My View |
~
Friday, June 6, 2003 It was a beautiful day to be traveling to Colorado. All flights were on time and none landed early. As we flew over western New York, the meandering streams and neatly sown fields made a colorful crazy quilt for Mother Earth. Lakes and ponds cast blue-green reflections to the sky and beyond. The flightmonger in Chicago put me in a aisle seat to Denver so I grabbed some sleep. The little airbus to Gunnison was the best and most exciting flight. I was in the second seat with an unobstructed view of the landscape 24,000 feet below. The propellers vibrated a constant ommmmmmmm in tune with the cosmic voice. The foothills of the Eastern Rocky Mountains are nearly clear of snow, with beautiful lakes of opaque turquoise nestled in the nooks and crannies. The craggy peaks are still covered with snow, but the rocks that give the range its name are showing through with earthy tan, bronze, and red hues. We flew over and through some blinding white cumulus clouds, and as we began our descent the real fun started. We dipped, dropped, bucked, bumped, and generally rocked and rolled our way back to the ground. The runway rose up to meet us with astonishing speed and the plane finally taxied to a gentle, anti-climactic halt. I stepped out into the brilliant Colorado sunshine, ready for anything! Flying high, Daisy Saturday, June 7, 2003 There was a sprinkly start to the morning, but the shower was light and brief. The air remained cool for most of the day, and jackets were needed for our hike in the foothills of Colorado’s Western Slope. The Lower Loop trail was only a little muddy and traffic was light... some hikers, some cyclists, all with accompanying large dogs. Our own two dogs were delighted when we took them down to the river for a game of stick. There are many beautiful wildflowers abloom, with lupines dominating the trailside. There are billions of deep purple larkspurs, a solid blast of grapey color painting entire hillsides. The glacier lilies have just passed on, and the small marsh marigolds do not much resemble their yellow cousins of Gomer Hill. When we came to a wooded area we were overwhelmed by the sweet aroma of pine and balsam. There was a small cluster of red columbine nodding in the understory, and violets of all colors and sizes. I can’t wait to return to this trail with a bicycle to see what lies further on. Keep on truckin’, Daisy Sunday, June 8, 2003 It was a chilly but sunny morning with magpies chattering in the trees outside my bedroom at daybreak. The townsfolk consider them to be pests but I find them strikingly beautiful. But then again, I like crows and blackbirds too... We spent most of the day in a red rock canyon fishing the swift waters of a Rocky Mountain stream. It was a windy day and the fly fishermen were having some difficulty controlling their casts. I used a spinning rod and barbless lure. There were plenty of big trout; we could see them in the sparkling clear water. They didn’t get that big by being stupid. I caught one little brook trout and released it. The streamside was full of wild gooseberry bushes and what appeared to be a variety of wild blueberry shrubs in bloom. Every footstep released the pungent scent of mint. A pair of hummingbirds did a spectacular mating display in the air next to me, flashing scarlet and copper as they rose high in a double helix and then swooped to earth with a loud buzzing jingle-jangle. This pair didn’t hum at all; they sounded more like brass sleighbells. I walked upstream to a little peninsula. On one side was the swift stream; in the other was a spawning pool full of large trout suspended in the water. At my footfall, they buried themselves under the banks, leaving a muddy wake. The pool was also full of fingerlings feeding among the algae. I could have easily caught one of the large spawning fish, but I let them be. Further upstream was a rise in elevation, creating a foaming cascade of milky green water rushing over the boulders. The red rocks and sea green foam illustrated why those are called complimentary colors. Although the fishing trip didn’t contribute anything for the dinner table (we released all we caught) it nourished my spirit with a memorable feast of sights, sounds, and smells... a safe place of retreat in my mind’s eye when the real world is less than beautiful. Feed your head, Daisy Monday, June 9, 2003 The trusty blue Volkswagen bus has brought us to an alpine meadow high in Washington Gulch. There were black clouds moving rapidly in from the southwest with flashes of lightning shooting down towards civilization. A sheet of rain steadily advanced toward our campsite and finally paid us several brief visits. The lightning didn’t come too close, and thunder rumbled up the valley. The storm finally moved on and our intrepid group set off on a hike. We followed a well-worn path, climbing through spruce and aspen and ended up in a scree field, which looked more challenging than it really was. We traversed across the rough and tumbled rocks and descended along a game trail full of lush green undergrowth and colorful wildflowers. As we gathered squaw wood (standing dead branches and pine cones) we noticed we were not alone; across the swamp seven elk were slowly grazing their way along the edge of an aspen grove. They moved in unison with an odd undulating grace for such large animals. We kindled a small fire that soon became a raging blaze with the addition of some construction scraps scrounged from a town site. Soon the aroma of roasting meat, potatoes, and onions had our mouths watering for a late supper, which was enjoyed by all. Good night, Daisy Tuesday, June 10, 2003 It was a long night. There was a crisp mountain breeze wafting through the van, and the rain showers returned off and on. I slept in short bursts and my dreams were filled with the memories of being tucked into a warm bed as a young girl. I arose at first light to the familiar sounds of robins and bobolinks. The sky was impossibly blue with bands of cumulus clouds drifting slowly between the peaks. The lupines and larkspur had really been brought to full bloom by the rain. Their different shades and hues blend to make entire hillsides appear to be a solid mass of deep violet and periwinkle blue, very striking. The mountain air remained cool, and a small morning campfire accented by a pot of cowboy coffee was the perfect way to start the day. Have a great one, Daisy Wednesday, June 11, 2003 I spent the day in this charming resort village nestled up against the base of a Rocky Mountain ski area. Since the altitude is almost 9000 feet and the climate is semi-arid, the landscaping choices that homeowners have are limited. Small plots of lawn must be watered to maintain their fresh green color, and water is rationed. There are a few lilac bushes scattered here and there, but they are stunted versions of those on Tug Hill. Many gardens are abloom with wildflowers; columbine, lupine, and sunflowers are popular choices. Iceland poppies add their vibrant yellow, red, and orange hues to flowerbeds, and hanging plants are on just about every porch. Some folks have set out raised beds of annuals, but they must be covered most nights as the temperature often dips into the 20s, even in midsummer. Dandelions are an abundant ditch weed and are just now beginning to go to seed. Aspens and Colorado blue spruce trees grace the yards in the older sections of this historic mining town, and newer buildings are starkly surrounded by dry rock-strewn dirt. The only way a person could grow vegetables in this hardscrabble area would be in raised beds filled with compost and topsoil. They would have to grow frost-hardy crops such as spinach, broccoli, lettuce, and cabbage. A greenhouse would be an asset; there is plenty of sunshine, but poor soil and extreme temperatures would make self-sufficiency a challenge in this neck of the woods. Enjoy your day (wherever you are), Daisy Thursday, June 12, 2003 Today I learned that there is a huge difference between riding a mountain bike and going mountain biking. I ride my Cannondale everywhere on Tug Hill; I go through some awesome mud, over roots and branches, through swamps, and across beaver dams. I ride old logging paths, snowmobile trails, and abandoned dirt roads. This afternoon, when I set out on a fairly easy (or so I was told...) single track trail in the foothills on a borrowed bike, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. The bike path started out very user-friendly, winding through alpine meadows full of brilliant wildflowers and fragrant groves of spruce and aspen. The nice wide trail soon became very narrow, about ten inches wide. "Ah-ha," I thought to myself, "this must be why they call it a single track." Soon the trail became full of holes and ruts from deer, elk, and horses. Big sharp chunks of granite provided a tight and treacherous obstacle course. The track rose steeply and fell suddenly, often at the very edge of a sheer drop to the creek below. I carried the bike around the worst of the rocks to avoid popping a tire. Finally, I came to a long straight stretch of rock-free trail, so I pedaled hard to cover some ground. I don’t know what threw me out of the track, but suddenly I was rolling down the hill with the bike upside down on the path. I got a little bashed up, but hopped back on the bike. After a bit, I carried the bike up a bouldery rise, sprinting to get the ascent over with more quickly. The next thing I knew, I was in a heap again, victim of hypoxia-induced sudden gravity syndrome. "Better stay here a few minutes to catch my breath," said the voice in my head. Then I felt hundreds of tiny legs exploring my exposed skin; I had landed on a nest of ants! I leapt to my feet (whoa! head rush!) did a frantic little jig, and began the descent to cross the creek to a wide dirt road back to town. "You will cross a really old mining bridge" was what my friends had told me. It was actually the rotten remains of a bridge, with the swift meltwater of an alpine stream boiling and churning underneath. No freakin’ way was I going to backtrack over the single track trail! I took a deep breath, released my fear, and slowly carried my bike to the opposite bank over that wreck of a bridge. The return to town on the old mining road was spectacular, with mountains sloping skyward all around. There were big dark clouds moving in, and I pulled into the yard just as the first raindrops started to fall. I was filled with joy, having completed my first real mountain bike ride in the real Rocky Mountains. Challenge yourself, Daisy Friday, June 13, 2003 We are standing in the middle of one of the largest living organisms in the world, a massive aspen forest. Each tree is connected to the other by an extensive root system. The leaves are fully unfurled and seem to be a deeper green than any I have seen before. The arrow-straight trunks are a glossy pearlescent grey-brown. The overall effect is of being in a dark primordial forest that is subtly glowing from the light reflected off of the pale bark. The forest floor is clear of shrubby underbrush and is carpeted with larkspur, ferns, and various smaller wildflowers. The day has been stormy off and on with drumrolls of thunder punctuating intermittent light rain showers. This lovely aspen forest is located along a mountain pass that has only just become free of snow. There was a brief snow shower as we neared the summit. The pussy willows are in full fuzz at this altitude and the clearings are full of glacier lilies, similar to the trout lilies of Tug Hill but much larger with a deep green leaf. There is a shallow pond full of midday frogsong at the top of a rise. It is as if I have been time traveling back to the middle of April, with corn snow all around and fiddleheads just poking through the forest mulch. Have a timeless day, Daisy Saturday, June 14, 2003 Today we hiked on a horse trail winding up one of the smaller mountains of the Western Slope of the Rockies. Columbines are beginning to bloom, mostly blue with occasional white and pink ones also. The foothills will be covered with these showy blossoms in just a few more days. Colorado columbines are very large, and little resemble the wild ones that grow in upstate New York. Several species of wild sunflower are just starting to unfold, as is bright yellow arnica. As we climbed higher we saw large lavender crocus-like pasqueflowers, buttercups, and the tiny bell-shaped flowers of the wild blueberry. We hiked through an old-growth aspen grove, and one of my friends pointed to a large tree with curiously regular scarring up the length of the trunk. There was a series of four oval marks placed horizontally, a foot or two apart; these are black bear claw imprints, made as the critters shinnied up the tree. There are no grizzlies in the area, but black bears are abundant. Many of the larger aspens bear the bear tracks. We reached the end of the trail, a beautiful alpine meadow surrounded by tall craggy peaks. We had just set up the camera and pushed the timer switch to take a group photo, when we heard a loud raucous scream from a nearby wash. It sounded to me like the cry of a fox, but my companions agreed it could be a mountain lion. We trained our eyes in the direction of the clamor, and saw two large animals traversing the slide path, moving closer to us as they trotted back and forth. We could soon see that they were not big cats, but very large coyotes behaving in a distraught way. As we headed back down the trail, they kept pace with us on their slope, punctuating their steps with that terrible scream at regular intervals. Our best guess is that they were warning us away from a den full of pups. Later in the day I cycled to the cemetery outside of town, a memorial park that reflects the artistic nature of this little community. There are many beautiful and unique grave markers made of bronze, brass, stone, and wood. Snowboarders cut down in their prime are laid to rest alongside of the town founders, names that are familiar from the storefronts and street signs. There is a large mass grave where the victims of a bygone mine explosion are buried under a common marker. This cemetery is placed on a stark and rocky hillside and a freshly dug grave yawns along the edge. Each separate family plot is surrounded by a fence of wood, wrought iron, concrete, or stone. Many of the more recent graves have tokens of love and friendship placed on them... items of jewelry, leather pouches full of secrets, carved sandstone totems, charms, and amulets. This little spot is a good place to spend a sunny late afternoon. The mournful sound of a coyote pack ushering out the day reminds me that I can hop on my bike and ride away on the road back to town, while those I have been walking among now travel the universal highway. Riding into the sunset, Daisy Sunday, June 15, 2003 Today was a hot, cloudless, brilliantly sunny day. We took a long dirt bike ride to the top of a seasonal jeep road in a high divide between craggy peaks. As we climbed the rocky path, we encountered many places where meltwater rushed across the road, forming tricky wet crossings. The more altitude we gained, the rougher our engines ran due to a decrease in the amount of available oxygen. The final hundred yards I coaxed my machine slowly up the rock strewn and rutted path, stopping in a snowfield with a sign that proclaimed we were 12600 feet above sea level. We searched the scree for treasure and found several small lovely quartz aggregates. There were fresh ski tracks coming down from the top of one slope. An abandoned snowmobile sat useless off to one side of the trail. A sparkling clear lake glistened in the juncture of the peaks, and pussy willows around the edge were still tight little buds, barely showing their fuzzy faces. There was more snow there than bare ground, and glacier lilies were just beginning to open their yellow buds. I had been preoccupied with keeping the engine running on the way up the road, but on the trip down I took it easy and enjoyed the breathtaking view. In many places the road was cut right into the mountain, with a sheer drop on one side and melting snow on the other. My friends cut their engines and freewheeled down the road in neutral; I am less experienced on a dirt bike and rode in second gear to help control the speed. We stopped in a sunny meadow for a snack, and explored a large shallow pond. There were many leeches, small shiny black beetles, and swiftly darting creatures that looked like tiny fish but moved like insects. Although the sun was beating down, the breeze wafting over the snowfields cooled us right off. We completed our ride down the mountain and passed through a fragrant evergreen forest that smelled just like Christmas morning. What a fitting end to a wonderful gift of a day! Fearlessly, Daisy Monday, June 16, 2003 Today was spent either on an airplane or waiting to board an airplane. As we drove to the airport we saw the tall spiky blooms of the yucca plant growing along the two lane blacktop. Prairie dogs the size of small house cats kept dashing in front of the car, totally ignoring the dangers of the highway. The streams and rivers at this lower altitude are moving right along, carrying extra volumes of melted snow from the surrounding peaks. The irrigation ditches are overflowing; hopefully the long drought in this part of the country is coming to an end. I was lucky to get a window seat on the Denver to Chicago leg of my journey. The land appears very flat from the air. Crops east of Denver are grown in circular fields and are watered by a large sprinkler arm rotating like the minute hand on a clock. As we headed northeast, the fields were laid out in perfect squares. Each road was at a right angle to every adjoining road, and this geometrically perfect plan continued for some time. Rivers were few and far between. I could see occasional green ridges with gullies radiating from the top like legs on a centipede. We finally came to the Mississippi River; it must be huge, as it looked immense from seven miles up. The area on either side of the Big Muddy is very green, and the great waterway stretched as far as I could see in both directions. As we neared Chicago, there were still plenty of big farms and lots of sand and gravel pits. The suburbs of the Windy City are laid out in very regular patterns, and many homes have backyard swimming pools. The golf courses look challenging with an abundance of sand traps and water hazards. The birdseye view of our vast countryside made me feel small, but not insignificant. The folks I imagined going about their daily business on the ground are all individuals in a neighborhood, which is part of a community, the nation, the world, the universe, and beyond. Think about it, Daisy
|
Back to Ommas-Aarden |