Category Archives: Uncategorized

Avoiding wildlife accidents

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Mule deer crossing road

I admit it.  I kind of zoned out on our way home tonight.  Screech!  As Bryon threw on the brakes, I came out of my stupor.  What happened?

A young male mule deer, resplendent with a growing set of velvety antlers stood in the middle the road.  I hadn’t even seen him jump out of the forest, but there he stood.

Such are the perils of mountain driving, especially mid-summer when wildlife can be very active.

Working at Rocky Mountain National Park as a Park Ranger, I often got questioned about the various wildlife mounts we had on display at our Moraine Park Visitor Center.  The mountain lion sparked the most curiosity for visitors.  Where did he come from?

The truth is that most wildlife exhibits come from road kill.  Cars zoom along mountain byways, and don’t see the blur of fur as it dashes across the pavement.  A beautiful animal is dead.

Even worse can be an encounter with an elk or moose.  Bull elk can weight up to 800 pounds and a male moose over 1000 pounds.   An encounter with either will leave not just a dead or injured animal, but often an injured person and a totaled car.

While living in the Sierra one year, I traveled back and forth on a road that went through the heart a deer migration path.  Terrified of hitting a deer, I mounted “deer sirens” on my front bumper.  Supposedly they activated a high pitched siren sound when you drove over 35 miles per hour.  A lot of people said they didn’t work at all.  However, I saw deer noticeably fleeing the shoulder of the road several times and I never hit a deer all summer, so the twenty dollars I spent seemed well worth it to me.

The road near our home in Nederland that seems to wreak havoc for driver is Boulder Canyon.  Hundreds of motorists head up and down the canyon each day, including daily commuters and tourists.  For us Nederland residents, we know the road so well, we take liberties with driving a bit more aggressively than most.

But driving fast can create problems when a bear jumps out in front of your car.  A few years ago, that exact thing happened, causing the car to come to an abrupt stop.  The truck behind them was following a bit too closely and swerved to avoid the car, sending the truck in the creek.  In a tragic turn of events, one of the children in the car was swept downstream and drowned.

I experienced a similar incident as I headed up canyon one night at dusk.  As I started to accelerate, a large buck stepped out into the middle of the road.  I spotted him in time to come to a stop, but I feared getting rear ended by someone tailing me too closely.  Fortunately, as I glanced in my rear view mirror, I saw no one.  Whew — rear end wreck averted.

Nighttime can be particularly fraught with danger, as a lot of our wildlife are most active at night.  Think mountain lions, bobcats, raccoons, even elk.  Coming home from Estes Park one autumn night at 9:30 p.m., I almost plowed into a herd of about 60 elk who were using St. Mary’s Road as their own personal byway.

Stay alert and cautious as you drive the mountain byways — you might just save your own life as well as a bear or deer.

Slow Down!!

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Cougar Run

Like so many evenings, I find myself strolling down Cougar Run with dogs in tow.  The evening light is particularly beautiful — with the setting sun illuminating the clouds pink and orange.  The temperature is just right, cool enough to be enjoyable, but comfortable enough I can walk in shorts and a T-shirt.  It’s the kind of evening I feel so grateful to live here.

As we round the curve in Cougar Run towards the straightaway, I hear the rev of the car’s engine before I actually see it.  I realize they are going way too fast.  I try to gather up the dogs toward me.  It’s easy with Shawnee as I shout her favorite word — “Biscuits! Biscuits!”  She has known that word since she was a young pup and instantly starts galloping towards me.  But Simon, our 14-year old retriever mix, is another matter.  During the last year, he has clearly lost his hearing.  Yelling at him will do no good.

After I first adopted him, I signed him up for dog obedience training.  The trainer taught us the usual voice commands — Sit, Down, Come Stay.  But she also taught us hand signals.  Arm vertically over head meant “Down.”  A sort of spinning circle with my left hand outward meant sit.  And a right hand held straight out followed by my hand folding in towards my chest meant Come.

We practiced these signals silently during class, engaging in a friendly competition of puppy push-ups, at which Simon excelled, reeling off 17 consecutive “Sits” and “Downs” in succession.  The whole thing seemed entirely amusing, and I mostly forgot about it in the years after.  On rare occasions I would demonstrate the puppy push-up to friends to show off my dog’s tricks.

But now with Simon mostly deaf, those hand signals have come in might handy.  As I could see the truck bearing down, I frantically tried to catch Simon’s line of sight, waving my arm in and out towards my chest.  I’m not sure why, but I keep thinking the more I do it the better, when what really matters is that he sees me.

I treasure living off the “back roads” because it’s wonderful to just meander along with the dogs, sometimes the only sound is the quaking of the aspen leaves.  But as more and more people move in from out of town, they don’t seem to understand that people, children and dogs are frequently walking these roads.

Recently they widened Cougar Run to enable fire engines to make their way during a wildfire.  While logically I recognize this as a very good thing (especially in light of last year’s wildfire), I don’t like the fact it has encouraged people to go even faster.

While a prominent sign is posted just before the straightaway  –   15 miles per hour — it seems to have done nothing to curb these people from racing along my back road.  I’ve joked to Bryon, that I’m going to get a shovel and start building “speed bumps” out of dirt to slow them down.

It’s particularly worrisome in winter, when the road is frequently snow-packed and icy.  One winter morning, as I rounded the bend, a car came careening down towards us, trying to slam on her brakes at the last minute, back end fishtailing.  Fortunately, the dogs and I were able jump into a snowbank at the last minute to save ourselves.

Perhaps the worst offenders are not even the residents, but delivery and repair vans and trucks.  One particular incident stands out when my friend Barb and I were walking and a CenturyLink van zoomed down the road, clearly exceeding the 25 mph limit on Ridge Road.  Later on Cougar Run, we confronted the same van coming straight towards us.  Barb decided to stand our ground in the middle of the road, forcing him to stop.

We went up to the driver to have a chat.

“Do you realize the speed limit is 15 mph on this road?  You are going way too fast!”

“I’m not going that fast, I’m driving the speed limit!” he protested.

We reiterated our request for him to slow down.  To which he responded by dropping the F-bomb on us.

Not to be daunted, we got his name and license plate, and made a pact that we would both call CenturyLink to report him.

If you’re reading this, please just take a moment to think as you head off to work tomorrow morning or as you head home tomorrow evening.  It could be your family walking down the road.  Isn’t it worth an extra minute of your time to ensure the safety of the people who live here?

Driving to the Moon

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I pulled over to the side of the road, dust flying up from the rear tires.  My dad and I got out of the car and took note of this solemn occasion.  I asked him to take a picture of me, with a backdrop of a red rock canyon behind me.  Me and my Subaru Forester.  The occasion — the odometer just turned over 200,000 miles.

Our friends here in Nederland just bought a new car.  How they decided when to get a new car is rather interesting.  They made an agreement that they would look for a new car when the old one had “driven to the moon.”  Puzzled, I asked what that meant.

“It’s 238,855 miles to the moon from earth.  After we hit 238,000 miles, is when we decided we would buy a new car.”

I liked it.  Driving to the moon.  I hoped my current Subaru Forester could make the moon and beyond.  Right now, it’s just shy of the 200,000 mark my previous Subaru eclipsed.

When I grew up as a kid, no one wanted to drive their car to the moon.  Trading in your car early and often was a sign that you had made it.  No one wanted to keep their car for 10 years or more or put more than 200,000 miles on it.

Who am I kidding?  I didn’t even know any cars that could make it 200,000 miles.  Putting 100,000 miles on your car seemed considerable and well past it’s ability to be sold.

Now, letting people know you’ve got 250,000 on your trust Subaru Outback gives you bragging rights.  You are officially a seasoned mountain resident.

Living in the mountains takes its toll on cars.  Driving through snow, ice, mud, dirt and over rocks and washboard roads isn’t pretty.   I’ve gone through several sets of tires, both snow and all terrain.  The dirt roads wear out the rubber way faster. I’ve also had struts, stray bars, and timing belts replaced as well.  But once you’ve broken in a car to mountain driving, you want to ride that horse as long as possible.   It’s hard to give up on a well loved Subie.

I’ve long given up on my car being shiny and spiffy looking.  I only wash it 1-2 times per year, because after all what’s the point.  It’s got a dent on the front bumper from someone backing into me at trailhead, and a dent on the rear bumper from someone rear ending me.  With all it’s character flaws, it just didn’t seem worth it to repair its dings and dents.

But it’s also taken me on all kinds of adventures.  Every winter, it takes me to epic skiing adventures  all over the state of Colorado.  It keeps me safe as rental cars skid and slide over mountain passes, while my car grips the snowy pavement.  I’ve survived rugged, rocky alpine byways that were supposed to be high clearance, four-wheel drive, and yet I’ve made it as it bounces over rocks and roots.  I’ve carted dogs, furniture, bikes and skis to points unknown all over the west.

Yep, a good mountain car is worth its weight in gold.

As I approach my own “going to the moon”, it’s hard to know when is the right time of giving up on my well loved car, or keeping it going for one more month.  When does that repair become throwing good money after bad?  When does the peace of mind that a new car gives you make it worth monthly car payments for the next five years?

Time will tell.

 

Adventure in the Collegiate Mountains

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Thunderstorms rolling in over Mt. Princeton

Sweat starts to roll down the sides of my face.  This despite the fact that we’ve only been hiking about a mile.  The humidity makes the air feel thick and muggy, unusual for sunny and dry Colorado.  The sky appears noticeably grayer, with the clouds thickening above our heads.

First a faint rumble, but no flash of lightning.  The thunder sounds like it was pretty far away.  Bryon and I converse, deciding for now, we will push on towards the lake, but if the thunder gets closer and louder, we will turn around.

Once we cross the log bridge, that louder clap of thunder strikes, along with the first droplets of rain.  Ok, that’s it.  We drop our packs, pull out our rain jackets, and quickly put our pack covers on our packs.  We aren’t very far out from the trail head and in the thick of the forest, so despite the storm moving in, I don’t worry too much.

Within ten minutes, it is pouring rain, mixing with small pellets of hail.  I can barely see down the trail, with the rain coming down so hard. The pellets of hail sting my face as they rain down and bounce off the brim of my hiking hat.  We arrive back at the log bridge, and I ever so gingerly place my feet sideways, inching along to avoid slipping off logs that are now soaked with rain.

Picking up the pace, I start half running, half walking down the trail.  Boom!  Boom! The thunder seemed to be getting even louder, and the rain comes down in torrents.  Water now flows down the trail, forming small streams of brown, as the water mixes with mud.

Up ahead, I see a couple ill-equipped for this monsoon, wearing nothing but tank tops. The man carts a small child on his back with just a t-shirt and a sun hat on her head.  Her face belies her fear with her mouth quivering and her eyes wide.   The temperature has dropped a good 10 degrees during the 20 minutes since the storm rolled in, and I am feeling chilled.  I can only imagine how miserable she was.

As the parking lot nears, I think of all the hikers still behind us, many of them descending off of Mt. Yale, the 14,196-foot peak that this trail serves.  Bryon and I had only planned a short hike to Hartenstein Lake, but most of the cars in the parking lot are from people hiking up Mt. Yale.

Only two years ago, a young woman, only married five days, lost her life when she was struck by lightning on Mt. Yale.  I hope no one else will suffer a similar fate today.  I think of how wracked with fear I would be right now, exposed above timberline during this violent storm.

The previous day, Bryon and I summited 14,197-foot Mt. Princeton.  Not wanting to take a chance with the weather, we got up at 4:30 a.m. and drove to 10,800 feet before parking and beginning the 4-mile, 3400 foot climb to the top.  Though the hike wasn’t long distance-wise, it made up for it in terms of the ruggedness, with mile upon mile of picking our way through rocks.  Boulder-size rocks, smaller rocks, and finally scree on the final homestretch to the summit.

Picking our way through the rocks became incredibly time-consuming, taking us three full hours to go the four miles, with the last mile taking me over an hour to climb.  The pitch became so steep, I could only keep going by going heel to toe, heel to toe.  At 13,500 feet, my legs don’t feel as strong, and it’s all I can do to keep myself moving.

The views from the summit made it all worthwhile, with snow capped peaks all around us.  We hunkered down for a few minutes, snacking on cheese and jerky while enjoying our alpine wonderland.

But within an hour of  our descending, black clouds seemingly popped up out of nowhere.  I felt grateful for our early start, knowing we would make it back to the car before the weather turned dangerous.

There’s an unspoken rule about summiting Fourteeners by noon to avoid bad weather, but honestly I think that gives many people a false sense of security.  Spending a lot of time among the high peaks in my home state, each day can be different.  I’ve driven by Longs Peak at 10 a.m. in the morning and seen lightning striking it.

After the last two days, I’ve decided I want nothing to do with trying to run down a Fourteener during a thunderstorm.  That’s a particular form of excitement I can live without.

How not to become a story in tomorrow’s newspaper

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The smiling face of the man caught my eye.  He looked happy.  Somebody’s son, husband, father.  The flyer looked tattered, and as I inspected it more closer, realized it had been up for several months.  MISSING in big block letters screamed out from the top.  The face in the photo was identified, with pertinent details of where and when they were last seen and who to contact with information.  I am filled with a sense of sadness, realizing the likelihood that they are long gone.

Hundreds of people go missing on public lands throughout the United States each year.  Working at Rocky Mountain National Park, I became fascinated by a couple of books from the visitor center bookstore.  Death, Despair and Second Chances in Rocky Mountain National Park details bizarre deaths, cases of missing people, and somewhat miraculous rescues when all hope is lost.

Some of the cases completely confounded me, particularly those having to do with children.  Perhaps none more so than the story of a father and his young daughter on a church hike up Flattop Mountain.  The young girl developed blisters and said she couldn’t go on.  Dad told her to wait on the trail and he would get her on the return (does this really seem like a good idea?).  During his descent, the child was gone, only to be found having fall down a cliff to her death.

Other cases were equally bizarre with people vanishing without a trace in a seemingly benign area.  Nothing can be more gut wrenching for a family than to lose a family member to the wilderness with no clues as to how and why.  With no closure, the pain of not knowing has to be unbearable.

I experienced this type of torture first hand my very first summer working at Sequoia National Park.  The hundreds of miles of backcountry trails define Sequoia and Kings Canyon national parks as true wilderness experiences.  And assisting with this experience for backpackers are several back country rangers who live in cabins and patrol the remote areas of the park.  That summer, one of the seasoned rangers of the back country, Randy Morgenson went missing while on patrol one day.  Despite a long search involving his fellow rangers, no sign of him was ever found that year.

To this day, I remember seeing the flyers with his bearded face adorning the kiosks at every trail head, words detailing what he looked like, where he was last seen, pleading for information to be reported.  The pall of the incident hung over the entire park staff that year.  As weeks turned into months, rumors started to churn about his troubled marriage, with people speculating he had just disappeared to Mexico or parts unknown.  I can only imagine how difficult this rumor-mongering must have been on his family.

Five years later, while living in Oregon, I happened to call my friend who I had worked with that first summer.  Her voice sounded strange when she answered the phone.

“I can’t talk right now — there’s a bit of a crisis in the park, where I’m counseling staff.”

Before she could finish and get the words out of her mouth, I knew what she was going to say.

They’d found Randy.

He’d died while on patrol, swept down a stream where he wasn’t seen by the initial search and rescue.  A hiker had found his uniform shirt, complete with his name tag and skeletal remains.

So how do you avoid becoming tomorrow’s story in the newspaper?  The answers lie with keeping in mind your own safety from the moment you start planning a hike to the moment you get back to your car.

Too many people don’t consider worst case scenarios when they go out for a hike.  That you get injured and be forced to spend the night.  That you could get lost and run out of food.  That your cell phone won’t work among the high peaks of the Rocky Mountains or the rugged canyons.

While working at Capitol Reef National Park, I used to go hiking every evening after work.  Being the coolest part of the day, I enjoyed watching the setting sun illuminate the red rocks.  Most of the time, I went by myself.

Not only did I let someone else know where I was going, but I would leave a colorful note on the front door of my park service apartment, with my hike route, and expected due date and time on it.

The pack I take with me during my patrols of the Indian Peaks weighs plenty even on the hottest days.  Filled with compass, maps, whistles, extra food, water filter, jacket, matches — I know if the worst happened, I could survive the night.

Lastly, if you realize you’ve become lost, STOP.  Sheer panic can drive people to do irrational, crazy things that only exacerbate the situation.

  • Stop — just stop moving and sit down
  • Think — consider your situation
  • Organize your resources — do you have water? can you build a fire?
  • Plan — come up with a plan — how can you be help yourself given the current circumstances?

There are few places that make me happier than to be outside recreating in the Rocky Mountains.  By planning my adventures with careful preparation, I hope to be frolicking in the outdoors for many years to come.

The Rise of Airbnb and VRBO

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The glow of the lights lit up the sky  on what is otherwise a clear, cloudless night.  Given that it is close to midnight, I find it surprising that our neighbor’s lights are still on.  Being a night owl, I frequently will write or read until the wee hours of the morning.  But on a Tuesday night, I am the anomaly.  Most of our neighbors are working professionals and are fast asleep.

Then I start to notice a pattern, realizing that each night as I take the dogs out for the final time, the lights are on at the same house.   This is weird.  I try to figure out which house it is and I realize it is the house my friend Janice sold a couple of years ago.  Our last talk before she moved away, she mentioned that people from Texas have purchased the house.

My first thought is — I wonder how long they will last?  Usually folks from the southern states can’t survive the windy, cold winters here in Nederland and pull up stakes and leave.

As I pass the house the next morning, I see a lock box on the door — this is strange.  Hmmm, as I reflect on this –  I realize I haven’t seen these new residents much at all in the two years since they purchased the house.  Then the mystery is solved after my husband chats with our neighbor, Dave.  Dave, who is entirely looped into all the gossip of our local community.

The house is being rented as a Short Term Rental (STR) through Airbnb or VRBO.  In between rentals, they leave the entry hall lights on 24 hours a day for the next renter.

I am instantly annoyed.  I value living here in Nederland for the peace, the quiet, and yes the darkness.  I love walking around in the evening, being able to enjoy the solace of gazing upon a full moon.  I like standing on our deck, gazing upon the planets and constellations, occasionally even spotting a shooting star whizzing overhead.  Now, these outsiders are ruining my mountain experience.

And apparently it’s not just Nederland experiencing these STR growing pains.  Recently, Outside magazine published an article on the rise of STR rentals in mountain towns all over, citing HomeAway rentals of 670,000 room nights in 2016 in Colorado alone.

It’s understandable to see this incredible growth.  Working in downtown Nederland, I am frequently queried by tourists about places to stay.  With only one real motel in town and just a couple of other conventional lodging options nearby, STRs have taken advantage of the demand.  I know people personally — primary residents renting out their extra bedrooms for the income.  One woman I know in nearby Boulder literally moves her entire family out on high demand weekends, and rents her home for more than a $1000 per night.  Who can blame them?

And yet, there is another unintended consequence of the rise of these rentals. How does this affect the local work force?  The housing market along the Front Range is incredibly tight right now.  Every time someone slots their house for short term renting, this removes housing for long term renters who work at the coffee houses, local stores, restaurants and ski area.

When I lived in Lake Tahoe, I felt the squeeze of this demand.  It is eventually what drove me from the Sierra to a more affordable town in Oregon.  Whenever a room or long-term rental came available, the owner was besieged with phone calls, texts, and emails.  After being lucky enough to rent a room in a desirable neighborhood, I got forced out when she decided to sell the house.  I spent months looking for just a room to rent, before finally giving up and moving out of state.

It’s easy to understand both sides.  Tourism is a boon to Nederland’s economy, especially in the summer and fall.  Providing lodging for tourists allows them stay longer, pumping more dollars into our town.

But if we don’t provide long-term affordable housing solutions, we risk alienating local workers.  For Nederland to continue to grow, residents and business owners must recognize these issues and work on them collectively to insure the viability of our economy.

As with many things in life, for our community to thrive, balance is the key.

 

One year ago…

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Cold Springs Wildfire as seen from town of Nederland

One year ago today, I endured one of the most traumatizing and horrific days of my life.  One year ago, I headed off to work in Nederland, only to spend the afternoon in full crisis mode, evacuating our home here in Nederland and ending the day as fire refugees at our friends’ home in Morrison, Colorado.  The following is an account of those initial moments of the Cold Springs Wildfire when the fire broke out:

The piercing scream of a fire engine cuts the silence as it blasts through the Nederland traffic circle, sirens blaring, lights flashing.  That is the second one in a matter of minutes.  Must be a bad car accident on the Peak to Peak Highway.  They are so common during the summer months with all the tourists on the road.

Suddenly the sound of my cell phone ringing breaks through my thoughts.  The strumming sound reverberates off the stone walls of the museum.  As I look down to see who’s calling, I’m surprised by the name.  It’s my husband calling me at work.  That never happens.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“I’m in Boulder and I see smoke up the canyon.  I was wondering if you had heard anything.”

“No, but I just saw two fire engines come through the circle.  I’ll call Ned Fire to see what they say.”

“Ok, call me back when you know something.”

My heart sinks.  That’s why the fire engines zoomed through town.  I call Nederland fire department to ask about the smoke and fire.

“Hi, I live here in Nederland and saw some smoke, and was wondering where the fire is.”

“There’s a wildfire off Cold Springs Road.”

“We live off Ridge Road, what should we do?”

“I don’t know.  We’re really busy responding – maybe you should call 911.”

Oh shit!  This is the worst possible scenario.  Cold Springs is just down the road from our home.  I spring into action, telling my staff member, John, “I have to go home right now, there’s a fire in our neighborhood.”

“Leslie, I’ll be fine, do what you need to do.”  John, ever the exemplary employee is calm and collected.  Me, not so much.

Ever since we moved to Nederland six years ago, we’ve known the risks of wildfire in the area.  Just six weeks after we moved here, the biggest wildfire in Boulder County’s history, Fourmile Canyon Fire, destroyed over 160 homes.

But we’d taken dramatic steps with both our property and home, as well as our neighborhood to work diligently on fire mitigation.  Still, in that instant, none of it seems to matter.

I grab my car keys, and head out of the parking lot, racing towards home.  It feels like everyone on the road is a tourist and driving way too slow. In my impatience, I honk my horn to get them to either pull over or move faster.

Driving up Hurricane Hill, I turn onto Ridge Road at breakneck speed.  Another person is driving along at a modest speed, and I finally pass them, accelerating up to 50 miles per hour on this windy road.  What is normally a 10-minute drive feels interminable – I am desperate to get home, to get to our pets and get the hell out of here before the orange inferno takes over.  As I come upon the intersection with Cold Springs Road and Ridge Road, I sense the anxiety of others, as cars barrel down Cold Springs Road leaving a plume of dust behind them.

As I drive the final mile on the dirt road, I see the mail man stopped at a bank of mailboxes, methodically and carefully shoving stacks of mail into the boxes.  What the heck is he doing, calmly delivering mail as the smoke collects in the sky above him.  Doesn’t he know this is the beginning of the end?

Finally making it home, I empty the bin I had with catch all item I have in my car and hurl it into the living room.  First things first.  Grab the dogs and load them into the car with their leashes.  Then get the cat carriers and round up cats.  Grab laptop computers.  What else?

Go to back bedroom and grab our “fire boxes.” The boxes we’ve packed with our personal photos and irreplaceable mementos.  They’re now in the car.  I remember from our evacuation six years ago, I had forgotten pet food and cat litter.  I quickly empty the large bag of dog food into a bin and grab it as well as the cat food bin.  Two litter boxes.

I glance out the window — Bryon is here — they must not have blocked the Summer Road yet.  Thank God he is here.  Two cars mean more room to put things.  He packs up the last cat.  We grab some clothes and throw them in our suitcase, sweeping toiletries from the bathroom into a large bag.

“What about important documents?”  Yes, let’s get the stuff from the safe as well as our insurance papers.  In a last ditch effort to take as many clothes with us, we grab our laundry hamper, filling it with clothes and throw it in the back of his SUV.  For some reason, I have a sinking feeling we will be gone for awhile.

The light is eerily orange with a weird glow to it.  The acrid smell of smoke is in the air, burning my nostrils.  We take one more pass through the house, glancing at each room to see if there is something more we should grab.  We take a few pictures off the wall, Bryon moves the propane tanks off the deck and rakes some needles from the foundation and we leave.  Tears well up in my eyes as I contemplate the gravity of this moment.  Will this be the final time we see our home standing?

As I get in my car, I suddenly think of my neighbor, Susan, two doors down who has two cats and a dog.  I call her cell phone, getting her voice mail.

“Susan, I don’t know if you know this, but there’s a fire that broke out in Cold Springs.  We’re all evacuating the neighborhood.”  What else is there to say?

We get in our cars and pull off onto the dirt road, joining a caravan of cars heading down the Summer Road.  I guess someone knew this day would come.  The reason we have The Summer Road, a short half-mile road that provides a shortcut to Boulder Canyon, is to provide emergency egress in case of wildfire.  Another way out of the neighborhood other than heading west.  Yep, they knew this day would come.

A brightly colored yellow kayak is lodged in the ditch alongside the road, witness to the fact that it was important to someone, but also showing the urgency of which they were driving that their kayak fell off and they didn’t even stop to get it.  I muse whether they will come back to get it after the fire.

Heading back to the museum to check in on my co-worker, I find the power has been cut to town.  This is standard protocol during fighting wildfires, to protect the firefighters from downed power lines. It is chaos in town and around the traffic circle, the main intersection where three main roads converge.  The shrill, ear-piercing sound of fire engines is everywhere, their sirens blaring every few seconds.

I call my boss to let her know what is going on.  It’s hard to convey the situation that is unfolding – with the pyroque, the mushroom cloud growing ever larger and blacker in the sky.

I can hardly focus on the words my boss is saying.  She asks about who will staff the museum tomorrow.  Inside, I snort with disgust.  Opening the museum tomorrow, that’s the last thing on my mind.  Besides, with flames shooting up in the sky, and black smoke billowing into the blue sky, we won’t be opening the museum tomorrow.  People are deserting Nederland like rats deserting a sinking ship.

My boss requests I close the museum.  Having no access to a computer or a printer, I grab a marker and scrawl out the words as legibly as possible considering my hand are shaking.  “Mining Museum closed due to ongoing wildfire operations.”

I thank my co-worker for holding down the fort during my dash home.  As I am talking to him, the phone rings.

“Hi Leslie, it’s Ed, your neighbor, I heard there is a fire.  I’m out of town in California and the dogs are at home.  Can you get the dogs?”

“Ed, we already left home and we’re in town.  I don’t know if they’ll let us back in, but Bryon will go and see if he can get them.”

Bryon jumps into his car and heads back towards our neighborhood.

The phone vibrates again – it’s another neighbor.

“Leslie, it’s Annie, your neighbor.  We’re on our way back from Winter Park, we came over for the day to mountain bike.  Ed’s dogs are still at home – I was taking care of them while he was gone.”

“Annie, I know.  Ed just called us – Bryon went to see if he could get them, but we’re not sure we can get back in.  Annie, it’s really bad.”

“I know – we could see the smoke from Winter Park.  We’re driving as fast as we can.”

Winter Park is on the other side of the Continental Divide, 15 miles due west of Nederland.  Being able to see the smoke from over there is not good – the fire is getting bigger and hotter by the minute.

Bryon is back.  No luck, they’ve now blocked off access to the neighborhood and wouldn’t allow him back in, even to get Ed’s dogs.

With nothing left to do at the museum, I send John home, promising to keep him posted about the fire and our house.  He tells me he will be thinking of us, and gets into his car to drive back down towards Boulder.

Bryon and I head to the high school – the emergency shelter designated for those evacuated from their homes.  We pull into a parking space, rolling down the windows to provide air for the pets.  Normally I worry about someone breaking into the car if the windows are too low, but not here, not today.  That would be just plain wrong.

We spot our neighbors, from two doors down.  I feel grateful to see someone else who is in the same boat as us, someone to commiserate with and be anxious with.

As we are talking, news trucks start to arrive.  I want nothing to do with them right now.  I feel as I am made of glass, ready to break at any moment.  I don’t want to be on the air, with tears streaming down my face.  It all seems too much.

Dry lightning

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Another hot day.  Correction, another tinder dry hot day.  How I long for rain, one of those cats and dogs events with giant drops splashing off the roof, splattering the windows.  As clouds move overhead in the afternoon, I think — maybe, just maybe.  CRACK! A clap of thunder.  I count the seconds — one, one thousand, two, one thousand, three one thousand.  Then the flash of light.  The strike is less than a mile away.

But as I stare out the windows, I see nothing.  No rain, just dark, angry clouds off in the distance.  This is not good.  Growing up in the midwest, thunderstorms brought lots of rain with them.  But not this thunderstorm.

This thunderstorm is bringing plenty of lightning and thunder but no precipitation with it.  Aside from a few random rain drops, it’s dry out there.  This is the worst kind of thunderstorm when you are living in the WUI (Wildland-Urban Interface).

Because this kind of thunderstorm could easily strike a tree, or a stump, or a snag and the embers could smolder for days, even weeks.  All the while, I’m thinking everything is fine.  All the while, those embers are burning, and all it takes is a windy day to provide the oxygen those embers need to start a fire.

I learned about dry lightning while working one summer in Lake Tahoe for the U.S. Forest Service.  I worked as an Information Assistant at the Truckee Ranger Station.  Most of my days were pretty mundane — issuing firewood permits, backpacking permits, giving out information about hiking and camping.

But one summer day brought a ton of thunderstorm activity into the Lake Tahoe area.  Lightning rained down from the sky as I neared the end of my work day.  The fire crews were busy tracking down reports of smoke all over the mountains.

“Leslie, we need someone to stay this evening and assist the Fire Management Officer with monitoring the lightning strikes and reports of smoke.  We’ll pay you overtime.  Will you stay?”

Well, this is something different.  Extra money and the chance to get in on the action of tracking fires sounded better than a quiet night at home.

What an evening it was.  We had a huge map upstairs in the main conference room with the whole district split into squares.  A system that tracked all the lightning strikes in the area gave out real time information on where lightning  had struck.  Meanwhile, I manned the dispatch to take in reports of smoke and also to track where our fire crews were relative to the reports.  We used pins in the map to track where smoke reports were.

Crew who reported to the areas would radio back in to let us know the status of what they had found.  It was a crazy night, with tons of activity going on all over the place.  I remember the time flying by and feeling exhilarated by the feeling that I was doing something important, something that helped protect people, maybe even saved people — life and death stuff.

Fortunately for me and everyone living in the area, none of those strikes turned into a major wildfire that night.  Our work led to several small fires being snuffed out by fire crews just in the nick of time.

But that night also made me realize that thunderstorms and lightning pose a serious wildfire risk.  One of the biggest wildfires in Colorado’s history — the High Park Fire — started due to a lightning strike. Because of the rugged terrain and the extreme conditions of that summer of 2012, it turned into a raging wildfire very quickly, ultimately burning over 87,000 acres and destroying 259 homes.

So thunderstorms in Colorado?  No laughing matter.  The crack of thunder brings anxiety and nervousness during wildfire season.  I’ll only let my guard down if that thunder and lightning brings torrents of rain with it.

Colorful Colorado

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Trail up to Rogers Pass

This Fourth of July holiday, there are no fireworks, but there is plenty of color.  The blues, yellow, purples, reds and pinks are eye-popping in their bursts of color as we hike.  One particular thatch of chiming-bells along the creek has created a purple haze as far as the eye can see.  Colorado is colorful indeed.

“Welcome to Colorful Colorado” is the official tag line of the welcome sign at the state’s border, welcoming visitors to our state.  It has a rustic look of wood with white stick style lettering emblazoned across it.  Back in 2009, when I worked at Capitol Reef National Park, but came home on weekends to Palisade, Colorado, I got to see that sign a lot.  Frequently while passing it, I spotted tourists grabbing a photo as they stopped before entering our colorful state.  The sign is so iconic that our state history museum, History Colorado, as it on display.  Though I enjoyed my time at Capitol Reef, I found the Colorado sign oddly comforting as I hit the state line.

Today, as Bryon and I hiked up to Rogers Pass in the James Peak Wilderness, the name seemed perfectly fitting for this holiday celebrating our independence.  The sky was that deep blue, the deep blue that we seem to get here, so intense because of the thin atmosphere.  Lush green enveloped us immediately as we walked along the rushing waters of the creek, a result of our snowy spring.

Columbine

It isn’t long before other colors start to catch my eye — an exquisite stand of Columbine in the middle of the creek — it’s blue and white perfect architectural flowers tempting me to pause and take a photo.  Then the brilliant yellow of golden banner and marsh marigold take over.  An occasional splash of pink from elephantella.

Once we ascended to above timberline, the color show didn’t stop with alpine avens creating fields of gold, dotted with the intense purple of sky pilot making an appearance.  And the wildflowers were just the preview — coming up to Rogers Pass Lake, the views are knock-your-socks off.  Each turn in the trail brings a new breathtaking vista.  I am stopping every few feet to capture another photo, knowing all the while the photos won’t do the scenery justice.

For some reason, I want to break out in song — the songs of the Sound of Music.  “Climb every mountain” is echoing in my head as we climb ever higher into this wonderland.  Ascending steeply towards the pass, every direction brings in more color and vistas, including a view from above looking down at the aptly-named Heart Lake.  In fact, the shape reminds me of a perfectly drawn Cupid’s heart — all we need is an arrow running through the middle.

As we finally gain the pass, we get the final climax of our colorful Colorado show.  A 360-degree sweeping alpine grand finale of panorama of all the Rocky Mountains have to offer.  The town of Winter Park lies down below as snow capped peaks tower in the background.  Right up front is James Peak, its square top so clear from this vantage point.  And way off in the distance to the east, we can see the plains.

So while there is no big fireworks show tonight in Nederland, I certainly got my fill of color and oohs and aahs.