yesterday... a frozen waterfall

Our second year on this mountain I kept a pig and goat. The goat was an unintentional pet. I have never minded butchering animals I have named, but I could not butcher the goat that went on walks (off leash and right in line) with me and my dogs. There I’d be, walking down the dirt road behind the ranch at the end of summer with three dogs and a goat behind me. Funniest thing was, no one noticed. No one ever stopped and said, “Is that a goat?” or something such as that. Nope. People really don’t know how to see clearly when they are so far out of their element, which folks often are up here. The pig, however, did not come for walks. He was for meat. I learned that the same effect altitude has on us (burning calories faster than one can consume, or so it seems), it has on pigs. This pig could not fatten up. He was at best, a lean porker.

All summer we tried to fatten him. We’d have the tourists in the cabins feed their food scraps to him. Thought that was a much better bet than leaving scraps in our trash area… which we were sure would attract a bear.

However, that is exactly what the pig did. Attract a bear. Mind you, it was a little bear and he was really not interested in eating the pig so much as eating the pig’s slop. But our intention here was to fatten a pig, not a bear, so his presence, although cute and hardly menacing, was counterproductive.

And it was no wild bear. It was tagged. The tell tale sign that this guy had already been picked up somewhere else for one can only assume a similar crime. Here in Colorado, bears get a second chance. Probably even a third. It’s part of our tourist revenue. They are cute. The tourists love them. In Colorado, the pioneer, homesteader, or family trying to live off their land and make a simple living hold less value than tourist attractions. Here, I have learned, the bear comes first. I was told (I kid you not) that if such a problem continues, I might have to get rid of my pig. On my ranch. Well, I would have liked to take on that battle, wouldn’t that be fun, and fight it I would have, as you can imagine. But the problem did not continue. The bear was removed, my pig still did not get fat, and we ended the season with very lean pork. And that goat followed me and my dogs on walks all winter. We finally gave him away in the spring to go harass some other unsuspecting family. (And you thought the bear was a problem?)

I still love my bears. Just not tagged ones that are dropped off near my pig pen. I leave you alone; you leave me alone. Which reminds me of another story about another bear… But I’ll save that for another day.

Forrest, at home working in the high country

Becoming lost is the luxury of relying on others.  One can only be lost if we are secretly counting on the option of someone else to rescue us. Some of us just temporarily lose our way.  And then find it, and make it home on our own.

Or maybe I’m just lucky.

The summer I arrived on this mountain, I was expected to know my way around a mountain I did not know, had never been on, and had no one to show me except where my horse and own desire would take me.

I suppose Bob was burned out on the trail ride thing by then. That’s what I was there for.

On one of the first days, just before noon when the sun had warmed the early May mountain sufficiently, Bob chose three ponies, saddled up, and showed Forrest and me a back route through trees and meadows about five miles long, twisting here and there through only a semblance of game trails, the rest an invisible line into the big unknown, our big back yard.  He called it a trail.  It was not.

Once. That’s how many times he showed me the route. After that I was on my own and expected to lead a string of dudes through a secret for which I only knew a few hints. He told me the horse would remember, and for the most part, he did.  I tested his skills plenty.  The first time was on that back “trail” a few weeks later. Through one open meadow where the trail faded to nothing, I chose not to listen to the horse but veered in a direction I thought looked right. The right way, however, was to the other right.

From the back of the trail line, where Forrest’s “job” was riding drag, which usually consisted of checking out saddles slipping and riders losing balance and dropping wallets, ball caps and sunglasses (what ARE you doing with your wallet out here anyway?), I heard his soft low voice say, “I think it’s the other way.”  Of course he was right. My horse confirmed.

Otherwise, Forrest didn’t speak much back there. For years.  He’d ride the trails, drag, sometimes covered in dust that the line of horses before him had kicked up, just sitting back there on his old mare looking around and munching away. He always seemed to be eating back there when I’d turn around to look.  Peanut M&Ms. And still he was the skinniest little fellow you ever did see. Some days he’d smile when we’d finally arrive back at the ranch, and his teeth were brown from trail dust.

Whatever the weather, the challenge of the trail, the challenge of the people he’d been watching in line before him. There he’d be, silent and cool beneath his hat, hunkered down and enduring the elements.  The cowboy way.  Keep your mouth shut and don’t whine.  No matter what.

And I tested this. I tested him.  Not intentionally, of course, but that’s how it ended up. 

Take the first time I took him on a pack trip.  He was seven. I was guiding a group of teen girls.  He was extra baggage that I would not, could not leave home without, but had trouble figuring out how to bring along.  So he rode along, a long and tiring day for anyone, let alone a little kid that wasn’t really allowed to say much because he knew his mama was too busy taking care of the other kids to pay much mind to him.

Take the time Bob had me guide a family adventure all day horse ride up and across the Divide on a trail I had not even been close to.  Bob asked me if I thought I could do it.  What was I going to say?  No?  I don’t think so.

But I’ll tell you what.  It’s big up there.  Big and wide and open and scary, if you let yourself get scared, which of course I could not do because I had guests I had to convince that I was not scared.  And that I knew my way.  I would get them through this, safe and sound, even in the hail. Yes, a hail storm hit us as we cleared tree line. As I recall, that was late July.

And as we were riding back down this side of the mountain, still in a place I had never been with a group of tourists sitting cold and miserable on their horses between me and my son, I saw him back there, slicker pulled up tight over his neck, eyes hidden behind the rim of his well worn cowboy hat.  He could have been crying for all I knew.  But I knew he wasn’t.  He was a tough little fellow.  He had a job to do, and wasn’t going to whine about a little hail in the high country.

Forrest was eight or nine.  Our route that day was mapped out on a napkin by Bob.  I still have that napkin.  A keepsake of sorts. One more thing I survived.  One more time I could have been lost but found my own way.  No thanks to that napkin.

willow buds in winter

This year there is little ice.  The snow seems to spread directly on the river and creeks.  I question its ability to hold even me each time I cross but see the moose tracks before me and find comfort and wavering confidence.

This winter has an easier mood. A few days colder than any others just to keep the averages in line.  Otherwise, a little less snow, a little less wind, a little less chill.  Mild. Comfortable. Comforting.  My home feels like a content place.

Easier.  Winter is not half over here. We have much work to be done.  Our lives our bustling with the well anticipated and needed change.  Electricity in the air, charging us and our lives with excitement.  The exhilaration of change, now put into action.  We can enjoy our memories, but need not grasp for what is no longer there.  I do not cling to what I no longer am. Where and who and what am I now?

Now. A perfect moon low in the sky, its cool silver light reflecting off the white ground, reflecting off the heavy clouds, the echo of this watery light.  Each molecule of air seems to embrace the radiance. Our world glows.

Now the clouds are swathed in a silver and gold luminosity and the moon slowly settles behind the mountain.

In a matter of moments, I will notice each time I look up a little more clarity in the sky, a little less magic.  Day prepares to rise.

How many mornings have I seen the moon slip behind the mountain from the warmth of my home while in the dark crystalline world outside my window temperatures are so far below zero, far below anything elsewhere I have lived through?  So close, so thin are these walls and windows, so often I step out into it all.  My home is not a bunker in which I remain hiding, but a haven I return to, rest in, allow to be a part of the wintery world while smoke rolls from the stove pipe, down the valley, dissipating into nothingness.

How much wood have we burned to allow us the warmth to remain here?

How unnatural at times it seems when I remember the fresh green of garlic poking through rich black moist soil in perfect lines and patterns of deliberate life, and tilling beds in preparation for carefree sprinkling of carrot seeds, a simple random toss that produced sweetest rewards. These were other times, other mountains.

on the Rio Grande at Brewster Park

Down by the river I flow while the water stands solid beneath me. Here, we are supported. Still we stand on the white expanse and listen.  A murmur of life below. Is that Thalia I hear beneath the surface, tempting me to join her?

It has been years since I had a dog who can keep up with me. I am enjoying the more distant explores this year. But have I ever had one who can sit and listen, enjoy the moment and ask for nothing for now, only to soak it all in as this one does? What a wonderful companion I have.

I think of how many come here to fish in summer, standing in free flowing waters with their waiters and hip boots, tossing lines to dance on the water’s facade.  And how little “use” one has here for winter.  Peace and solitude hold only so much value.  We tend to choose more excitement, brighter lights, and louder noises.  (Perchance warmer places, too.) Stimulation provided for us, not created by mind and nature. Our senses left dormant where here they can breathe.

The banks and adjacent hillsides are littered with droppings and tracks of the moose that were scattered here yesterday, high tailing it for the trees, as a low flying helicopter broke the peace, hovering over the frozen river, scanning the hillsides, back and forth. From our kitchen window we watched a bull moose run through the deep snow on the north side and seek shelter in the trees, only to be chased back out again twenty minutes later as the helicopter changed its course.

We call it wildlife harassment.  I believe they call it “counting elk.”  Funny they wouldn’t think of the simpler method – asking those of us who live where the elk do for answers. Perhaps our answers are considered too simple.  I have found local views hold less value than facts and figures filed behind a big desk.  Living with the wild life, one sees and understands more than many a report will tell you.  But learning to look… I’ve been thinking of that often lately.  Our inability to see.  We see what we expect to be there. We find more comfort in the safety of seeing what we expect to see, not what is really there. It is a blindness we all must battle.  Seeing is not always easy.

Ah, but who am I to say?  I don’t see the elaborate reports.  I don’t look. A blindness for which I am at fault.  I only see the magnificence around me, and look at the finest of details.  I hope to miss nothing.  It all holds value.

We return home among longer shadows along the packed snowmobile track, the half moon rising in the ridiculously blue sky over the tops of the trees peppering the hillside.

Have you ever heard the shivering aspen with their intricate silver tips trembling naked in the frigid winter wind?

the crossing at west lost trail

It is different this year.  I suppose I say that every year. 

The snow came early, following a most mild early autumn.  Thus the water’s surface did not freeze.  At the creek crossing we step on the bridge of snow and fall through.  There is no ice to support our weight.  The sunken in tracks of the moose before us set the stage.  The ice that usually carries cannot hold up this year.  It is not there. I find a crossing of snow pack over rocks and stop mid stream, bending down for a closer look.  Beneath the snow, there is little ice.  In places, none is visible, just the snow seemingly floating on the surface of the gently flowing black waters below.  How cold the waters must be to not melt the snow above, I do not attempt to find out, and do all I can to stay dry while crossing.

I wonder if the ice will form later.  According to the calendar, winter has not yet begun.  On the mountain, of course, seasons are relative.  Summer is short. Winter is longer.  Mild as this one has been so far, I worry and yet I know by now that the seasons have a way of balancing. The mountain takes care of herself.  Our trepidations are in vain.

In the meanwhile, the mountain exposes a new view for me.  I will never be able to say I have seen it all.  Each day reveals something new.  How I would miss the subtle changes, minute variations that allow me this intimate link with the mountain, my home. 

You wonder, don’t you, what I will do when I leave?  I will begin anew and start to see and feel a new mountain. How exciting that will be!

Now I am here and making the most of it.  There is plenty.  Yesterday, I enjoyed a Sunday stroll, if you will, with the puppy, now nine months old.  I can tell you this: it was no walk in the park. The conditions were just wrong. Crusted snow, often soft and sticky, and thin powder beneath unable to support the wide step of the snowshoe.  Each foot print crunched in, pushed clear to the dirt below, and pulled out of the same hole often covered with the wet top layer which had to be knocked off with my poles.  Each step.  I was tired in no time. The puppy was not.  Watching him gave me a regular dose of positive motivation, enough to keep on keeping on. 

We were not alone.  We shared the trail with the moose and coyote, neither of which left a track of any value for us to follow. For those of you who live in moose country, who live with the moose in your back yard, you may know how they mess up the trail in the snow.  Their stride is just wider than mine, each hoof print is much smaller than my snowshoes, poking clear to the dirt beneath this snow.  Once again, I found myself following in their tracks, not by choice but because they too are creatures of habit and insist upon following the trails you and I “see” in the summer.  In the winter, though, the ground is a smooth surface of white, trails indistinguishable.  The moose and I (and any other smaller wild beast that may be stuck up here with us for the season) still find comfort in following the same old route we do when we can see the beaten path.  Why do we stay the trail?  In this country, I dare say we all know that is usually the easier option in an otherwise tricky course.

At times, however, I found myself grateful for those uneven potholes of a track. The moose had remembered the trail better than I, and in places where I may have wandered off, the moose tracks kept me in line. As much as one can draw a straight line in these mountains, that is.  Funny how we both find comfort in travelling the known route in this land so filled with unknowns.

No doubt you might wonder why I do what I do some times.  Don’t worry.  My boys wonder too. But they have also learned to expect, and perhaps you do to.

And so it was another day with the dog.  Life is good.  Youth is exhilarating.  Not mine, of course, but that of my companion.  The puppy does not tire.  He waits on me.  As we rise in elevation, the snow deepens, he follows in my tracks for a bit of relief, then becomes quickly and often distracted and scampers off through the snow on either side of the trail, both sides, bounding about with what looks to me like a smile on his face.

We found ourselves at the Slide.  Stark and vast in winter with the top of the World before us and the devastation of Nature in our face.  It is a harsh place, even in summer, yet so striking and humbling.  In winter, the north aspect is shaded.  The sun never touches where the face of the mountain fell nearly twenty years ago. There is little snow up there this year so far.  It will come.  Just before this rockslide is the avalanche zone where the snow let loose in the winter of 05.  A heavy load, a good year.  Tumbled trees, now with their needles long gone, are still visible in the shallow snow as a reminder.

At the Slide it seems forever the wind blows, adding to the harshness, reminding me I do not belong, that home is still two hours below, two hours of trudging through the snow.  I do not want to be out in the dark.  I am soaked with sweat from this trek already.

Once again, we do not remain long.

Descending, Gunnar is filled with a beautiful confidence.  He knows now where we are going.  Home.  Back to the boys. He trots on ahead, then is there around every bend in the trail, looking back or sitting and scoping ahead while he allows me a chance to catch up.  I never do.  He makes it home before me and announces our survival to our awaiting family.

Gunnar at the Slide

A grove of trees in snow

A heavy load

Bob snowmobiling in the fresh powder

Bob standing in the snow

Forrest riding through the powder this morning

...and up the road this afternoon

testing the snow for stability

Colts running through the snow

horses swarm Bob and his sled

Tres and Crow find comfort with each other

willow branches provide a touch of color

Outside our cabin and the heavy snow begins to come down

In the darkness that is this early morning, I can not well see the snow that fell throughout the night. I shine my flashlight through the glass, and the small arc of light sweeps across nothing but white.  Before dinner last night, we stuck a ruler in the snow collecting from this new storm on the table out there on the deck.  By dinner, the ruler was covered.  By the time Forrest went to sleep, he took his tape measure with him to check the depth, and read over 20 inches.  Now, the table, which is our snow gage, is covered.  The snow from the deck has risen to reach it, engulf it, smooth out the surface of the deck so that chairs, rails, tables, all become a smooth white wave.

Still, the snow is falling. A mid winter storm.  So perfect in her abundance.  This is what we call a “good” storm.

The silence is incomparable.  The river, the trees, trails and life, all are covered with this heavy load.  The cabin is tucked in.  The air is filled with falling snow.  Sound, if any was made, is carried down by the millions of tumbling flakes and absorbed into the generous layer covering our world in white.

Last night we stood outside and listened to the snow falling.  The sound is like the softest of rain.  So delicate, we hold our breaths to hear. A dim and velvety pattering all around us as the snow lands, collects, the tiny facetted shapes holding together to form one smooth sparkling mass in the limited beam of the flashlight.  Coming down the snow shimmers, each flickering flake radiating like so many crystalline tears, and I wanted to cry for the beauty that overwhelmed us, surrounded and engulfed by so many fine crystals falling so gracefully from the black sky.

The excitement in our house was almost uncontained.  We anticipate the same sleepless excitement that Christmas brings.  Perhaps even more. Oh, how my boys love the snow.  I suppose like a surfer waiting for the big wave.  They were ready to burst. 

In the middle of the night, I woke to hear Alan pushing through his dog door.  I did not hear the ensuing click-click of his nails on the wooden floor.  I assumed he remained outside.  He still does not like that dog door.  I found my way downstairs, grabbed a flashlight and stepped just outside in hopes of finding him near. He was not there.  No sense in calling.  He can not hear. His tracks stayed close to the cabin, a narrow trench plowed through three feet of snow, then turning the corner and disappearing from sight.  I slip on a bathrobe and tall boots and head out to find him. There are few places he can go. He can follow the trench to a clearing beneath a huge Blue Spruce perhaps 12 feet from the cabin.  From there, I can see attempts at busting through the snow in other directions. Failed attempts, given up, the trench dead ends. He must have returned to the spruce. 

Now, my boots are far beneath the level of snow.  My bathrobe drags through the soft powder.  If I am to look further for him, I will need to be properly dressed.  I follow the trench and return to the cabin.  In one final thought before heading back out on my rescue mission, I check his bed in Forrest’s room.  And there he is, sound asleep. 

How often have I “lost” something only to find it exactly where it belongs? The last place I think to look.

And what about the birds in the trees, trees loaded with arching, heavy white arms? I consider the wild ones, the animals out there on the mountain, in this storm, tucked in somewhere, perhaps beneath other big trees throughout the mountain, seeking shelter, protection, acceptance that they can not they can not hunt, find feed, travel. They remain holed up in this deep white powder, despite their hunger, and allow this storm to pass, then await the snow to settle.  Their days of moving about the mountain with ease are over for this season.  They will long for the brighter days of spring to set up the snow, melt and glaze the surface, and enable them once again to move more freely about their mountain.

Now, spring seems a long ways away.

Now, I await daylight in this heavy darkness and silence. It is leaden, a grave in which I am softly swallowed in this tender bottomless blanket of white. I feel submerged, as if underwater.  A languid, fluid feeling of lightness, weightlessness, endlessness, as I glimpse outside and see the ground level rising higher and higher still.  

And for a while, I hear nothing at all.

On the way up Pole Mountain

High altitude. Far above the level of the sea. Here, we consider our breath. Such a simple thing. We do not take breathing for granted. Each breath can be a struggle, a blessing. Yet we adjust.

They say it takes four days. And our bodies actually adjust. Remarkable. We don’t think about it, work at it, try for it; it just happens. Four days. What happens after four months? Four years? More?

High altitude. It is often defined as beginning at an elevation of 8,000 feet. We live at an elevation of nearly 10,000 feet. We ascend higher regularly. Tree line here is at 12,000 feet. The highest peaks in this area are just under 14,000 feet, and in the state, just over.

High altitude. Breathe. You can feel it. The changes are real. We may say there is less air up here. That is how it feels. Yet there is about the same amount of oxygen as there is at sea level. The problem lies in the pressure.

Atmospheric pressure (which is measured with a barometer and is also known as barometric pressure) is a measurement of air’s force against a surface. At low elevations, the pressure is greater, since the molecules of air are compressed from the weight of the air above them. However, at higher elevations, there’s less pressure from above, and the air molecules are more dispersed.

The percentage of oxygen in the air at sea level is about the same at high altitudes, roughly 21 percent. But because of the decrease in barometric pressure, as mentioned above, the oxygen molecules are more dispersed. This is what we call the thinning of the air. In a given volume of air, say one breath, fewer molecules of everything are present, including oxygen.

They higher you are, the lower the pressure. As the atmospheric pressure drops, the quantity of oxygen, CO2 and water in each lungful of air decreases proportionally.

Breathe. At 10,000 feet, the atmospheric pressure falls to less than three quarters of that at sea level. Breathe deeper. With each breath, you receive only 70% of the oxygen available at sea level.

Breathe. At 12,000 feet, with each breath, you receive 40 percent less oxygen than at sea level. Breathe deeper still…

It is real. The air is thinner.
Your body will feel it. There is less oxygen with each breath. 30% less with each breath here at 10,000 feet. Less oxygen in your breath means less oxygen in your blood. 10% less oxygen in your blood here at 10.000 feet. You body will need to adjust. And amazingly, it does.
We begin by breathing harder. In the altitude, you breathe faster and more deeply to maximize the amount of oxygen that can get into the blood from the lungs. Yes, you hyperventilate. Your heart pumps more blood to increase the supply of oxygen to your brain and muscles.

Now head on up to 12,000 feet, our tree line.  Then continue further up.

The amount of oxygen required for activity in our bodies does not change. Our bodies must adjust to having less oxygen. We begin with breathing faster and more deeply. The extra ventilation increases the oxygen content in the blood, but not to sea level concentrations. Pulse rate increases. Our hearts pump harder to get more oxygen to the cells.

We adjust. We acclimatize.

Within four days, our bodies can adjust. The depth of our respiration increases. The pressure in our pulmonary arteries is increased, forcing blood into portions of our lungs which are not normally used during sea level breathing. Our body produces more red blood cells to carry oxygen. More red blood cells and capillaries are produced to carry more oxygen. Our body even produces more of a particular enzyme that facilitates the release of oxygen from hemoglobin to the body tissues.  The lungs may actually increase in size to facilitate the osmosis of oxygen and carbon dioxide. There is also an increase in the vascular network of muscles which enhances the transfer of gases.

I find it quite remarkable that we can adjust. Change. Alter to the alititude.

And every time we descend then rise again, we must acclimate again. The changes to our body may not be permanent.

And sometimes, we must descend.

The higher we ascend, the greater our risks. The risks are as real as the thinning of the air.

Here, we adjust. We learn to drink more, eat more, sleep more, slow down, do less. Our bodies work harder just being.

I wonder about the long term effects of altitude. What happens to those that live here?  That ascend regularly? That rarely descend? No one has remained here as long as we have before.  Perhaps no one will again.  What will happen when we leave?

The air will remain the same. The mountain will remain the same. Our bodies will adjust. The effects of the mountain on me will last even less than the effects of me on the mountain.

How foolish we would be to think we are enduring, essential. We are no more than a drop of water in the mighty river. But each of us clings to our own importance and permanence as desperately as we grasp for a deeper breath with each step we take higher.

We are adaptable creatures. We learn to breathe.

On the way back down Pole Mountain

Shadows and light beside the Rio Grande

Upon her frozen waters I walk. Here upon the once and future mighty Rio Grande, here so high and wild where she flows untamed still, here before her waters have been blocked and dammed, diverted from where they once flowed free, demanded regardless of her indifference to who stakes claims in her frozen waters, her flowing waters, the snow on these mountains above her that will become her.  She is cold and hard beneath my heavy boots.

With each step there is hesitation.  Will she hold?  The snow on the surface hides the measure of ice below.  It is a guessing game, perhaps, or a matter of trust, blind trust, in a layer of ice hidden but assumed. I hold my breath and try to be lighter, disperse my weight between my steps, exhale as I settle in and feel the solid flooring. 

Now she sleeps, silent and still. There are no demands, no calls, no claims that disturb her weighty sleep.

Listen.  At first she is soundless, then a faint hum, a muffled gurgling and rippling, a hushed but distinct resonance only flowing waters can create, life beneath the frozen facade, the sound sings the story.  The river is alive.

Flaws in the smooth white course of the surface reveal open pockets to rushing black water below. 

Shadows and hoarfrost where once the waters flowed

a blue spruce heavy with snow

After a fresh snow

Even a little moon

Brings big light

The storm left, unspent, passing on elsewhere, blowing across the flats of Eastern Colorado, then up towards the Great Lakes, releasing its wrath along the route. Now I hear these same clouds may share their bounty towards the Northeast.  Where does this energy come from, relentless and unyielding?  A winter storm feeds on its own fury leaving a glacial path in its raging wake. It allows us to recover without remorse. Remorse is of our creation, not that of the storm.

The sky is left clear and cold.  The temperature drops to sixteen below zero.  Mid day it raises it to sixteen above. There is relief.  We hide from the wind and blowing snow, and seek the meager efforts of the sun. Try as it may it is weak now, humble, of minimal impact; long shadows and diffused radiation will not generate the warmth the flat white surface of snow reflects back into the thin mountain air.

It is on these frigid mornings that even the air will freeze.  Is that what it is, that hazy layer high in the sky to the west?  At first, it looks like clouds, but without the relief of the warmer temperatures clouds promise in winter.  We see this instead when our mountain is at its coldest, fifteen below and colder.  On those mornings, the sky is not clear as one might expect.  There is a soft screen, pink in earliest light. This vapor, frozen moisture, clings to the sky like hoarfrost on the willows. It is odd.

As the air warms, how with such low and little light, the sky clears. The blue above us in the crisp afternoon air is pure.  Eternal.  Unspoiled. No artist would dare to render a sky so blue. But they could, they should.  The intensity of the perfect expanse of this cobalt sky seems high and untouchable, reminding us how little we are. It is vast and overwhelming.  We swim in this sea of white, deep, deep under the big blue.

yes, the sky was really that blue...

a patch of sunlight on tree and snow with a very dark sky behind

a snag and the sun

a view of finger mesa

Bob playing on the little old sled

Bob setting tracks up the road

Forrest playing in the powder around the ranch

A sight you won't see very often: me on snowmobile

probably not the safest way to do it but it worked: Forrest knocking snow off the hay shed

though it was windy and little snow remained on the trees, we would find small protected groves all covered in white

snow and a cold winter wind; here the mountain behind a drifted snowbank

yesterday, along the road home, the snow is only beginning...

The snow has arrived!  Can you feel the bursting excitement?

Yesterday it began, slowly at first, soft and light, settling and easing us into the world of white. It gave us warning and did not catch us unprepared as it has some years, sneaking in after dark, under the radar of the weatherman’s predictions. We had been skeptical this time too, doubting this well anticipated blessing, disappointed time and again by the empty promise of storms passing us by.

Forrest reminds me, “Hope for the best; prepare for the worst.”  The snows that cover our world are both.

This one did not pass us by.  It came.  It is still here.  When it is light enough to see, I will be out with my camera.  We will get little else done today but play in the newness our snowy world. 

Mid afternoon, the snow is still light, there is still doubt, but we decided to play it safe and get the pickup out before it is too late.  Too late means getting snowed in, which in turn means either leaving the vehicle there until the road is pushed open by the first snowplow of the year, around the end of April next spring; or wrestle with chains and shovels and perhaps even a front end loader like we had to do one year when our skepticism tried to outwit the weather.

Bob and I drive out in two separate trucks.  Vision is limited in the heavy veil of snow.  I keep my eye on his tracks and try to follow.  I stop often to look, to take pictures, to stare in amazement at this incredible phenomenon and the intense beauty as if it were my very first time seeing it all.  Ah, but it is the first time I have seen it like this… 

I watch as the golden eagle flies above and before Bob’s slowly moving truck, guiding us through the storm.  We are a convoy, the three of us, the eagle leading the way, Bob’s truck crunching through the untouched powder, my old red Blazer following close behind.  The eagle turns off and up the steep cliffs. We continue onward.

We leave the pickup at the end of the section of road that is often kept plowed, and drive  home in the old red Blazer, 6 ½ miles back to our cabin, along the road above the reservoir as the snow seems to come down thicker with every mile.

We stop to watch a family of Big Horn Sheep stop to watch us.  They climb the steep cliffs above us effortlessly. Now they would rather be still and observer the odd phenomenon of a passing vehicle.  How hidden they are in the cliffs and falling snow.  I take pictures, and later show Forrest, “See this dot? That is a lamb…”

Above the flats at the delta of the reservoir, a coyote too stops to watch us.  His coat is thick and beautiful.  There are no hunters here now, and he seem to knows it.  He stands proud and easy, somehow understanding he is safe with us.  Although he is beautiful to see, I wish he would run.  There are few coyotes who winter up here with us.  Fewer still if  hunters come for the sport, still claiming that they are controlling a nuisance.  Up here, I wonder, a nuisance to whom?  A foolish claim to continue the sport. There is no one here besides us for miles and miles and miles. 

The road will be closed now.  This is the last of simple trips, enclosed in a warm vehicle, straight from the front door of our cabin to wherever we need to go. As we drive home, I watch patches of bunch grass still poking through the hillsides.  Golden rays fanning above the thin snow. They will be gone this morning, buried under this all encompassing world of white.

Solitude descends with the heavy mantle of snow.  There is a silence, a peace, a comfort I can not describe. It is mine, it is ours, it is different from anything else I have ever experienced before living here.  Snow.  It becomes a part of us, our world, everything we do, everything we see, a besieging blanket of white.

A red tail hawk takes flight out across the reservoir in the middle of the storm.

Pole Mountain in early winter snow.

At this elevation, sometimes it is all one can do to breathe.

Inhale. Exhale. There is no more you need to do. What you once gave no thought to, here you learn to consider. What you once took for granted, here you learn to be grateful for.

The air is thinner here. Your lungs crave for more but more is never there. You gasp and are left with wanting for more. There is little more to do. But breathe.

But breathe.  And still we thirst for more. Desires challenge breath. Fullness of life versus thinness of air. We work with what we have, balancing our longings with what is around us, somehow always yearning for more.

Breathe, and fill your lungs and pump your legs and run with all your might up the mountainside, you imagine the liberation from the confines of air, dreaming of an effortless release. There is a hunger for the ease of motion as we watch the hawk glide fluidly far above us there in air thinner still as we remain grounded in our labored breath.

Icicles on the porch.

We drive home in the dark.

The outskirts of town fade quickly; the oncoming flow of blinding white lights was short lived and is gone. We leave the high beams on, ready at each turn to flick them lower if need be. Few vehicles come, and none follow us further up the mountain.  Now we pass but the occasional home, most closed for the season, an invisible part of the dark landscape surrounding us.  Those with lights have the tell tale blue glow of a TV screen.  I know there people in there, sitting and watching some story from far away, perched before their modern evening altar.

My husband deftly maneuvers the truck, a controlled swerve around a stunned deer in the headlights.  Suddenly in the bright beam and limited view, she dances confused before us, and is spared. The heavy grill on the front of our truck was left untouched. This time.

Here we drive expecting wildlife.  It comes as no surprise that we are tested of our awareness and must dodge them.  More often than not, it is the animal that does not expect us. We are in their path, in their way, on their mountain.  It was an elk that ran into the side of the truck two years ago.  We replaced the truck bed with a flat bad.  Perhaps the next time, one will just slide right over and off.  At the very least, vehicle damage would be minimized.  A practical choice.

We have even been hit by moose, with surprisingly minimal injury to both vehicle and the big black beast.

The smooth, monotonous drone of the paved road is abruptly replaced with the rattle of gravel beneath the wheels as we turn onto our road, our speed reduced further still.  These are a slow 18 miles. 

Around the next bend in this winding road something big and wide lifts and lights from a rock by the side of the road.  Illuminated by headlights, the owl soars before us, low and level above the road and vanishes again into the darkness. I can only imagine his silence.

And as he vanishes, spots of white appear, as if they were heading straight for the truck then veer off at the last minute.  Just one, then two, then more; we notice them all, and our anticipation builds. The owl has called forth the snow.  Again.

Around another corner and the white specks in the air increase in number, coming at us like so many moths to the light.  We are in a tunnel it seems, with the headlights illuminating the cliff to our right and the sheer blackness of nothingness that is the steep drop off to our left.

We arrive home to hungry horses and a house in need of a warming fire.  As I read in bed, tucked way down under the blankets to try to find warmth, keeping one hand out at a time to hold my book, I hear Forrest opening the door, stepping out, checking on the progress of the falling flurry.

And we sleep to dreams of snow.

Big Horn Sheep, ewes and lambs, above the Rio Grande Reservoir (photo by Bob)

As we leave the ranch just for the weekend, the splendor of the mountain overwhelms, breathtaking both literally and figuratively. The low light of the early morning, late autumn sun light sparkles like so many diamonds across the smooth expanse of the reservoir.  We stop to look, to fill ourselves with this magnificence, so that we do not find ourselves empty in the city over the weekend, lost in a land of dazzling lights and blaring noises.

There is nothing here but the hum of the engine, already more that I am used to, and miles of views before us.

Above us we see the Big Horn Sheep in their usual section of the rocky bluff over the road. Ewes and lambs on this day, some days we see the rams. With five ewes, there were but two lambs.  I wonder if that is all that survived birth and a summer in a harsh, high climate.  How many will survive the winter? They are fearless there, looking down at us, watching us with bright eyed curiosity, yet still wild, with plenty of places to go should they need to. If they only knew how vulnerable they are there. Two years ago about this time, we found one dead  by the side of road with her horns removed.  When we reported this to our wildlife officials, they found two more carcasses in the same area, all with the same bullet within them.

Our spirits soar again.  A pair of golden eagles escort us further down the road, away from the rambling sheep.  One lands on the cliff and stares out over the expanse of the reservoir.  Does he admire the sparkling beauty as we do? Or are we fools enough to believe they only look for food.  The wider the views, the more narrow our vision.  I want to see beyond.

The second eagle lit upon the bluff over the road.  We drive closer and stop below her.  She sees us, but ignores us.  I suppose she knows I am not capable of climbing those rocks to near here.  I look.  I need not do more.  She allows me the vision and does not fly off.  We drive away in greater awe even than when we started, with a soul full of strength to help us through a weekend of being strangers in a strange land.