Cabin Journal

Drop All Expectations

I should have this Buddhist slogan tattooed on my arm, because I never seem to remember that it doesn’t work to anticipate something—either good or bad—because we don’t know what will happen.

Two weeks ago, I hiked to Bierstadt Lake (below) in Rocky Mountain National Park. At this time of the year, I’m usually engulfed in a sea of glowing aspens—not just on the trail but looking up the valley toward Bear Lake: whole hillsides of green, yellow, orange and red. But two weeks ago, the aspen were still green, with only patches of color way up high.

After the momentary disappointment of not seeing a rich panorama of colors, I still enjoyed the hike, especially the views of the gray, granite peaks across the valley and in the sharp cirque to the west. I looked forward to being at the lake, to sitting among the autumn grasses on the shore and eating my trail mix and apple. Possibly, like the previous time, a moose might step out of the woods and into the lake. But when I got to the lake, I saw an ominous dark gray cloud to the west, and soon I was being pelted by hail and cold rain. I made a hasty retreat back down.

This week, I was looking forward to hiking one of my favorite aspen trails in Rocky Mountain National Park. The park isn’t known for colorful displays, as its hillsides are covered mostly with conifers. But the Hollowell Park trail was logged before the park was established, leaving an empty gash for aspens to thrive along the creek. I love the combination of the luminous aspen canopy over the trail and below the dark water and boulders, many emblazoned with yellow leaves. Hiking this trail has become an autumn ritual for at least 20 years.

But halfway up the path, the aspen trees had already dropped their leaves. I grumped along for awhile before remembering the teaching I had learned: stay open to whatever is in front of you. Soon I started noticing the hillside across the creek (above), full of golden grasses backlit by the sun, and the thick trunks of the pine trees—dark shadows among the golden light.

And yet, still I hurried up the trail, eager to get to the large grove of aspens whose trunks were thin and tall, reaching up to the sky. But when I got there, the trees were dead. I had forgotten that the wildfire two years ago had come through here. Or maybe I had hoped that the trees weren’t totally destroyed in the fire and that new leaves would have sprouted last spring.

So many times I’ve sat in this grove and let the brilliant light wash over me, tilted my head back to the tops of these trees, where the golden leaves fluttered against the brilliant blue sky beyond. But that experience is gone, and so I wanted to keep going, to find something else, but the trail had been flooded, so I had to struggle over downed trees and through gravel beds that had been washed down from the slopes where the trees and shrubs no longer held the ground in place since the fire.

I finally gave up, but before turning back, I noticed that young aspen had sprung up among the dead trees in the two years since the fire. They were only 3 or 4 feet high, but they glowed among the dead trunks. It was a sign of life that I had nearly missed, because at first I only saw the loss of one of my favorite aspen groves. Let the light shine in.

As the Earth Turns

The hummingbirds left a month ago, the ground squirrels disappeared two weeks ago, most of the flowers are gone, and the aspens are in their final fall plumage. I grieve for the passing of summer and the coming onset of winter, yet part of me rejoices that nature is still on schedule.

With the world entering climate uncertainty—not to mention climate disasters in places including Pakistan, Puerto Rico and, most recently, Florida—I take comfort in the changing of the seasons.

In early September, after being gone for a week, I immediately noticed something missing. The hummingbirds had left, and I felt the loss of their energetic buzzing and darting, and their dazzling colors. But their mass migration—a 1,500 mile trip to Mexico, happens every year at the same time. They are heeding nature’s call—whether it’s due to the dwindling flowers, fewer insects or colder nights or some internal urging—I’m not sure. When they arrive in May, there is usually snow on the ground, almost no flowers blooming, and few insects to eat. But the same urge that brought them here last spring is sending them south in fall, as the days shorten.

Last week, the ground squirrels disappeared, presumably into hibernation, as they do every year at this time, although I wonder if the goshawk I saw last week may have something to do with their disappearance, or the mountain lion that appeared on my neighbor’s wildlife camera.

On Lily Lake, most of the ducks that have been here all summer have taken off for places unknown. Yet, in the midst of some creatures leaving, other animals are returning. In the past two weeks, the wild turkeys have come down from the hills to make their usual rounds around our cabins in the cold months. The herds of elk that have been in the high country all summer have come down into town.

The flowers are mostly spent, although I’ve spotted a few lingering blue harebells on my walks. Two weeks ago, the blue gentians bloomed on schedule, the last of summer’s bounty. This week, I can’t find a trace of them.

On top of Trail Ridge last week (above), the tundra has turned rust colored and the thistle flowers are spent, their white seed heads flapping in the wind. Although the elk are gone and the marmots have retreated into their eight-month hibernation, the pikas (left) are still active, gathering more grasses to line their rock homes for the long winter.

And the aspen, which didn’t start leafing out until June last spring, took their time changing color, but the shorter days are finally catching up with them, and this week are lighting up every hillside and valley—a luscious gold that melts my heart every year. Can something be so beautiful that it hurts? Or is it the pain of losing all that will slumber for the next six months?

Meanwhile, more storms have been rolling through. Last night, the mountains got their first snow, so there’s no doubt that we’re moving into a different season. I, too, need to get ready.