Suburbia Comes to My Wilderness

In the past few months I’ve watched the progress of a new house (below) going up near my favorite pond, where in summer I watch dragonflies swarming and moose eating in the tall grasses. In the distance Mount Meeker looms over this perfect landscape (above), and I’m guessing the view from this modern house takes it all in. Its construction—metal and floor-to-ceiling windows—is shockingly different from the small nearby cabin made of logs (below). But this is the trend now in Meeker Park, as once empty “lots”—parcels of pine and aspen—are filled in with large homes that dominate the landscape.

Meeker Park started out as a farming and ranching community, but its beauty at the foot of Mount Meeker and its closeness to the tourist town of Estes Park started drawing people from flat landscapes to build small cabins where they could spend summers—or at least a few weeks—in a mountain valley with cooler temperatures than Nebraska, Kansas or Iowa.

 

The cabins were rustic—one neighbor refers to his as a “shack.” My cabin, built in 1939, is 600 square feet. Most, like mine, started out with no plumbing or heat. When a few summer residents retired and wanted to live here all year long, they added heat (mostly in the form of a propane or wood-burning stove) and plumbing.

 

But now Meeker Park, which maybe had a permanent population of 100 when I first arrived 15 years ago, is seeing an increase in people who want to live here all year round. When I first bought my cabin, only two neighbors out of 13 cabins were brave enough to withstand the cold and windy winters. But then gradually our neighborhood started filling in with people who couldn’t afford to live in Estes Park—a school principal, a minister, a retired nurse, a schoolteacher--and those who can do their work from anywhere and want to live in a beautiful place.

 

With that came changes: more cars and pedestrians, even in winter; the sound of chainsaws and hammers; festive lights hung from trees; plastic flowers decorating cabins; and the ultimate wilderness insult—bicyclists, who wear colorful lycra!

 

I came here for the wildness—to enjoy the emptiness, especially in winter when I could go down “lanes”—dirt roads—and find cabins that were empty and that I didn’t know existed. Now I’m likely to enter someone’s space, see the car parked in the driveway, get growled at by their dog or find someone splitting wood.

 

I came for the dark forests, but they’re being thinned (rightly) to interrupt future wildfires, as are the tall grasses, which are turning into lawns as city people bring their aesthetics to the mountains. I came for the wildlife (like the elk, above), but they’re being scared away by all the human activity (except for the moose, which aren’t afraid of anything).

As the world gets more crowded, more people are seeking nature, wild animals and quiet places, just like me. I can’t begrudge them, even as the wildness disappears.

At the end of our lane, a new family with two little girls has moved in. When I walk that way, I see a hand-written sign that says “Secret forest” in front of an aspen grove large enough to hide in. When I was growing up in the suburbs of Chicago my family’s house bordered an undeveloped lot full of tall oaks and smaller trees and bushes; we called this the “woods.”  My girlfriends and I would build forts and jumps where we would take our imaginary horses through the woods. I dreamed of living in the mountains and in forests that I could get lost in.

As much as I don’t want my neighborhood to fill up, I’m happy for these girls. They’re living my childhood dream. I can’t help but welcome them to the neighborhood.

Comments

[Jennifer Woodhull]

Damn. What you describe is very much like what’s happened to Boulder. Remember the very first article I wrote for the Boulder Weekly, the cover story in its debut edition? “Is the Middle Class Being Squeezed Out of Boulder”? (or something along those lines)? My article answered, essentially, yes, it is. All those people pouring in from Texas, California, and New York, looking for the pristine air and landscape of the Rocky Mountains, which they then proceeded to foul simply by dint of their presence in such numbers (not to mention their SUVs and terrible driving etiquette). Last I heard, many were moving on to Taos, to crap that up too. I suppose Montana should be bracing for the hordes once Taos is no longer providing the quiet and spaciousness it once did. It’s such a sad irony: people come for the wilderness, and by their very arrival, destroy what they came to find. Those little girls notwithstanding, I’m so sorry you’re losing your treasured retreat environment …

[shony]

Well written, Kathy. Every day I think about the dramatic changes to the Santa Cruz area in the decades I've loved the area. Not everyone wants the same thing that we do from the "wilderness." Have you listened to the Re-wilding podcast. I think you can find it on NPR. Hugs.

[Kathy Kaiser]

Thanks, Shoney. I haven't heard the rewilding podcast, but I'll look for it.
I agree that people want different things from the wilderness, like driving their ATVs (on jeep roads east of Meeker Park) or jeeping or hunting. It's hard to find a place in Colorado now where real wildness is treasured. I'm sure you've seen a lot of changes in Santa Cruz since you first came there.

[Kathy Kaiser]

Jennifer, I remember your article well. Depressing that not much has changed in Boulder--or probably gotten worse with the amount of wealthy people moving in. And from what I hear it's not only Taos that's been overrun by the hordes, but small towns all over the West, including in Montana. I blame the wealthy and all the people who can work anywhere and choose the most beautiful places.
But also, I blame our car culture for some of the madness. Having just come back from Europe, I noticed how sane the cities were, because people either rode bikes or mass transit. What do we do?

[Terri]

Thanks for this. First time I've commented here. (I think) Your writing makes me feel peaceful. But this one reminds me that we are losing some of our beloved wild places.