Runoff

Its been a long time since I have heard the waves of an ocean, but today me and Ben and Maggie (my border collies) stood on the banks of our river, and heard the sound of snowmelt rushing towards the sea. I was thinking this is pretty close to the roar of the waves, just more continuous, with less ebb and flow.

Normally the river is subdued and makes about as much noise as a stuff breeze moving through the cottonwoods. Today it roared with speed and intensity, and is the sound of summer in my country. It means that the mountains are clearing, and I will be able to get up there for the many high journeys the dogs and me take every year.

Our first trip was last week. I started up a trail at 9000 feet, and planned to go as far as I could before being cut off by heavy snow. To ny surprise we made it all the way to 10000 feet - only a few hundred feet below timberline. Noone else was up there, which just amazed me.

I mean the dogs and I were in this massive subalpine basin, lined by snow peaks. Our camp was on a ridge over a deep steep walled valley, covered with spruce and fir at the top, and lodepole and aspen further down. It was quiet, except for the far-off sound of a waterfall in the valley, and an occasional breeze in the spruce, and the sprarse songs of mountain birds. So picture us three up there, on our ridge, checking out the view of the peaks, listening to the sounds from the valley, and not one other person was up there - we had it all to ourselves.

That is what I had in mind on the way up - to get a strong dose of solitude and mountain beauty. And that is what I love about the West - experiences like that are not hard to find in these mountains. There is enough room to figure yourself out, to make you humble, and to understand in your hear that the silence of the mountains becomes is the voice of the divine.

It was a good trip, and there are plenty more to come once that rest of the snow runs down the river me and Ben and Maggie walk by every morning.

Wilderness and Beauty

I find myself often comparing dancing on weekends with the time I spend up in Wilderness.

What could be the same of the mountains and dancing with a woman with waist length black hair, her right hand in my left, my arm wrapped around her waist and right hand resting on the firm of her back? She gently responds to my lead, spinning, twirling, and embrace again to the sweet sound of a violin waltz.

In the Wilderness evening I sit and listen to the night sounds, watch the forest turn from shadow to darkness, am consumed by the simplicity and beauty and the mystery.

Perhaps it is the romance that I feel so intensely in both. Perhaps the similarity lies that in both I feel more alive than in any other time in my life.

Earth as Home

Picture a child home from school, sitting in front of a television, or a playstation, or a computer connected to the internet, closing the curtains
in the afternoon to lessen the glair on the screen.

Imagine this child doing this for a decade or longer - 15 years, through most of the years the time of their youth.

Now try to view this child watching a snake on a bank, then seeing a rabbit run, hidden before by its stillness, and stop, as the snake strikes. The rabbit escapes, running in front of the children over to the lakeside.

In your mind's eye see the child walking into the fragrance of a Golden Current in bloom, or hearing the chatter and song of birds soaring in and out of greenyellow cottonwood leaves just opening.

Imagine the child walk on a railed boardwalk, out over a lake - with 5 pound carp cruising on the sides in their spring spawn, capturing the child's attention. Imagine the child looking out across this lake to see a mature bald eagle on a log, just 100 yards beyond, with Longs Peak in the background, and the impace this all has on the child's mind.


Emerson said 'I am a lover of uncontrolled and immortal beauty.'


Uncontrolled beauty like the edge of timberline, witnessing the mystery of dusk settling over a wilderness valley, or a powerful electrical storm with thunder echoing again and again from the peak faces, the mystery of uncontrolled beauty like a grizzly track in the dust, or five clawmarks in the spruce trunk, nearly 8 feet high, with fresh sap dripping down the bark to the forest floor, immortal like the thousands of beautify things to witness and appreciate, for those who are watching, for those who expect to see beauty.

Is it enough to just witness beauty? Activism is sharing what we love, teaching children to be comfortable in wild nature, enabling them to see the earth as home.

Is there a greatest honor than to walk beside them, to also stand in awe at the fragrance of the Golden Currant, at the interaction between the snake and the rabbit, at the eagle on the log in front of Long's Peak, sharing love of uncontrolled and immortal wild nature.

None that I know of. From great loves comes great abundance.

Child for a Long Time

"an old man is a child for a long time" is a quote I came across recently.

That hits home for me, since my favorite activities could be considered so simple as to be child like - riding my bicycle, walking, watching, experiencing what is special about every day.

And more and more I find that I favor those aspects of wild nature that appeal to my heart, rather than my intellect - the line of blue sky through the clouds, the hope in the yellow green color of new leaves on the cottonwoods, the fascination of a fox watching me and the dogs from the hill over by the cattail marsh.

Beauty and Discovery is the best of each day, and isnt that what appeals to children, before we loose our tendancy to overlook something that we think we know, that we have seen before.

And those are the the moments in the nature walks I give for children and their teachers - when we happen on something we hadnt expected, see something new, find something attractive.

On Friday,

On Saturday

And a moth ago

Children may not understand what they like about being out there - but the feeling evoked becomes part of their psyche, then later in their life they more explore more about it, and develop an intellectual fascination with the nature world, resulting from their caring about it.


new version below

Linnea borealis, Aquilegia elegantula, Calypso bulbosa, is what I worked so hard to learn in college, and in the year thereafter. Nature was a source of intellectual fascination - I could not stop exploring the front range, the mountains, the western canyons, finding and naming all of the wild plants I could find.

But now I am remembering my earliest fascination with wild nature - when I was seven find a pond behind a gas station that was full of frogs and tadpoles. When I was a teenager hiking up a canyon with my dogs who suddenly would not go any further - but looked ahead and wined, then would go back and turn again, looking ahead past me, and wine some more. I turned back with them.

I remember the snake in the cavity at the base of the tree that had a girth like my leg - touching it with a stick and seeing it move. I recall the hidden canyon of three foot tall, in whorls of red flowers with black dots.

And what I am remember is before my intellectual fascination with nature, I loved it for the discovery and the beauty of the things I came across while wandering. I was hooked on the wild out there beyond the pavement, whether it was the field down at the end of the street or the nooks and crannies in the national forest that few people visited besides me and my dog.

Well its pretty clear that I have been returning to the passions of my youth - a second childhood, and this one might last longer then my first. When I come across them the scientific names of twinflower, red columbine, fairyslipper orchid fall into the background, and I am impressed with the delicate nature and sweet fragrance of the blossom, the vibrant red of the columbine, finding something of the divine in the lavender flowers of the native orchid, hidden in the shade of the forest - that I didn't see until I had been camped nearby for two days.

I also have a feeling of home when I am out there. I realize nature is harsh and unforgiving, and need to be careful, but also feel a connection up in the wilderness, and an awe and respect - for the mystery, for the beauty. Going up high is like ascending to the pillars of a cathedral that is beyond anything ever created by man. I feel closest to the divine up at the edge of timberline, when me and the dogs sit and watch darkness descend on the valley, see the rose of alpenglow on the peaks.

And being able to remember what it was like, as it is now, gives me an insight to sharing the wonder with children and their teachers on nature walks. Last friday we saw a bullsnake strike at a rabbit, just a few yards away, walked into the sweet fragrance of golden currant in bloom, stood on the bank of a lake as a ribbon snake swam away. They showed me toads crawling out of the pond to sun, that I missed. A month ago we saw the eagle on a log in the lake, with Longs Peak right behind it in the background. The children and I had the same feeling of fascination, of experiencing beauty.

---------------------new version

When I was a kid my first memory of being fascinated with nature was when I was seven, finding a behind a gas station that was full of frogs and tadpoles. In my teen years I recall hiking up a canyon with my dogs who suddenly would not go any further - but looked ahead and wined, then would go back and turn again, looking ahead past me, and wine some more. I turned back with them. I spent my summers away from school up in 'the canyon', coming across rattlesnakes, bighorn sheep, three foot tall lilies in secluded draws, jumping off of cliffs into pools.

My passion was wandering. Although I couldn't describe it at the time, I was hooked on discovery and beauty that one finds unexpectedly while in wild nature.

There is a saying that "an old man is a child for a long time". Now that I am ancient there is a good chance that this childhood will last longer than my first.

And more and more I find that I favor those aspects of wild nature that appeal to my heart, rather than my intellect - the line of blue sky through the clouds, the hope in the yellow green color of new leaves on the cottonwoods, the fascination of a fox watching me and the dogs from the hill over by the cattail marsh.

Beauty and Discovery is the best of each day, and isnt that what appeals to children, before we loose our tendancy to overlook something that we think we know, that we have seen before.

And those are the the moments in the nature walks I give for children and their teachers - when we happen on something we hadnt expected, see something new, find something attractive.

Sacred Ordinary

I have been thinking lately how bleak life would be without the sacred, without the mystery of beauty.

These things of course are personal to each of us. What is sacred and beautiful to one person might not ever be seen by another.

I have been thinking about this a lot, and have made a lost of things I consider sacred, and of the beauty associated with them.

The first sacred thing has to be wilderness and solitude. These things would have to be my best story, and my best prayer, for them to continue.

beauty is a family of otters playing on the bank of a stream, way back in a wilderness area, who after a few minutes suddently vanish as they sense my presence

beauty is the mystery as darkness overtakes the forest, as the rose alpenglow fades on the alpine peaks. beauty is the stillness of night, the thousands of stars visible through the tops of the spruce and the pines.

sacred is sharing this, in writing, once in a while getting close to the feeling I have had up there

and sacred is telling stories about it, and knowing I am doing good when a class of fourth graders is quiet listening to you describe how smart grizzly bears are, as evidenced by how much they play. Picture three grizzly bear cubs sliding down a snowbank, and their huge mother joining them, using her back as a tobaggan, and roaring with delight.

Sacred is an adult walking with children, experiencing the unique of this day, in eight Bull snakes we find, in the deer standing in the shade of the ponderosa pines, that the children discover themselves. Beauty is the heavenly aroma we walk into, from the large golden currant with its yellow blossoms. The same thing happened last year.

and Beauty is us all looking upon the male eagle in Barr Lake, on the log 100 yards out onto Barr Lake, with snow-covererd longs peak behind it. 'Remember that kids' I tell them. 'There is not many times in your life you will see something like that.'

Sacred is community, all the small houses I pass on my bicycle, tulips int he front yard, children's toys in the back, a floppy ear dog running the length of the yard to bark at me as I pass.

Community is also the familar faces I see at a dance, smiling with enthusiasm and warmth. Sacred is song and dance and music, dancing so hard that my shirt is wet with sweat, spinning her so fast their her long hair lifts up and brushes across her face, feeling the excitement in her touch, feeling the connection with the music and the crowd, all with hearts on the same beat, of saturday night, of celebration.

and beaty is the violin hauntingly beautiful as we waltz, my partner responding gently to my touch, feeling her breath, the firm and aoftness of her back, stopping and leeting her spin, then stepping in beside her.
and sacred is Colorado timberline, where I always camp, on a ridge where you can walk up a hundred yards to the alpine tundra, which as as pure a place of freedom as exists on this earth. You can look down into the tall spruce and fir forests, shady and quiet, where the elk like to take cover. You can see the rocky peaks, and the golden light on them at sunrise, the clouds swirling above them and over their face.

Sacred is the Colorado columbine, yellow blue in the last light of the day, on rockys with the forest below, moving slightly from the evening breeze.


Beauty is knowing that even though nature is harsh and unforgiving, it is also effused with love, from the divine,

that I feel sitting up there after dinner, as the stars come up, with a dog on each side of me, leaning it to me. They have a better sense of the mystery up there than I do. They turn their ears to sounds beyond my ears.

sacred is knowing it all all really sums down to love, of community, of song and dance, of the companionship of my dogs, of the mountains and wilderness. A life lived in love is one full of gratiude, for all that have been given, for the sacred in this day, the beauty of this earth, the blessing of this life.

Bears, Dogs, Mystery, and High Country

A few years ago me and the dogs were up in the Wind River Mountains in September, during a windstorm, coming downhill through a thick grove of whitebark pines, all short, about 15 feet high, since we were not far from timberline. About the same time I noticed the pines were absolutely full of mature cones, I saw the dogs had picked up a strong scent, which excited then immensely. I have always wondered if we chased off a grizzly that was foraging in the pines. White park pine cones are the grizzlies favorite food in the fall, and this spot was teeming with them.

It will remain a mystery though, just like the time something walked into the perimeter of my camp on the east side of the Teton valley. I might be stupid enough to backpack where there are grizzlies, but I have retained enough sense to being cautious, because you know I have these dogs with me that I want to take care of. When I camp in heavy grizzly country I wind a line of 25 pound fishing line around tree trunks near camp. I attach the fishing line to two or three personal alarm with 9 volt batteries. When an animal walks into camp it will push in the fishing line set about 3 feet off the ground, and trigger one or more of the alarms.

I figured my alarm would never go off, but at 3:30am on the second night of camping I awoke with it blaring away. I yelled to chase off whatever tripped it, tied Ben and Maggie to a tree, then went out to turn off the alarms. Then I found something was still out there watching, and decided to leave as the quiet returned to the forest. At that point I heard heavy footsteps, knocking over rocks, flushing a grouse, and rambling down a ridge. Likely a grizzly, but a mystery. I stayed awake til dawn.

An then last somewhere, just west of Yellowstone, in the Madison Range. Me and Ben and Maggie were an hour up the trail, right after sunrise when I got a glimpse of something dark watching me from behind an evergreen, twenty feet ahead. About that time you tend to remember the yellow Montana Fish and Wildlife sign down at the trailhead that said 'Warning, Grizzly Bears in Areas.' I wondered if it would charge out from behind the tree as I grabbed for my large canistor of pepper spray at my waist. In my excitement I pressed too hard as I flipped off the safety tab, releasing a small cloud of pepper spray up and to my left. Some of it drifted down across my face.

I can attest to the potency of Counter Assault Bear Deterrent. It is designed to irritate tender skin and eyes and it surely damn does. My skin immediately burned like fire, and I could barely see.

Now that is the just the sort of thing that can happen in the presence of a large bear. Simple things become difficult. A hunter once pulled the trigger time after time as a wounded bear charged him, with no results. His gun was examined after he died. It was in good condition, but the safety lever had not been flipped up.

I managed to keep my composure somewhat, and strained hard so I could see what was coming. (pause)

What I saw a black cow walk from behind the tree. My dogs barked to hurry it off. I dropped to the ground.

After ten minutes of dealing with the pain, I recovered enough to start on again, hoping that my vision would eventually clear. A while later we came to a small stream. I knelt down and splashed water on my face to wash off the residue. That made it hurt worse, and I leaned over in anguish.

Ben and Maggie came by and nuzzled and licked me, concerned for my well being.

There is another good thing about dogs. They stand by you, as true friends, no matter what kind of stupid things you do, oblivious that they have a darn fool for a master.

Those two have backpacked with me since they were just about puppies. When Ben was just barely a year old and Maggie was nine months old, they put their noses into a Grizzly track so fresh that that you could see lines in the dust from wrinkles in the bear's footpad, in the Bob Marshall Wilderness Area just south of Glacier.

On that trip I happened to see a family of otters playing on a streambank, wrestling and sliding down the bank, obviously having a great time. Then all of a sudden they must of sensed my presence, because they vanished.

That's what I attracts me to the mountains and wilderness - the unexpected, like those otters, or a grizzly track, knowing that they ae nearby. I like the unknown at dusk, at morning as the darkness fades. I makes me happy to be somewhere where everything is not all laid out, in long lines and sharp angles, to realize there is something more, the feeling evoked from all that space, all that height, hard ridges to the peak summits, in the shadows of the spruce forests.

And you know I think the greatest beauty has a mystery about it - like those otters, that disappeared, like something watching me from the darkness, like the thousands of stars visible through the tops of the spruce and pines, like the rose alpenglow on a high mountain.

It probably is not coincide that I discover those moments of such beauty on my solitude trips. Alone I expect to witness incredible sights, and never am disappointed. Thoreau said it: "The scarlet oak must, in a sense, be in your eye when you go forth. We cannot see anything until we are possessed with the idea of it, and then we can hardly see anything else.'

So you see I go up there knowing I will experience mystery and beauty, and of course I always do.

I also feel that this mystery and beauty has its origin in the divine. Muir said that no synonym for God is as perfect as beauty.

And so going up there is sort of like a pilgrimage for me, travelling to a sacred place. I am not naive. I know nature is harsh, and that if a meet a mother Grizzly with cubs me and the dogs are in big trouble, but still, at the same time I sense so much holiness up there.

I once had a dream where I was up high, the kind of place I always like to camp, on a ridge at the edge of timberline. From there you can walk up to the vast expanses of the alpine, which as as pure as place of freedom as exists on this earth. You can look down into the tall spruce and fir forests, shady and quiet, where the elk like to take cover. You can see the rocky peaks, and the golden light on them at sunrise, the clouds swirling above them and over their face.

In my dream I had a vision that the end of life might be in a place like that, then solid footing with the earth gives way and you move into it, all, like a hawk soaring during from the mountain top over a forest valley, just beneath the ridges, backed by clouds and snow and the alpine. Now there is a mystery.

Saturday Muse

My muse was a young lady with pale skin and a graceful face, framed by long wavy red hair that went down to her waist. She was a small person, attractive in her pink top and a matching pink belt with small silver ornaments lining the the edges. Her eyes were revealed the joy and passion she had for life.

Which I felt in her hands as we circled the floor to the drums and guitars of the Saturday band. It was a special night, when a local dj and the dance hall owner brought their guitars to the stage and joined the band at midnight, cranking out powerful country songs - Fast As You, Eight Second Ride, Hank Wouldnt Have Done It This Way, pure American Honky Tonk.

It was something to see, when I lifted my arm over her head and she spinned at the edge of control, her long hair spiralling around in a circle that brushed across my face.

About an hour after we danced she came up and apologized for messing up. Doesnt she know that anyone who brightens the dance floor like that cannot mess up? I told her no, she had the beat, she did great. What felt out of control to her are leads I have been doing for years, with many partners, and she did great.

Memorable is what it was when I danced with her again, and told her as we left the floor that how much fun that was, and that is the only criteria that should be used on Saturday night. Being perfect is irrelevant, passion and celebration are the goals.

A muse is a guiding spirit, a source of inspiration, or any one of the nine daughers of Mnemosyne (memory) in Greek Mythology. Each of the daughters was a caretaker of the arts. In her case it would had to be Eratos, the goddess of song and dance. Why else would I still be thinking about her, writing about her?

Courage

The bird chorus is nearing its May peak in the twilight of early morning now. Today a black and rust and white towhee called from the top of a chokecherry bush, only a few feet away from me and the dogs. I saw that the first blooms on that bush were just opening last weekend, starting at the base of the white flower cluster. The air is filled with pockets of fragrance, from the cherries and apples, from the golden currant twenty feet down the path, and from the wild blooms that are ending their April bloom.

The meadow is solid green and the willow bushes and tall cottonwoods are beginning to come to life. Ink-colored catkins line the woodland floor, and fall into the frog pond to sink to the bottom. The green female catkins are swelling to produce the cottonwood fluff that will fill the air in June. A haze of green is starting to be visible on the canopy of the cottonwoods, made from tiny leaves breaking bud, that will soon turn these sunny woods into a shady corridor.

One can't help but be affected by the return of life in spring. Going out there as much as I do makes me feel as if I am renewed also. I find myself dreaming of the pristine wilderness that me and Bena and Maggie will visit this summer - the San Juans, the Eagle Nest and Flattops wilderness, the Collegiates, the Madison Range of Montana. My heart is filled with expectation and hope about we we will witness on those trips. At the same time I am proud I have kept myself in shape to backpack to those high places for another year.

The status quo never lasts too long, and if you want to get up to the high country with a backpack on, you need to work to keep your back and legs in shape. I have done that, all winter, because I want to see as much as I can of the wondrous places in these mountains before it passes me by.

All the things I love up there - the snow-covered peaks, the mountain bluebirds, the twinflower and calypso orchids, the spruce-fir forests and bristlecone pine, will remain long after me and Ben and Maggie are gone. Courage is love expressed in getting out and heading up there, as much as possible, so we can enjoy it while we are still able.

Spring also has me thinking of a saying I read about loving again like you have never been hurt. I asked a pretty lady I have known for a couple of years to go on a hike. She said yes, and stood back and smiled so beautiful, which scared me a little, as if this could be the beginning of losing the freedom I have gotten so used to. Not necessarily. I need to have courage.

Waterproof leather boots are the right thing to wear when backpacking, if you expect to be around water much. I had been using nubuck cross-training shoes for years, because they are lightweight and inexpensive. Unfortunately they don't keep water out when you are going across a wet meadow or hiking in a rainstorm. I found some waterproof leather boots at a good price, and have worn them the last two times out. Combine these boots with some gators tied down tight and you can just about step into a stream without getting wet feet. I'm not sure why it took me this long to switch over. I guess I am basically cheap until I find something on sale at a good price.

When I first wore my boots a couple of weeks ago they felt good right off. It seems as if they didn't require a breakin period - were immediately comfortable and my feet didn't get sore. Me and the dogs followed a tiny stream off trail into the backcountry on this trip. When the canyon leveled out I clmbed a saddle between two hills and sat up my tent on a ridge with boulders around its edges. It was smooth and level back behind the rocks, and was near a perfect campsite. I could go back down to the stream for water, and sit on the boulders with the dogs to watch the sky and the valley below.

It was a full moon while I was out. I slept well and had many dreams. The one I remember was of a mountain range with fresh snow that I wanted to visit, but my nature center friends didnt. I took leave of them in my dream to go by myself, but first had to go home and get Ben and Maggie.

Now that I look back I see that may have been a premonition to how I spent the next weekend. I attended and Environmental Education conference up near Fraser. Instead of staying in the dorms at Snow Mountain Ranch I camped with the dogs a few miles away in the National Forest. It was snowing when I arrived on Friday, and snowed hard again most of Saturday. For a short while I could see stars Saturday night, and I figured the bad weather was going to move out. I awoke Sunday morning with snow coming down again.

What beautiful weather though - all the trees were covered with snow, there was very little wind, and it didn't get that could - into the high teens at night. I discovered the best way to stay warm in winter weather is to bring along two sleeping bags. I place my light two-pound summer sleeping bag into my heavy six pound winter bag, and was toasty warm, all night. My tent is small enough that it acts as a heat trap, and the water I had inside didn't freeze. My water jugs in the back of the pickup were frozen solid.

I have read of an native american tribe that believed that God lived in the cold north country, and equated high snow-covered mountains with purity and goodness. I can understand that, and feel a little of the same way. Snow simplifies and cleanses the landscape, and it does the same for the hearts and minds of those who go out into it, in solitude.

Snowfall

It was after dark and snowing hard when I began setting up camp. The first thing I did was chain up the truck and start a fire. As hard as it was snowing I figured I might need the chains to get out of here. The fire gave me a sense of security knowing I could warm my hands now and again while I put up the tent.

It only took a couple of minutes to set up the tent. I threw my pack and gear inside, out of the snow, then set up my stove and boiled some water for hot chocolate. In a few minutes I was sitting next to the fire with my fingers wrapped around a warm cup, Ben and Maggie nearby, and big flakes of snow sifting down through the trees. All that could be heard was the soft, steady drumming of the snow landing on the tree branches.

There are times when what I want is to be around people (ladies). It's just as natural to give in to a yearning to be alone, out in a Colorado spring snowstorm, with nothing to get in the away of wild nature, nothing to dampen the strength that comes from solitude.

I took a walk with the dogs, and soon got tired of wading through drifts without snowshoes. I turned back towards camp and was warmed by the yellow glow emanating from my fire, lighting the trees and the snow falling through them.