Cabin Journal

The Hidden Life of Lily Lake

There’s so much that’s grandiose and overwhelming about this lake that lies just down the road from me and is a part of Rocky Mountain National Park. There’s the views of Longs Peak and Mount Meeker towering to the south, the ramparts of pale rose-colored granite to the north, and the views to the west of still snow-covered peaks.

Occasionally a moose or elk emerges from the aspens and conifers that border the lake,  much to the delight of the park visitors. Lily Lake once held beavers, which built a huge lodge on the south side but have since disappeared, leaving the lake to the muskrats (below) who criss-cross the lake, entertaining the tourists who think they’re beavers. While families of ducks sleep on the mats of water weeds, above them swallows dip and soar above the lake.

But if  you look more closely, there’s wildlife hiding in and on the pond, and the strangest one  has to be the tiger salamander.  With their oddly shaped heads and gills that fan out from their heads, and with short legs (below), they look like something from a different epoch, like someone tried to put a fish and reptile together, and it didn’t quite work.

After they reach a certain stage, most tiger salamanders leave the water for the land. But in Lily Lake, as far as I can tell, the salamanders stay in their larval stage, never leaving the water and never developing the yellow spots that inspired their name.

These ancient animals, which have the ability to regenerate their limbs, are related to the axolotl, which spends its whole life in water and never undergoes the metamorphosis into a land-dwelling salamander. But the axolotl only exists, just barely, in Mexico, where they were once a main part of the Aztec diet, but are now nearly extinct.

While discussing the tiger salamander with a tourist from Illinois who was familiar with the axolotl, he asked me about the Lily Lake salamanders: “Where do they come from?” The question stumped me. Did he think these larval salamanders had somehow migrated from Mexico? Or that someone had dumped some in the pond where they had multiplied? Or that they migrated from the plains, where they might spend winters instead of the frozen Lily Lake? I can only presume these salamanders burrow down in the mud once the lake starts freezing in November and hibernate.

But why do they exist here at all, when most of their fellow salamanders leave the water? One article I found said that some tiger salamanders prefer to remain in the larval stage because it’s safer in the water than on land, but only if there’s no fish to eat them. But I’ve seen people fishing along the shores. So it’s a mystery.

Just as mysterious and even less noticeable than the salamanders are the damselflies (left) that emerge every year in mid-June. Last week, kayaking on the lake one evening, these blue insects with their transparent wings were out in full force, even with a strong wind, swarming my kayak, flying in formation, like small armadas, across the lake.

Inches above the water, how are these delicate damselflies, which weigh almost nothing, not pushed into the water by the wind and drowned? Some even mate in mid-air, while others hang onto the blades of grass along the shore.

While I skim the dazzling surface of Lily Lake in my kayak, below me are strange primitive creatures, while beside and above me are blue ethereal beings. All of us coexisting happily in this amazing place called Lily Lake.

Losses and Gains

Last week, I was excited to be back one of my favorite trails in Wild Basin, the first time this season. I love the tall pine trees that form a dense canopy over this trail, which are interwoven with a few leggy aspens that provide some light on this otherwise dark, north-facing slope. On top, where the trail flattens out, is another thick forest of ponderosa pines.

But as I climbed higher, the trees suddenly disappeared, replaced by slash piles of dead trees with orange needles (right). While I enjoyed the unobstructed view of Mount Meeker and the still snow-covered peaks to the west, I had lost my cover, that sense of being enclosed in trees and protected.

As the trail headed south, onto a hillside that gently sloped, I found more destruction: hundreds of trees gone and more tent-shaped piles of dead limbs and branches. I can only assume that the Park Service had removed these dead or dying trees because they could be a hazard to hikers, or that this was a fire-mitigation project to thin the forest –or perhaps both. But the result for me was a landscape that was no longer familiar or comforting.

I hike this trail every spring and fall, especially, to see the new lime green leaves of the aspen in spring and then the golden ones in fall. But this year, many of the aspens were dead or dying—a result, I presume, of our low snowpack this winter. It seemed a double whammy—both the ponderosas and aspens gone.  

I’ve lost so many of my favorite hiking trails in the past few years—mostly to fires—that I don’t want to lose anymore. But with climate change, more fires are inevitable along with the loss of trees stressed by the heat and drought. So I need to celebrate what’s still here.

Last year the house wrens, for the first time since I’ve had the cabin, didn’t make a nest in the box on the garage. I worried that maybe their numbers were decreasing across the globe. But this week, sitting on the back deck, I started to notice the small brown birds with the upright trail and the lilting song.  One settled into the the aspen tree, 5 feet from where I sat on the back porch, and sang lustily, as if all was right with the world. Another house wren was picking through pine needles and dirt on the ground and finally found a suitable feather, which it carried to the nest box. So I’m hopeful that another generation will soon be on its way, nestled in the feathers that came from the turkey killed last winter by a bobcat. Nature loves to recycle.

In the sky above the cabin, the swallows have returned, and I watch their daredevil flying with great joy, as they swoop to catch insects for their new young. Amazingly, the pasqueflowers, which bloom mainly in April, are still flowering, and last week I found rare calypso orchids (above) on my walk around Meeker Park.

Even a small herd of elk has made its appearance in Meeker Park. Although these charismatic animals are plentiful in Rocky Mountain National Park, I don’t often see them—especially big herds—in my neighborhood, maybe because there are too many people, cars and noise here. Several times I’ve looked up from my computer to see the elk, with their new soft spring coats –step onto the dirt road in front of the cabin; and one evening a lone male magically appeared in the side yard (top). They feel like visitors from an alternate universe, one that is more quiet and tender, more wakeful and aware.

Since the fire on the Fern Lake trail in the park, more elk, as well as moose (above, sitting comfortably next to the trail), have moved into the areas opened after the trees burned down. And the combination of more sun-filled spaces plus nutrient-rich soil has produced more flowers and more types of flowers than I’ve ever seen, with golden banner taking over whole hillsides.

With climate change, it feels like for every gain there’s a loss in our natural world. All we can do is mourn the losses while celebrating the life that survives and even thrives. On my way back down the Finch Lake trailhead last week, as I approached the creek, I was glad to be back in the deep forest and even happier to hear the clear vibrato of a ruby-crowned kinglet, calling unseen from one of the still thriving pines. I celebrate these small miracles.