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.

Comments

[shoney]

Your writing is so beautiful and detailed that along with your photos I ache to be in the Rockies again. Thank you for sharing this bit of heaven, with all the joy and sorrow it hold.

[Sally Hanson]

I loved the picture of the orchid’s ❗️ What’s their name ❓

[SusanR]

Glad to read you've gotten back into Wild Basin. It's still painful to hear about that burn scar. It just confirms what I've always known and hated -- that when places I love burn, they won't return for even my grandchildren to enjoy as I did. Knowing it's nature's way has never been much comfort.

[Kathy Kaiser]

Susan, I agree that the forests won't come back soon, if ever. As someone who loves trees, it's a hard fact to accept.

[Kathy Kaiser]

Sally, those are calypso orchids, and they are pretty rare and hard to find here in Colorado.

[Kathy Kaiser]

Thanks, Shoney. Hope you'll be back in the Rockies sometime.