Cabin Journal

Instant Transformation

At the cabin this week, the ground was mostly bare, with just a few patches of snow lingering in shady places. Even Mount Meeker’s granite slopes were exposed. The few snowstorms that had come through in the past month were followed by warm weather that melted any trace of snow from the mountain’s broad eastern flank.

So when I set off on my hike in Wild Basin, I didn’t bring my snow cleats or even my hiking poles, looking forward to walking on the dry road and not having to worry about slipping in snow or on ice. The only indication that it was truly winter was the mostly frozen creek.

But, part way up the trail, it started snowing—big, thick flakes that piled up quickly. On my way back the road was covered in snow, as were the trees, the boulders and the willow bushes. A veil of white blocked my view of the hills on the other side of the valley, as well as Mount Copeland to the west.

Just like that, in the duration of a half hour, the landscape was transformed from brown and static to white and ever changing. Coarse boulders were softened, the branches of the pines gathered snow in their arms, tree trunks were etched with  powder, and the aspen branches were outlined in white. Snow descended from the heavens like a gift from the climate gods, swirling around me and the trees, landing softly on the brown earth, creating a landscape wholly changed.

Within a half hour the snow stopped. But in a winter with almost no snow, this brief squall was a treat, a luxury to stroll through a softened white world. I’ll take it.

More Change Is Coming

On my walk around Meeker Park last week, a neighbor alerted me that a nearby homeowner was seeking permission from the county to rent out their cabin as a vacation rental. He and other neighbors were concerned about strangers invading our little valley, people coming from other states who might not know the rules of our mountains: keep dogs leashed, don’t start campfires on hot, windy days and don’t disturb the peace and quiet we’ve come to love.

This is not the first time a homeowner here has sought to rent their cabin on a weekly basis. But it made me wonder if some of the outrageously high asking prices for cabins in the past year are because investors assume they could make a lot of money off tourists who want to stay in real cabins rather than the chain hotels in Estes Park.

It was a wake-up call for me, because I cling to the idea that my small bit of paradise is still wild and empty, despite evidence to the contrary. When I first bought the cabin, some 13 years ago, only three cabins on my road had year-long residents. The rest were summer homes, used only for a few months and maybe during the holidays. But gradually more people started moving in to this mountain valley, even though Meeker Park has no sewage system or cell phone service, and many of the dirt roads are not maintained and often full of potholes, especially after a hard winter.

Now, seven houses on my dirt road have full-time residents, some pushed out of Estes Park by high housing prices in the tourist town. Seven doesn’t sound like much, but traffic has more than doubled—not just from the residents coming and going but from all the delivery trucks—propane, garbage, UPS—that make their rounds every week or day.

Some of the new people have brought with them activities and items that don’t seem compatible with wilderness: like basketball hoops, classic Greek statues and wind sculptures. They’re raising chickens, flying huge flags and stringing holiday lights along fenceposts. One neighbor put up a free library and affixed small paintings to fence posts, behind which two Highland cattle graze.

None of these are harmful; some are good additions, like the library, and I even like the paintings, but each intrusion feels like the wildness is being chipped away at. Before I start getting too sentimental for the old days, I have to remind myself that Meeker Park hasn’t been a wilderness for a long time, not since the natives left and white settlers arrived. Over the past century, this small community has repurposed itself—from farming and ranching to summer tourism and now to a suburb of Estes Park.

In the early years (around the early 1900s), residents took advantage of this  valley bottom, which has abundant water from two streams, to raise sheep, cows, chickens and turkeys. A dairy farm once provided fresh milk, and the locals grew potatoes, peas and other hardy crops. To enclose the cows and other domestic animals, the early farmers and ranchers strung barbed wire fences  throughout the valley. There was even a small general store just down the road from my cabin.

At the same time, early residents hunted elk and deer, which may explain why  so few of these wild animals survived in this mountain valley. A neighbor told me that when his family first arrived, maybe 50 years ago, he saw porcupine, raccoons and marmots--none of which exist here anymore.

I’m seeing more fences go up and less wildlife. I never saw a bear this summer, although some of my neighbors did. Has all this human activity chased them away? Yet moose still wander down the road, perhaps because they are more tolerant of humans than other animals are, and a flock of wild turkeys crosses the yard each morning and afternoon.

I came here longing for wilderness, but others came for inexpensive housing, a place to shoot guns (legal in rural areas) or drive ATVs on the network of dirt roads.  There’s still some code of respect for wildness. Most people don’t let their dogs run free. I’ve never heard anyone blast loud music outside. And most of the cabins are still small; no one yet has built a multi-million dollar house.

When I go for a walk on the road during this off-season, only a few cars pass me. Even though we still have no snow and the temperatures are warmer than they should be, most people have retreated indoors, especially on days when the winds are strong. I can’t stop change, but during this time when autumn eases into winter, when the loudest sound is the wind through the grasses and tree branches, I treasure the peace and quiet as if it’s something precious.