Cabin Journal

Flowers Galore

During this spring and summer of plentiful rain and then sunshine, it’s easy to get overwhelmed by the bounty of wildflowers. I’ve seen whole hillsides of blue and purple penstemon (right) in the foothills.

At the cabin, the front yard is filled with blue lupine, yellow cinquefoil and pink geraniums. I can barely see some of the flowers hidden in the tall grasses through which the chipmunks, ground squirrels and rabbits move stealthily, so I only know they are there by the sudden jerk of the grass.

 

 

 

In the wetter areas are patches of wild iris (purple flag), more than I’ve ever seen here, sometimes mixing it up with golden banner (top).  Another flower that likes the marshy fields is the tall angelica. Every week it seems to grow another few inches, rising above the surrounding grasses. This week the round buds are starting to unfold.   

Most people don’t notice stonecrop (above), because it’s low to the ground and not a traditionally beautiful flower, but anything that can grow seemingly out of rocks has my admiration. I especially love their strangely twisted stems. This year they’ve taken over whole layers of rock.  

Last week, the cow parsnip (right) suddenly emerged, its branches floating above the grasses. It’s an unattractive name for delicate looking flower that raises its arms in a beseeching way. This week, the wild roses are blooming everywhere, a delicate pink that is more subtle than their flashy cultivated cousins; their smell is faint, so I have to lean over to catch it.

 

 

On one of my favorite paths at the cabin, past Fritz’s pond, the columbine (left) border the path for hundreds of feet, climbing up the hillside, draping themselves around the aspen and protruding from a juniper bush. When I stop to admire them, I try to refrain from just taking photos and moving on.

I want to absorb their beauty and complexity:  how two in one cluster are open while the others are still buds, tightly folded; how the white petals and purple sepals are positioned for maximum aesthetic effect; and ponder the purpose of the purple sepals that curl up from the main flower. I stand here because a photo can’t capture everything else going on: the wind through the aspen leaves, which tenderly sway the flowers; the bird calls all around me; how I feel sunk into this earth and enclosed by the  mountains.

If I let myself be swayed by these flowers, I also become aware that the next week, or the week after, when I stop to admire them again, they will be dying or gone. And I will have to wait for another year to enjoy their splendor.

 

 

 

 

While the flowers here at 8,500 feet are cycling through their weekly changes, above 10,000 feet the flowers are just starting to emerge. Where the snow has recently melted, patches of the tundra are still brown. Yet with a growing season that can only be a month long, the flowers can’t wait for the tundra to green up.

Some of these flowers are miniature versions of flowers that grow tall down in the lower valleys and meadows. The chiming bells (above) are only inches high, although the blue/purple color is more intense than its bluebell cousins down in the valley. The alpine sunflowers, marsh marigolds, buttercups and forget-me-nots hug the ground to stay out of the fierce winds and cold at this high altitude.  

Or they find shelter next to or under boulders, which also protect them from the intense sun while providing moisture that gathers alongside the rocks. Small rock gardens are created out of the rocks covered with orange, green and blue lichen. Winter’s freezing and thawing have pushed some of the rocks straight up, forming waves of rocks and flowers.

The phlox (above and right) and moss campion survive by forming mats of moss, which holds these small plants in place and allow moisture to collect. It seems a brilliant survival tactic up here on the tundra, with the short growing season, temperatures that average 50 during the day and 30 at night, and strong winds.

Yet somehow they survive, using taproots that go deep into the soil, which is more rock than dirt, while dense hairs on the stems and leaves protect against the winds. These small flowers demand attention, so I bow down to greet them. The alpine sunflower beams back at me so brightly, especially on a cloudy day, that I’m cheered beyond rational measure.

Make Room for Wildlife

I was hiking around Meeker Park with a neighbor who has lived here a long time and remembers when things were different: when few people lived here all winter long; before moose arrived but after some animals disappeared.

Along the creek she pointed out Marmot Rock, a place where marmots once sunbathed on the rocks. But I haven’t seen marmots in the 15 years I’ve lived here. Where did they go? She thought coyotes got them. It’s possible, but in the more than 50 years I’ve lived in Colorado, I mostly see marmots at high elevations—especially on the tundra, where I’ve never seen coyotes. They are safe from predators above tree line, where their biggest challenge is eight months of winter. Or did something else push them up there? Some change in the climate so it was too warm at lower altitudes? Or did human encroachment chase them away?

Around the planet, humans are slowly pushing animals out of their habitats, which are taken over by new subdivisions, energy development, and ranching and farming. During the pandemic, when people were shut in their homes, wildlife started moving into human realms—along highways, into towns and into bays and rivers where ship and boat traffic had ceased. But when human activity returned, wildlife retreated. Studies show that most wildlife seek to avoid contact with humans when possible—such as circumventing hiking trails or coming out only at night when people are in their beds.

It's happening all over the West, as population growth forces wildlife into ever smaller areas. It’s happening here in Meeker Park. In addition to the long-gone marmots, raccoons and porcupines have apparently disappeared, according to another neighbor. I used to regularly see coyotes, but it’s been several years since I last heard their eerie cries. Is that due to more year-round residents, so the coyotes have moved farther from humans and their habitations?

A few weeks ago, I was startled to see a herd of elk come by the cabin. Elk are rare here because it’s mostly wooded. These large animals prefer open fields with plenty of grass to eat and where they can see predators coming.  With its big open valleys, Rocky Mountain National Park is a perfect habitat for them. But when they leave the park, especially in winter as they flee the snow, the elk encounter a bustling city. Unfortunately for the elk, more people are moving to Estes Park every year. Some are retiring in this tourist town, while others who can work from home choose a beautiful natural setting that also has urban amenities: restaurants, a hospital, rec center and library.

Every week it seems I see new development—bulldozers tearing up a field where I often saw elk. Where do the animals go now? They somehow have to thread their way through neighborhoods and shopping malls and cross busy roads to find places to graze and rest. People think it’s amusing to find elk on the golf course in winter, posing in front of motels or crossing the main street. But this is the elk’s historic winter grounds, where they’ve been coming for centuries, much longer than the (white) human usurpers.

This is happening all over the world: monarch butterflies losing their jungle home; sea life pushed farther out by commercial ship traffic; animals killed by cars as highways sprout everywhere. Soon the majority of wildlife will be like the marmots: clinging to one small habitat while humans take over the globe.