I emerged from thrashing around in the bushes to find a moose staring at me, while I slowly backed off, uttering what I hoped were comforting words: “Nice moose. Hi moose. I’m leaving now.”

Over the years, as moose have become a permanent fixture in the landscape around the cabin, I’ve learned to make noise when I’m walking through aspens and willow bushes—moose’s favorite food. If I have my hiking poles, I’ll clank them together. Or I’ll clap loudly. Just to let them know I’m there.

Many years ago, I was in Juneau, Alaska, and decided to go for a walk on a dirt road that led up the hill and out of town. Part way up, I suddenly thought: Wait, aren’t there grizzly bears around? I headed back down the hill a lot quicker than when I came up.

Being around animals that could kill you sharpens your senses, makes you aware of every sound, every snap of a twig, every slight movement in the landscape. It keeps me on my toes, keeps me alive.

A Tree Mutilated

In October, my new neighbors had a wedding party at their house, a noisy affair that disturbed the tranquility of the neighborhood. But what was worse was that the happy couple carved a heart into one of the oldest trees in our little community  (and also draped a white sash around the trunk). It’s a ponderosa pine, its diameter so wide that it would take three people to wrap their arms around its trunk. While this is not  large compared to the redwoods on the west coast or some of the oaks in the Midwest, in arid Colorado not only is it a huge tree but an old one—more than a hundred years, at least—and worthy of veneration.

So noteworthy is this tree that, in the realtor’s ads for this house, the tree was mentioned as a selling point. In Meeker Park, old timers speak respectfully and lovingly of this giant ponderosa and might tell new visitors about it in the same way we would recommend a walk to the waterfalls or seeing the moose along the creek.

Carving your initials into a tree is an ancient tradition—especially to celebrate lovers’ relationships; there’s even a name for it—arborglyphs. All over Colorado you can see aspen trees carved with initials and other symbols. Aspens’ bark is soft, easy to cut into, as well as to chew. When other food is scarce, bears, elk and moose eat the nutritious bark (left are their teeth marks).

Some of the aspens don’t survive their wounds, but aspens have short life spans (50-60 years) and are quickly replaced by new saplings. But ponderosas can live hundreds of years. Cutting into tree bark is like cutting into skin that protects the tree’s cells as well as the xylem and phloem that transports water and nutrients between the tree’s roots and its crown. It leaves the tree more vulnerable to pathogens. I once read that the right conditions for a ponderosa to successfully grow occur only once every 60 years. If this tree dies, it won’t be replaced anytime soon.  

When I visited the tree a few weeks after the carving, sap was running from the wound. It hurts to see this ancient, venerable tree treated like this. Because this tree is on private property, this couple could defend their actions by saying the tree “belongs” to them, and they can do what they want. But, in truth, the earth isn’t private property. Native Americans believed we all shared the earth; it wasn’t until non-native  people started erecting fences that the idea of private ownership started. That tree doesn’t belong to any individual, just as the sky or the mountains or the moose don’t belong to us.

We’re all visitors here, walking the same ground and breathing the same air, each of us trying to survive the best we can. I hope the tree survives, just like I hope we all survive our continuous assaults on nature. It's time to be caregivers of this earth rather than destroyers.