Cabin Journal

Belonging to the Wilderness

For some people, what they are is not finished at the skin, but continues with the reach of the senses out into the land. … Such people are connected to the land as if by luminous fibers, and they live in a kind of time that is not of the moment, but in concert with memory, extensive, measured by a lifetime. To cut these fibers causes not only pain but a sense of dislocation.

—Barry Lopez in in Arctic Dreams

People come to the mountains for different reasons. There are the city dwellers who come up once or twice a year. The most popular time is in fall when the aspen turn gold at the same time the elk gather in huge herds and the males compete for the females with exciting clashes of antlers.

Other folks come for adventure: rock climbing on cliffs, mountain biking down steep trails or hiking up to alpine lakes or the high tundra. Around Meeker Park in warm weather I see caravans of trucks carrying ATVs to Forest Service roads where they make a lot of noise and scare the wildlife. In the winter those who love snow head for the big resorts to ski or snowboard, while others prefer the quieter pleasures of cross-country skiing or snowshoeing through alpine forests.

In the summer, people seek out wild flowers, starting at lower elevations in May or June and then working their way upward into summer and fall. Others are birdwatchers, intent on seeing the hummingbirds and other birds that only stay for the summer before migrating to warmer climates. Others want to see the wildlife: herds of elk, the moose hidden in the willow bushes and the unbearably cute chipmunks.

I love the animals, admire the wildflowers and enjoy hiking. But it’s more than that. People ask me why I visit my cabin all winter long, when most of the birds are gone, all the flowers have turned to seed, the bears and chipmunks have gone into hibernation, and the aspen trees are bare. On cold days the temperature can be 15 degrees inside the cabin. When I go for a walk, I have to be careful on roads that are rutted with ice.

Except for those exceptional days when the sun comes out after we’ve gotten a foot of snow and Mount Meeker is outlined by a brilliant blue sky, the winter landscape is not beautiful. In fact, on days when the skies are gray and the wind is blowing the trees so hard that I hold my breath waiting for one to crash on the roof, I question why I’m at the cabin when I could be in my less drafty and more comfortable home in Boulder.

Yet when I step outside, I know why. The stillness wraps itself around me like a blanket, cushions me against the worries of the world. There’s an emptiness that leaves room for anything else. I can hear my heart beat, a pine cone falling from the ponderosa, a stray dog barking across the valley, a chickadee calling and the creek muffled under ice.

I like to call it silence but it’s more than that. I love the wilderness, something apart from the world of commerce and busyness. Here I feel connected to a realm that has its own rhythms and reason for being. I belong here—among the trees; close to the deer, gray squirrels and Steller jays; and beneath the broad dome of sky. I'm part of nature, and nature is part of me.

The World Exposed

Last week I enjoyed that rare in-between time in the mountains. The leaves have fallen from the aspen trees and willow bushes, but snow had not yet covered the ground. So I could see the bones of the land—how the aspens cluster together in groves, how the willows fill the valley bottom, how the ice starts to form on the creek and ponds, and the sharp outline of the mountains, especially Mount Meeker, its wide profile that is briefly pink every morning as the sun sneaks up from the east.

The rabbits can’t hide in the grasses that have gone to seed, nor can the turkeys that strut through the yard every morning pecking at the ground. The moose are more visible without all the vegetation that otherwise obscures them.

I keenly feel the loss of the leaves—on both the willows and aspens—because their leaves blowing in the wind felt like the world was alive. Now it’s the strong winds that remind me that the world is still moving, as I watched the pine branches swaying, like a conductor leading the orchestra. And I could see more clearly the few birds that stay for the winter—the steller jays, the ravens and crows—especially as they caught the wind and lifted off into the sky. It was the ravens that alerted me to the carcass of a large animal--probably a deer--that I wish had been hidden by snow in the meadow. The night before I had heard the coyotes yipping, so this was probably their kill.

The winds cleared away any haze or pollution, and the air was so clear it felt like the world was being illuminated, that everything was in extra sharp relief: the Highland cattle basking in the sunlight, one leaning over to rest his head against the other; the stark white trunks of the aspen trees; the white clouds that streaked across the sky, as if coaxing my eyes across this infinite expanse. It was still warm enough (in the 50s) that I could linger, listen to the ravens, trace the clouds in the sky, watch the fish in the creek dart away.

When I stopped on my walk, the silence was tremendous, filling in the whole valley. Mount Meeker was barren, its quiet presence looming over the valley. I could feel the stillness, as if everything was hushed before the turmoil of winter. I wanted to hang on to this peace and quiet, because I know it won’t last.