Category Archives: Uncategorized

The Pollinators

Posted on by

Flower Bumblebee Geranium Pelagonia Garden Spring

Their colorful wings darted in and around us.  So many of them, flitting through the air, weaving in and out of the meadows filled with wildflowers.  Black and white, blue — striking in their pattern.  The butterflies seemed to be enjoying this perfect blue sky day as much as the hikers.

Symbiotic is the perfect word to describe the relationship between wildflowers and the pollinators.  Both flowers and insects get something out the relationship.  They are interdependent — one can not exist without the other.  The flowers need pollinators to help them reproduce.  For the pollinators, the flowers provide a source of nourishment — the nectar — that helps them to thrive.

Wildflowers are ingeniously adapted to attract pollinators — using their shape, color, and even markings to attract pollinators.  It is as if they are saying — “pick me, pick me!”

Bees are attracted to blue, purple and yellow flowers while butterflies like red, yellow, orange and pink.  Ever wonder why yellow wildflowers seem to dominate throughout the Rocky Mountains?  Yellow attracts both bees and butterflies equally, and so has the best chance of carrying their seed and reproducing.  Out hiking the high country during summer months, I always think of this as I traipse through fields of yellow alpine avens or sunflowers.

Hummingbirds love red flowers, but they love trumpet-shaped flowers the most as they allow them to hover in mid-air like a helicopter and stick their long needle-like bill inside and sip the nectar out of the flower.

My favorite adaptations of wildflowers to attract pollinators are their shapes.  Perhaps none so distinctive as the flowers of the pea family, like the showy golden banner and the purple vetch.  Pea flowers have a very distinct banner, wings, keel formation that makes them easy to identify.   The keel or lip that comes down in front provides a landing platform for bees, while the bee pushes its head into the flower to get the nectar.  While the bee is doing this, the flower places pollen on the back of the bee’s neck, and almost impossible place for the bee to get it off.  In this way, the flower has ensured its pollen will get carried flower to flower.

In addition to its exquisite pale pink color, wild geranium provides just a little extra incentive to pollinators to help them gather their pollen.  The petals have lines leading into the center of the flower, acting as a landing strip to the bee or butterfly.  When it comes to ensuring reproduction, no flower can offer too many tricks to bring pollinators to them.

You might think it is only insects that help with pollination, but wildlife and yes, even human beings can also help to pollinate.  Have you ever seen a deer or elk lying in a meadow, nibbling on green grasses or even the flowers?  Her roll in the meadow has picked up pollen on her coat, which as she moves to her next feeding spot will spread it on to new flowers.

Even people as they hike through meadows, can pick up pollen on our socks and hiking boots.  So next time your eyes water, and you feel yourself about to sneeze, don’t curse the pollen.  All those myriad of colors and shapes that make the mountain meadows so glorious this type of year are the product of a lot of hard work by a lot of bees, butterflies and birds.

I hate summer

Posted on by

The race is on.  Can I get home before the yogurt turns to soup?  Will the frozen pizza be a limp piece of thawed crust before it makes into my freezer?  These questions will be answered by whether I am stuck behind a turtle going up the canyon, and whether I can keep the air conditioner maxed out in the car while ascending 3000 feet over the next 12 miles.

A couple of years ago I forged a friendship in the most unlikely of ways — a mutual hate of the summer season.  While working at a booth at the Peach Festival in Lafayette, I met another Lesley.  We baked on top of the black asphalt as rivulets of sweat dripped down my face — a product of 96 degree heat out on the plains.

I started the conversation with hesitancy, “I know this will sound crazy…  But I basically hate summer and hot weather.  This kind of day makes me long for a good snow storm.”

Her response shocked me, “So do I!  The heat is the worst!”

This, while looking radiant and beautiful, her long dark hair falling down her back.  Meanwhile, I am feeling like a gross, hot, sweaty mess.  Another reason for my hatred of the summer season, I’m a sweater.  I don’t glow or radiate — I sweat — my face gets red, my hair gets wet, sweat stains appear under my arms and on my back.  It’s not pretty.

Last week, we went through a spell of hot weather, with highs in Boulder reaching 98 degrees, and even in Nederland, we hit the mid 80s.  Living at 8200 feet, my threshold for heat is even less, because when the thermometer passes 79, it is officially way too hot.

Of course, I chose one of the hottest days to do my grocery shopping.  During summer, I have to plan my tasks in a strategic way, running errands at the hardware store, the pet store, with grocery shopping being the absolute last task of the day.  Ice cream is out of the question as it will definitely be liquid, along with an exploding top.  Then I beeline it up Canyon Boulevard hoping to get home before everything has thawed.

This day I become annoyed as soon as I begin my drive up, as I spot the Texas license plates in front of me.  This is bad.  Very bad.  It means it will be an exceedingly slow drive up the canyon as the touristas marvel at the scenery and slow down at every curve.  I know it’s going to be really slow drive up when the braking begins going up hill.

I am pleasantly surprised though as about three miles up, the Texans pull over and I am able to go by, pedal to the metal, accelerating up to 50 miles per hour.  I decide the extra horse power is worth bumping up the air conditioner.  With a 4-cylinder car, I just don’t have the power to run the air conditioner full blast and get up the 10% grade.

I make it home and quickly grab the grocery bags.  Success, things are still cold, and yogurt doesn’t seem to have become soup.

Only two more months to go before we hit the freezing temps again and summer is in my rear view mirror.

A Miner’s Legacy

Posted on by

Jasper Lake

I walk around the lake’s rim, taking in all that alpine beauty.  Then I notice it.  It’s a chair.  A chair made of dead wood and rocks to make a seat to enjoy this piece of serenity high up in the Indian Peaks Wilderness.  I sit, gazing upon the peaks, looking out at the shimmering water.  Snow fields surround Jasper Lake, adding to the high mountain scene.

After a few more swigs of water and a few more handfuls of trail mix, and I am ready to head down, to leave my paradise.

Working at a museum that focuses on mining history can be a challenge at times.  Mining has a bad connotation with people, especially conservationists and lovers of the outdoor.  People have images about how mining desecrates the landscape, stripping away its natural beauty.  And to be honest, it does in many ways, scar the landscape.

But when I do a mining talk to explain our mining heritage, I always circle back around to what mining has left us with today — both the good and the bad.  I don’t shy away from controversial points of view, allowing people to feel their disgust with the scars of mining.  But I also remind them of what Colorado’s mining legacy left us — some amazing byways to explore the beauty of the Colorado Rocky Mountains.

And so I found myself today, hiking out of Hessie Trail head, past a town site that began as a mining community.  The very town of Eldora that I have passed through to get to Hessie, began as a gold mining town some 120 years ago in 1897.

I know the road I have driven on to get to the trail head was built by miners to haul the gold ore they extracted from the mountains.  In my mind’s eye, I can see the wagon full of ore being hauled down this very bumpy, rock road, ever so slowly getting closer to town.  I imagine how long that would have taken, and what a laborious task it must have been.

Today, as I hiked along what is obviously an old road, making my way higher up into the wilderness, the thought struck me that it is miners that first created this path up to this high alpine lakes and wondrous vistas.

Were there reasons for making these pathways different from mine today? Maybe or maybe not.

They built these roads to find fortune, to create wealth, a better life for themselves and their families.

Today, I hiked this trail to find fortune, the fortune of nurturing my spirit by connecting with nature, by taking in the beauty of wildflowers blooming in a meadow, the wealth I feel in my heart of being fortunate to hike these trails literally minutes from my back door, the drive to make a better life for myself by filling myself up both physically and spiritually.

So thank you to those men who did such tireless, back-breaking work to build these roads that now allow of us today to drive and hike these byways, so that we may enjoy some of the most breathtaking vistas that fill our souls up.

Here’s to the miners!

We’re the house guests

Posted on by

A female moose enjoys Aspen near our driveway

“When we visit a national park or wilderness, we need to remember we are visiting someone else’s home.  If some strange creature came into your home, tried to touch you or give you strange food, what would you think?  What would your mother think?  What would your mother do?

That’s how the wildlife that make Rocky Mountain National Park feel about us, when more than 3 million people come to visit here each year.  This is their home, and we are the house guests.  Nobody likes a rude house guest.  We need to remember to be good house guests, by not trying to feed wildlife, not getting too close to babies, and not approaching wildlife.  Enjoy the wonder of seeing a moose, a bear, an elk, but in a way that shows respect for their home.”

These are the words I spoke to a young group of children who had just gone on my Junior Ranger program at Rocky Mountain National Park and were about to be “inducted” as Junior Rangers.  As a Park Ranger at Rocky Mountain National Park, I loved leading the Junior Ranger Program for kids.  Kids speak a simpler language and are unfailingly honest about what they see and believe.  They also experience the magic of nature and wildlife in a way that makes me remember being a kid all over again.

During my last summer at Rocky, I did a program on the hoofed mammals of the park — the deer, elk, moose and bighorn sheep.  I think I enjoyed the program as much as the kids, as we searched for scat, hopped around like elk and put our antlers up.

At the end of every program, we try to instill a “take-home” message for kids — a message of stewardship that they would take away from the program that might influence the way they behave and think about national parks and wilderness.

I reflected on the message of “being good house guests” this past week as a number of neighbors told me of wildlife they had seen in the area.  As we enter the summer months, and mothers have given birth to their young, more and more wild animals appear as regular residents nearby.

One neighbor mentioned seeing a bear on his property and how he is going to get rubber bullets to shoot at him, to “haze” him, so he will leave.  But my question is — leave for where?

As more and more people in Colorado decide to build up in the mountains, we take away habitat for wildlife.  And then we act indignant when we see a moose in the neighborhood forces us to put our dogs on leash, or a bear takes up residence on our property as he scavenges the wild rose hips that grow there.

The elk, deer, moose, coyote, fox, bobcat, bear and mountain lion have made their home for hundreds of years, well before we decided to make a home here.  And yet, we as people expect they should leave, they should adjust, they should go somewhere else to make their home, so we can feel more comfortable.

News flash — we’re the house guest.  Being a good house guest is that we are as unintrusive as possible — and that might mean, leashing our dogs, putting away our hummingbird feeders, keeping our trash inside until we take it to the transfer station.

Seeing wildlife on a regular basis is what makes the Colorado Rocky Mountains special to me.  If I have to adjust to insure their habitat and survival continues, I’m willing to make that compromise.  Hopefully you are too.

 

Mountain Lion sighting

Posted on by

young mountain lion kitten

It started out as just an ordinary commute, one of many he had done over the years.  Yet as he pulled out onto Boulder Canyon Road, something startlingly different happened.  Out of the corner, Bryon sees something moving on the right hand side of the road.  There are two of them. As he spots the black tips of their tails, his brain thinks first of foxes.  That wasn’t so uncommon around here.

As his car pulled up along side of  them, he realizes it is something much larger, and much more extraordinary.  While his initial impression of a black tipped tail was in fact correct, that black tip was connected to a long, tubular type tail to a cat.  Two young mountain lions, so young in fact that they still have their tell-tale spots on their faces and their body.

Bryon pulls over and turns around, pulling out his iPhone, hoping to capture this moment.  But as quickly as he grabs his phone, the lions are gone, heading up the hill into the forest.  There is no adult, no mother to be seen anywhere.  Hopefully, their mother wasn’t killed by a speeding car!

Still, as he continued on with his drive, he felt exhilarated by his rare sighting.  Something about seeing a mountain lion in the wild filled him with awe and helped him to realize just how much wilderness surrounded his mountain home.  Arriving at work, he felt the urge to share this magical moment — and decided to call Leslie before she left for work.

“You’re never going to believe what I saw this morning at the bottom of the summer road!”

Leslie thought for a moment — “Did you see a bear?”

“No, when I pulled onto Boulder Canyon, I saw two mountain lion cubs along side the road!”

Leslie feels a moment of envy.  She has wanted to see a mountain lion in the wild since she started living in the Sierra twenty years ago.  Despite working as a Park Ranger for many years, she never has.  Damn, that’s the second time Bryon has seen one — I want to see one!

“That is really cool, that must have been amazing.”

Mountain lions or Cougars, love the montane and subalpine life zones as much as I do.  The forest provides cover for them while they sneak up on their preferred prey to stalk and ultimately kill deer and elk.  It’s not even unusual to find their cache of a dead deer around these parts, which they will feed on for days at end.

I’ve long admired mountain lions as to me they represent the symbol of wilderness in the Rocky Mountains.  They are the ultimate athlete of the forest — with abilities to jump 30 feet in a single bound, and up to 18 feet high.  They can sprint as fast as 45 miles per hour, and have the strength to take down a 600-pound elk with such force it will drive its antlers straight into the ground.

Reading of its abilities, you’d think a mountain lion to be a large animal.  But the truth is it is about the size of an average man, weighing around 160-170 pounds.  The kittens of the mountain lion are adorable, born with intense blue eyes and spots.  In fact, one could easily confuse a baby mountain lion with a bobcat — with the exception of the tail, they look very similar.

But, oh that tail, it is the dead give away to knowing you’ve spotted a mountain lion.  That long, tubular tail with its black tip — no other cat in the wild has that tail.

Their strength, their grace, their ability to hunt, and their quiet cunning ways leave me awestruck.  They are the king of the animal kingdom here in the Rocky Mountains.

Wilderness Trail Patrol

Posted on by

Inlet stream running down to Mitchell Lake

“She looks like she’s in charge — let’s ask her!”

I immediately feel I am on the spot.  I am out on my first solo “wilderness patrol” as a volunteer with the US Forest Service and Indian Peaks Alliance.  Wanting to make sure this first hike goes well, I choose a trail I have done many times — the trail from the Mitchell Lake Trail head to Blue Lake.  The distance — a mere 6 miles, and not too steep.  This should be a piece of cake.

That is until I start hiking.  The first issue I encounter is a stream of water up to 3 inches deep running down the trail.  Plop, plop, plop.  Good thing I have on my Gore Tex hiking boots.  Every now and then I have to hike over a pile of snow — some up to 3 feet tall.  Still, it’s a gorgeous day — blue sky, temps in the upper 60s — and I’m enjoying being out on the trail again.

I go over the foot bridge, and pause to admire the rushing waters careening down the hillside.  There is a LOT of water frothing and coursing as it goes underneath me.

As soon as I cross the foot bridge, the trouble begins.  First, there is tangle of two trees that have fallen in a mess of limbs and trunks right across where the trail is supposed to be.  I skirt around them, and that’s when I encounter a group of women hikers who exclaim:

“She looks like she’s in charge — let’s ask her!”

My spanking new Forest Service shirt, resplendent with patches on each sleeve and and official looking name tag have given me away.  It’s interesting that although I am a volunteer, most hikers I encounter this day believe I am someone very official and very knowledgeable.

“We are trying to go to Mitchell Lake and we can’t find the trail.  We’ve tried three times, and we’ve decided to head back.  Do you know where it is?”

Full confession — though I’ve hiked this trail several times — it was always in dry conditions with nary a speck of snow anywhere near the trail.  I’m trying to figure out what to say, but don’t want to appear stupid.  I’m trying to remember this trail from last summer, but honestly, I don’t remember much.

I pull out my map, hoping we can orient ourselves using the footbridge and the stream crossing.  It appears the trail makes a hard right, so I decide to forge ahead, hoping I can figure it out.

To make matters worse, the group of woman hikers have decided that I know what I’m doing and instead of turning around are now following me.  Soon, another couple descends upon us and joins the train of people behind me.

I feel like the Pied Piper leading everyone to the promised land — the promised land of Mitchell Lake.  The pressure’s on, and I’m afraid of screwing this up. What if we all end up lost out here, walking in circles?

It’s not like I’m a total neophyte in route finding though.  Having spent several summers working both at Sequoia National Park and Rocky Mountain National Park as a Park Ranger, I’ve had to navigate early summer conditions like these before.

I keep my eyes peeled for openings between trees, old cut logs showing where a tree had been cut from previous seasons, and rock stairs and wooden water bars.  As I scrutinize, I begin to see a way up hill, that I am fairly certain is the trail.

Every now and then, we actually see a bare patch of dirt that is the trail.  We traipse up and down over the drifts of snow and then suddenly I see a sign!

A wooden sign saying “Trail” with an arrow appears — then another sign and miraculously the lake appears.  I heave a sigh of relief — I’ve done it!

I take a short break with the women — and they offer me chocolate and ask me questions about my “official” volunteer position.  Then one of them says, “This is probably the most heroic thing you’ll do all season!”  My day is made — I feel like a hero!

Later that day, making my way back to my car, I’m feeling pretty good about this volunteer position.  I don’t feel as if I have given anything, in fact, I feel as if I have received — received the opportunity to commune with nature, enjoy mountain vistas, and yes, feel like a hero.

Mrs. Owl

Posted on by

Flammulated owl

Down the trail we went, dogs happily wagging their tails as they bounded down the trail, darting in and out between the pines.  Water washed over the trail, a product of the melting snow.  It’s a familiar walk for us, as the North Boulder Creek Trail is just up the road from where we live.  We’ve taken this trail many a time on a hot summer’s day as well as snowshoeing it in the winter.

I’ve walked the trail so many times, I sort of take it for granted.  I know every bend in the trail, anticipating where the old 1960s car wreck is, as well as the old mining shack.  There’s that one rock outcropping just before the last little bit of trail descends sharply, and Columbine wildflowers appear in abundance right before the creek.

Every now and then a new tree comes down across the trail, a product of beetle kill and Nederland winds that bring down the dead snags.  Just before the creek, we come across a snag that looks like it is close to falling, leaning at a precarious angle, with nary a green needle on it.  It just appears to be a rotten, dead tree that will soon be decomposing on the forest floor.

We stop at the tree, and Bryon decides to knock on it.  Why?  Who knows?  But as we gaze upward at the snag, we are surprised by a small face that pops out of one of the holes, large brown eyes peering down upon us.

While we have thought of this tree as just another dead tree in the forest, the Flammulated owl has used the cavities in this tree to make a home, perhaps to hatch its young, perhaps just a temporary home for the summer.

Flammulated owls frequently take up residence in old Ponderosa Pine snags such as this one, often taking over nesting spots vacated by woodpeckers or flickers.  The incubation time for their eggs takes about three weeks with their young fledging during the month of July.

Seeing how very small the adult owl is as she peers down on us, I can only imagine how small the owlettes will be.  Adult flammulated owls are usually a mere 6 inches in length.  Besides their size, what makes them distinct is their very intense brown eyes.  Most owls in Colorado have golden eyes.

When we returned to the creek two weeks later, the snag has fallen — a victim of its rotten wood, wind, and its precarious lean.  I only hope that the owl was able to vacate in time, or that perhaps it wasn’t nesting with its young.

These owls are a victim of the disappearing old growth forest and people encroaching on their habitat.  Unfortunately, as Colorado’s growing population continues to move into the mountains, they take away possible homes for these tiny creatures, often using the snags as firewood.  Perhaps for both our sakes, we can mindful of preserving the forest around us so for our mutual benefit.

The Power of Water

Posted on by

Spilling waters of Barker Reservoir

It  is spilling.  Just two weeks ago, the brown rim around the reservoir exposed just how low the water had gotten.  Just a month ago, the water had receded so much that rocks and roots were exposed everywhere.  Now, in seemingly the blink of the eye, it is filled to the brim.  The running trail I had run all spring along the rim, is mere inches from being flooded by the ever burgeoning waters of Barker.  And the water is not just spilling, it is absolutely gushing down the spillway.

Thinking about a hike to Arapaho Glacier later this summer, I pause to think of how this jagged peaks of the Indian Peaks Wilderness came to be.  I have a basic understanding of the geology of the Colorado Rocky Mountains, how the landforms were uplifted.  But what instills awe in my heart is the stark ruggedness of the peaks — how certain ones seem to come to a perfect point of three sides of a triangle touching.  Others seem scarred by cirques and canyons.

What makes the mountains so glorious is courtesy of the power of water, in various forms.  During the last ice age, it was glaciers that made their way down from the Continental Divide that created all those stark angles that a mountaineer is drawn to.  As the glaciers slowly crept down the sides of the mountains, they scoured the rock, leaving behind depressions that filled with melting snow, and ridges called moraines.

Few glaciers remain in Colorado now, but the result of their work 10,000 years ago is left for all to admire.  Snow is still a hallmark trait of the Rockies — collecting abundant amounts  of it during the winter, so skiers may revel in powder.  That same snow will melt through out this month, feeding the seeps, creeks, and ultimately rivers, including the mighty Colorado River.  Waterfalls will be at the utmost spectacular, and wildflowers will bloom in pinks, purple, and yellow along the riparian areas adjacent to the waterways.

It’s staggering to think how utterly dependent we are on the water produced by the Rocky Mountains.  Without it, our wells can go dry, our reservoirs dry up, impacting major cities down on the plains.  And the implications ripple throughout the American southwest.

Upon one and only visit to Las Vegas, I became astounded by how a city could exist and even thrive in the middle of a hot and arid desert.  The good people of Sin City can thank the Rocky Mountains and their ample snow pack for their water supply, as well as the Corps of Engineers that maintain the Hoover Dam.

We toured the Hoover Dam during that trip, and amidst the accolades of man’s great feat and the amount of power produced by it, I could only feel sad how the mighty waters of the Colorado had been prevented from its natural course.  A raft trip through the Grand Canyon would be a far different and more wild trip without the dam.

Water, in all its forms — frozen, a trickle, falling from the sky, falling from a mountainside has infinitely shaped the landscape that surrounds us.

Ode to Zuni

Posted on by

Driving home from my job at Oregon Caves National Monument, I realized I needed milk and so made an unplanned stop at a market in Selma, Oregon that would change my life.  As I was leaving the market, two little girls approached me.

“Miss, Miss — we have two little kittens from our farm.  Won’t you take one of our kittens?”

There were small black kittens, really small.  I already had one cat at home, and hadn’t planned to adopt another.  But they were really cute.

The one little girl thrust one of them towards me.

“This one is calmer, you should take this one.”

Ummm, ok.  I put her in the back seat of my car.  I didn’t even have a box or carrier, so just set her on the back seat.  As I continued my drive home, no sounds came from the back seat.  Oh my gosh, is she still alive?

I initially took her to my boyfriend’s house, as he was currently catless.  She was so small, she could sit in the palm of his hand.  But, boy did she have energy, as she zipped around the room.  What should I call her?

“She’s awfully zippy, maybe something that begins with a Z?”

We pulled out a dictionary, thumbing through the Z section — and I spotted Zuni, a native American name for a tribe from the Southwest.  Zuni it was.

Zuni somehow turned into my pet nickname for her Zoon-monster.  She grew into a big tall, lanky cat.

I wasn’t sure how she would get along with my 1-year old Calico cat, Maya.  Maya chased her hissing at her.  The internet said I should separate them, which is what I did, but keep letting them together when I could supervise them.

Ten days later, as I put them together in the living room, I went into the kitchen to fix dinner.  Moments later, I found the two of them curled up together, with Maya bathing her face.  From that moment on, they were bonded together as best friends.

Zuni was true to her name, playful as anything and smart as a whip.  I would let her play in the backyard of my Oregon apartment and work on my computer.  When she wanted to come in, she would climb the oak tree, climb onto the roof and come to my window, batting on the screen to let me know she was ready to come back in.

She also loved to burrow, something I found out in the oddest way one night.  I had a sleeping bag inside it’s storage bag on the floor of my office.  As I worked on the computer, the bag started to rotate back and forth — what was going on?

Zuni had weaseled her way inside the bag and was cuddled up inside the sleeping bag.  She would continue her burrowing ways through the years, burrowing into the covers on our bed, burying herself in laundry baskets.  We always had to be careful to look for her lumps, lest we sit down on top of her.  Then I would raise the covers and this sly little black face with white whiskers would be peering back at me.

She proved to be an excellent hunter as well.  While patrolling my back yard in Oregon, she caught mice as well as garter snakes and would bring them inside the kitchen, proudly presenting them to me.  Later on, while living on Cape Cod, she caught voles and mice, bringing them inside my bungalow.

But the oddest and most impressive was at my house in rural Maryland.  One day while gardening, I spotted her slinking through the backyard, with something incredibly large hanging from her mouth.  She had caught a full-size rabbit!  I could see the bunny was still alive, so managed to lure Zuni with a cat treat into unclenching long enough to allow the bunny to escape.

Zuni led a life of adventure both around the house and during our 17 years together.  After two years in Oregon, I took a job with Cape Cod National Seashore.  Zuni and Maya accompanied me on my 7-day, 3500 mile drive from coast to coast.  Many friends told me I would have to tranquilize the cats, as they would surely drive me crazy.  But in fact, Zuni handled the trip in stride, sitting atop a box with a blanket surveying the scenery.  She even went for walks on a leash with me at various rest areas along the way.

And to this day, she possessed a skill I think I will never see with another cat as long as I live.  I, of course, had cat carriers for my feline friends.  With most cats, it is torture to get them to go in.  I usually end up wrapping them in a towel, putting the carrier on its end, and shoving them inside, with said cat caterwauling the entire time.

But not Miss Zuni.  I would just open the door of the carrier, and she would prance inside like she was going for a walk in the park.  To the very end, she was the perfect traveler.

Her journey with me led us to several different states including Oregon, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, Maryland and ultimately Colorado.  Along the way, for her safety, we stopped letting her outside.  Here in Colorado, outdoor cats are at great risk of being eaten by the various foxes, coyotes, bobcats and other wildlife.

But she enjoyed the views of the great outdoors at our Colorado home.  She particularly enjoyed a great view from our dilapidated cat tower that Bryon brought home one night.  He’d found out on the sidewalk, a remnant of someone’s stuff they were giving away and brought it home.

Zuni loved that cat tower, preferring to take the top perch, so she could be Queen Bee and survey the rest of the house as well as look outside from her penthouse.  She was amazingly adept at climbing it at lightning speed.

But more than anything, Zuni became my constant companion and best friend.  She had personality plus, and loved nothing more than to snuggle on someone’s lap or against a warm body in bed.  Even people who didn’t like cats adored her, my parents being one of those.  My mother assured me if anything happened to Bryon or me, they would gladly take Zuni in.

For most of the last 17 years, she slept next to me, pressing herself next to me, either in the crook of my knee, or between my legs.  It got so that I was afraid to turn in the middle of the night, for fear of crushing her.  Even during the last nine months, when she was clearly ill, she continue to clamber into my bed and sleep with me.

Zuni crossed the Rainbow Bridge to join her buddy, Maya this past Saturday.  The loss I feel washes over me in waves.  I have lost a special friend who gave me constant, unconditional love for 17 years.  I feel like there is a hole in my heart, that I am broken and don’t know how I will go on.  I will never forget the joy and love she gave me.  Zuni, you will stay in my heart forever and I will always love you.

34 million years ago…

Posted on by

As someone who worked as a Park Ranger with the National Park Service for 17 years, I’ve grown to appreciate the many NPS sites around the country.  Some are considered the “crown jewels” and are visited by millions of visitors every year, and some are small unassuming sites with just a few thousand who come.  But the one thing I’ve never doubted is that each is worth preserving by the Park Service, to keep it sacred, to tell its story of what merits it being preserved.

Today I walked around what seemed like an ordinary high mountain valley just west of Colorado Springs.  Driving through on County Road 1, staring at the brown grasses dotted with an occasional Ponderosa Pine, I really didn’t understand what made this place special.  But I’d always wanted to visit all the National Park sites in Colorado, and so far this one had evaded me.

And so it is, on my birthday, I find myself wandering around a dirt trail, reading signs telling me that 34 million years ago, this dry mountain valley was under water, part of a huge lake.  And that lake was surrounded by a lush forest filled with poplar trees, beech trees, and insects of all kinds — an environment that seemed more fitting to places back east than anything you would see in Colorado.  Though I stared at the sketches of this scene, complete with rhinoceros-like creatures and dragonflies, looking all the while like some lush swampland, I couldn’t quite get myself to believe this story.

That is, until my husband and I took a stroll along the 1-mile loop out the back door of the visitor center at Florissant Fossil Beds National Monument.  Because all along this loop were gigantic stumps.  Petrified stumps of Redwood trees that grew here millions of years ago and were preserved now as stone.  The diameter of the stumps was 10 feet or more across — I could only imagine the size of the tree that had grown from it.

Even the rings of the tree were intact, showing that these trees were several hundred years old before they tumbled down, a victim of a changing climate and changing environment.  They looked so life-like, so like wood, that I had a hard time realizing they had become permineralized, a term I had never heard before today.  Though the fencing around the stumps made me think otherwise, I wanted nothing more than to touch them, just to make sure they were in fact turned to stone.

Apparently, others from long ago had the same thoughts, as witnessed by the saw blades stuck in the stumps where tourists from the 1800s had tried to cut the petrified wood.  As we finished walking the trail, I read of tourists from over 100 years ago, collecting petrified wood, and ransacking the landscape of the remnants of this long ago time.  It made me sad to think of how they had robbed others of enjoying this monument today.  I’m sure if the stumps hadn’t been stuck into the ground, they would have taken them too.

And yet at the same time, I felt appreciative once again of the National Park Service.  Though this particular monument may not get visited by a fraction of the visitors that go to Rocky Mountain National Park, it too is deserving of preservation and stewardship.  What a miracle to see the remnants of fossils, to see the stories that the rocks can tell.  And gratitude for those who lobbied hard to prevent development back in the 1960s, so that it could be preserved as a national monument.  Because that is what the National Park Service is all about.