Fifteen Years Ago

April is one of the least attractive months in the mountains. The snow is mostly melted, except for the high elevations, but little is growing. Yet it was in April—15 years ago—that I first saw the cabin and fell in love with it. If I could love it then, when the earth was brown, the snow dirty, and the swallows and hummingbirds hadn’t yet returned—then I would love it even more when the aspens leafed out, the columbine bloomed, and the house wrens sang.

But over these 15 years I’ve discovered that it’s not just the beauty that attracts me, but the wildness and the isolation. The cabin has given me a refuge from the world, a place to meditate where I can breathe to the sound of the wind through the pine trees. I’ve learned that I need solitude to rest and recharge without being distracted by the busyness of the world. The cabin has given me a place to be with myself, to learn more and go deeper than I ever thought possible.

 

I’ve learned the pleasures of a simple life. With no plumbing, I don’t worry about pipes freezing, and I enjoy the everyday chores of pumping water from the well to wash my dishes and carrying wood from the shed to build a fire. With no TV and no cell phone access (I admit to having a computer), my biggest source of entertainment is watching the pine trees sway in the wind and the clouds surge above the hills. Because the cabin is small (600 square feet or so), there’s no room to store anything that’s not essential (including books), so it feels uncluttered and manageable.

 

I’ve learned to appreciate the joys of a small community, where neighbors stop to chat on their way to the mailboxes at the end of the road and compare notes on the progression of the season. We may have different philosophies or political views, but we all share a love of this place. During the great flood of 2013, ten years ago in October, I saw how stranded neighbors came together to help each other when all the roads out of Meeker Park were washed out, and we provided information and food to each other.

 

 

One of the best advantages of having a cabin is that I’ve been able to observe nature up close. It’s different than a weekly mountain hike where I might accidentally stumble upon a moose near the trail. At the cabin, moose sometimes hang out in my front yard, and bobcats sit on the front deck. Just sitting on my deck, I’ve developed relationships with the local chipmunks and ground squirrels; observed the aerial shows of hummingbirds; and seen how the purple pasqueflowers bounce back after getting a foot of snow dumped on them. I’ve seen the elusive goshawk fly through the trees and land on my fence; and learned how the house wrens and swallows build nests and feed their young.

My lifelong love of nature (starting with the forest preserves near Chicago) has only deepened. I’ve stood with the tall ponderosas and felt what it was like to sink your roots into the earth. My mind has slowed down enough that I can latch onto the clouds skimming across the sky, tremble with the aspen leaves or plumb the deep pool in the creek where the fish sometimes hide.

In the intervening 15 years, I’ve discovered more places to hike, found the best hillside for seeing columbines, discovered the small pond where dragonflies emerge in the summer. I figured out how to sneak into Wild Basin when the Park Service mandated timed entry permits. I’ve learned how to make a decent fire in my wood-burning stove and reap the rewards: being mesmerized by the sweet crackling and curling blue and orange flames as the logs burn.

In the time I’ve been here, I’ve seen small changes: a few more houses and more people living here year-round, and more fences and private property signs. But there’s no subdivisions springing up every week or office buildings, like the building boom on the plains. When I walk these dirt roads, I can convince myself that I could have enjoyed the same view 100 years ago—especially from the east side of the valley where an old ranch house and pasture are backed by the mountains. It’s a view that I never get tired of, one that I’ve photographed dozens, if not hundreds, of times. I can delude myself into thinking this is how it will always be; that my soul can settle into this place and never leave.

Of course, that’s not true. My body won’t last forever, nor will this valley. Three years ago the wildfire that came over Trail Ridge Road and threatened Estes Park was only a few miles away With the world getting hotter and drier, the chances are good that a wildfire could wipe out these forested hills and cabins. I witnessed how the 2013 flood turned a small brook into a river that filled the whole valley and took out at least three bridges. Even the cabin itself was built to be transitory: sitting on a foundation of tree stumps. If one tree stump collapses, so does the whole cabin. I take comfort that a) we don’t have termites here; and b) the cabin has lasted 84 years.

Nothing is permanent, so I can only enjoy these days of peace and quiet, of a new crop of pasqueflowers coming up and aspens soon to leaf out, and hope that the wildfires won’t come this year, that the cabin’s stumps will hold out a bit longer; that the hummingbirds and house wrens will return along with the ground squirrels. It’s too much to ask for another 15 years, but in the meantime I can squeeze as much out of this precious time and place as I can.

As I was writing this, two elk walked down the road. It’s a thrilling sight, because it’s like brushing up against another world, one that exists outside of the narrow human realm. Even better, it feels like I’m part of that world. I’m not just visiting, I belong here.

Comments

[Shoney Sien]

Stunning! Your studio is a gift to your life and writing—and to us, your devoted readers.

[Susan R]

This took me back to my childhood, when we came up from OKC to spend a few weeks each summer in Allenspark. This is pretty much how I remember it, and what I'd hoped to find again when I finally moved here in 2005. But Thornton was as close as I could get.

[Susan R]

P.S. That cabin photo could be a Christmas card. Beautiful!

[Kathy Kaiser]

Thanks, Susan. Hopefully you'll get back to Allenspark sometime.

[Kathy Kaiser]

Thanks, Shoney, and for all your help finding my dream cabin.