Opportunities

Sometimes you are tired, too tired to get out. A busy few days, friends in town, cooking for the holiday, and all you want to do is hit the snooze button and curl up in the comforter, returning to dreamland. But a snowshoe hike was scheduled, an early rising required, and with coffee mugs filled, we drive up to Estes Park. We were rewarded with blue skies, a huge herd of elk, two wonderful guests, and an opportunity to gaze at the snow covered mountains that we wouldn't have had if the snooze button had won.

My (shared) tree

Our running group headed out at sunrise. Winter sunlight lit the Flatirons, turning them into rising pink monoliths. High mountains were sparkling in their new covering of snow. While running our repeats, I nodded hello to my tree that stands guard at a bend in the trail. As we were returning, two other runners were coming up towards the tree. Imagine my surprise when they stopped, and one gave the tree a big hug. "Is that your tree?" I asked.  Indeed it was! What are the chances that not only does someone else have a special tree, but the same special tree that they also give hugs to. Nice to meet you, Kerry!

Memory

My third trip to see Ground Zero since that September morning. The Memorial Pools are open to visitors. I can't help but remember the enormous hole in the ground that I saw in 2003. The fountains drain into a square void.

Farmers market

A few more weekends to bask in the bounty of fall. I want to buy it all and come home to fill the house with the aromas of soups and stews.

Grounded

The last bits of summer are floating to the ground. Every tiny breeze drops another dozen multicolored leaves and lays them out on the still green lawn. They are caught in the blades of grass, in the last blossoms of the year, in the empty birdbath, in the memories of hot days and wonderful evenings.

Letting go

I'm still fascinated with the milkweeds. The large seedpod swells until it finally bursts open, but the seeds are not quite ready to be released. Each row has a white layer of cotton that catches in the breeze, wrestling the seed from its home within the pod. Eventually it will pull away and work itself to the end of the ball of fluff. Another gust and it will be time to let go, to see what adventure lies ahead.

My tree

Everyone needs a tree. A special refuge that is solid against the strongest winds, the fiercest rain and snow. Mine is out on a trail that I run every few weeks. It's always waiting there for me, and doesn't seem to mind if I stop briefly for a chat or just bow my head in acknowledgment as I pass.

Seeds

The grasses are long and have turned to every shade possible of yellow, orange, and brown. Taller plants raise their stalks high to catch the breeze. Splitting open, the milkweeds spill their silky parachutes across the meadows, white dancers on the wind.

Changes

Every morning I look outside to see what has changed overnight. Absent a frost, the changes are subtle. This morning the wind scattered yellow leaves from the ash tree across the lawn, while green and purple hued leaves still cling to the branches. A vine I hadn't even noticed as it wound its way up the ash, has turned crimson. Green tomatoes perch on the wilting plant, attempting to turn red before it is too late.

Fragile Harebell

One minute, the sun is shining warm on my shoulders as I head outside to look at the remains of my garden. The next minute, the sharp wind bites through my clothes. I bundle up in the morning, only to continually shed layers throughout the day. How does the fragile harebell manage to withstand these enormous changes? It is the only flower still blooming when I take the time to peer into the forest floor. Delicate stem, nodding head of paper-thin petals, tiny flash of color, it holds its own against the modest frosts, reminding me that other blooms will rise up in equally difficult conditions next spring.

Adventure

Sometimes you just have to do something that makes you feel so alive, nothing else matters. I ran the Imogene Pass run this weekend. 17 miles from Ouray to Telluride over a 13,000 foot pass. Beautiful views to take your mind off the strain. Hot soup at the top to get you ready for the descent. Part death march, part pilgrimage, and all adventure.

Control

Whenever I am hiking high on the tundra, I realize how inconsequential I am. Clouds build out of nowhere. Temperatures can swing 20 or 30 degrees and the wind can change from a gentle breeze to whipping gusts. It is out of my control. But the power is tangible. There is no cozy cabin to hide out in during a storm. No grove of trees for seeking refuge. I just have to trust that I am prepared.

Connections

Sometimes when you've spent hours on a trail or miles on a long run, you have a deeper connection to the people around you. What is it that brings this on? All your vulunerabilities are apparent over time. Your conversations are not face to face, but looking out over a shared vista. Does it strip you down to the essence of what is you? I feel as if I have been able to reveal a little bit of my soul to the people that I shepherd up a mountain. And at the same time, glimpse a vision of what they hold inside. It is miraculous.

Shooting Stars and Lilypads

Every time I get up for a sunrise hike, something new and unexpected happens. This morning I woke to a ceiling of stars brighter than I can ever remember. The almost full moon had set, allowing the stars to shine brilliantly for a few hours. On my drive in, I stopped the car so I could gaze up above the highest mountains from the darkest stretch of the road. High peaks outlined in a star-filled sky, adorned by shooting stars. Then onto lilypads catching the first light. Life is good.

Tundra Flowers

Tundra flowers seem to make the most of their environment. The growing season is so short, but the flowers make up for that in pure volume. Every square foot of tundra that is not rock seems to support some plant, and most of them bloom during the same 6 weeks. Alpine avens carpet large areas, but a closer look brings out the moss campion, alpine forget-me-nots, alpine primroses and a host of other miniature blooms. Yet every hike to the tundra highlights the variety of this abundance.

Coffee and watching

One of my favorite morning routines is sipping my coffee on the deck, watching a mother woodpecker feed her baby that is now as big as she is. This is the second summer that I have seen a juvenile peeping from the tree, while the mother flies back and forth to the feeder. She discards a dozen seeds before she finds the right one, then hurries back to the waiting babe. This goes on for almost an hour, as the juvenile is so big, it needs a lot of food. When does she finally teach him how to fend for himself?

Reflections

I've hiked to many lakes this summer, and I seem to have visited most of them on calm days. The reflections have been mirrorlike. An interesting idea. Does nature give us the time and the space to reflect on the rest of our life if we let it?

Moose on the loose

Moose have begun to travel to the eastern side of the Continental Divide in Colorado. First it was the lone bull; now there are families it many of the drainages. While a little skittish at first, they seem to have adapted to their new surroundings, hardly glancing up when a hiker passes by.

Iris

Memorial Day approaching means that irises must be blooming. I thought all my irises were white, but there, in the corner of the garden, a beautiful purple iris has bloomed. I love garden surprises.

Covered Bridge

I've always wanted to see a covered bridge. They instantly take you back in time where everything moved at a slower pace, where you might have to give way to someone coming from the other direction, or stop and chat as you navigate the span. You cannot whiz by at 70 miles per hour; they force you to stop and aknowledge their presence.

Muneca

Muneca is getting a little antsy. She's been perched on the mantle all winter, and has been seriously deprived of fresh air. She did get up to the high country last weekend, but she's just a little too awkward to be joining me on my long runs. I may have to find a way to carry her on my water belt. This morning, once I had crested the hill, it was 6 miles of downhill, and most of that beside a stream. Noisy, bubbling, laughing, the stream is filling up with the beginning of the runoff. Hammocks and hanging chairs have been placed out behind the houses, in anticipation of the warm and lazy afternoons to come. Penstamen bloom together in neat blue bunches near the roadside. Irises are opening their flags, and perfuming the air, mixing with the wild choke cherry. Who wants to join me for a run?

Lichen

When the rocks are beginning to peak through the snow, and the sun is finally high enough in the sky to find them, a curious transformation takes place. The lichen also seems to wake up from its dormancy, and mirror the color of the trees beginning to leaf out 3000 feet below.

Mother's Day Tree

I've slowly come to realize that I have special trees in many special places. When I go back and look through my photos, I discover I have captured the same tree many times over the years. This tree I only seem to visit once a year, and it is always on Mother's Day. It is the essence of newly erupted spring green leaves against a still desolate background. In the foreground, choke cherries are blooming, providing a white frame and a fragrant sense of belonging.

On the trail again

One of my goals over the winter was to snowshoe up to Mills Lake. A favorite destination of mine, but I had never visited it in the winter. I thought I might be leaving it a bit late this year, yet, even though it is May, there is so much snow it felt more like February. Snow is up to the railings along the bridges, even at the trailhead. We hiked up to Mills Lake so quickly on the winter trail that we decided to keep going - what's another couple of miles? Crossing the frozen lakes certainly makes the route more direct than in the summer, but we were heading straight up the drainage, sometimes where the watefalls flow. The thick snow and the altitude slowed us, but finally through the trees, we spotted the far cliffs of the Black Lake basin, and could see McHenrys and Chiefshead towering in the distance. At the lake, we climbed up the mountainside to a rock large enough to be above the snow, sat out in our T-shirts, and enjoyed lunch at almost 11,000 feet. I've had many summer stops beside this lake that were not as warm.

Sights and smells

You know that winter's grip is loosening when you can start to smell outside again. First the dirt gives off the loamy smell as if you were opening a new bag of potting mix. Then you might be out on a bright day when the sun starts to bake the bark of a ponderosa pine, giving off a thick vanilla aroma. Suddenly the lawn requires a cut, and memories of past summers float on the air. And just when you think that spring has been taking its sweet time, the fruit trees and bushes assault the senses. Sometimes a pristine white, sometimes a deep fuschia, but always fragrant, they invite you to start opening the windows, to walk around the neighborhood, to drink up their excess and sigh that you are lucky to experience another perfect day.

In tune with my surroundings

In spring, the changes are so rapid, each day brings a new unfolding. The tiny leaves pushing out on my aspen tree, the apple tree turning darker by the day, the day lilies reaching up and out. I was away for a week - Chicago and Greencastle, Indiana. Other spring timelines were in play, and plenty of moisture, given the unceasing rain that they have endured in the Midwest, Lawns were green and lush in Chicago, even though the trees and bushes were just beginning to leaf out - all the better to spy a brilliant yellow warbler against the twigs. A few hours south, and spring has arrived. That wonderful shade of green only found in the big box of crayons when I was a kid, highlighted by cardinals, another of the crayon hues. Back in Colorado, we have a little catching up to do, and now I have to adjust my bearings to the spring of the present.

Spring Exuberance

Winter dormancy be banished! Finally the days are longer, the daffodils have emerged, energy returns. I feel my body and my mood expanding. Perhaps it is a little manic, but isn't that what spring is all about? A chance to be exuberant and shed the shell of winter. A chance for new growth, physically and mentally.