Indian Summer

“An Indian said you search in vain for what you cannot find.

An Indian said there’s a thousand ways of running down your time.

An Indian didn’t scream it, he said in a song.

And that Indian was never known to be wrong.”

- From the movie “Jeremiah Johnson”

Indian summer is generally regarded as the time period after the first freeze in the fall when sunny days and warm temperatures paint the landscape. Gentle breezes rattle the leaves on the trees coaxing them to take flight and fall to the ground. Color abounds and it is as if summer is back in a different form.

Brilliant stands of yellowish gold trees seem to set the hillsides on fire. Each year is different with some seasons lingering on and on and some cut short by cold fronts from the north. I return each season to a particular spot in Rocky Mountain National Park called West Horseshoe Park to check on a stand of aspens that are easily accessible just off the road.

This year, on a picture perfect day, I returned to the aspen stand to find it exploding with color. Evidently, I am not the only one who covets this place because I also found three other photographers there all with their cameras at the ready and their tripods pointed straight up.

I joined them and jokingly asked them what they were looking at. They told me that they were waiting for a good stiff breeze to blow so that they could capture the leaves falling off the trees. I thought this was interesting and strange at the same time. I wanted to get pictures of the aspens on the trees and they wanted to capture the essence of autumn by freezing time as the leaves would be recorded in mid air.

In Colorado, we seem to have pockets of color which draw people like magnets. In Rocky, these pockets are to photographers what “elk jams” are to drivers. Most people are amicable and friendly just as long as you don’t get in their shot. On this day, the other photographers grew weary of waiting for the wind to blow and moved on to higher ground.

I lingered at this place wondering what scene I wanted to create that would capture the moment. I stood there looking straight up at the color until my neck ached. I got a little dizzy on the hillside trying to see all the different perspectives. After awhile, I accepted the fact that the beautiful day was reward enough. Seasons past had sometimes not been so kind. Strong cold winds with grey skies and snow flurries had sometimes been the order of the day ushering the leaves off the trees.

Eventually, I too moved on in search of more stands of aspens in full display. I drove around the park with polarized sunglasses that enhanced the experience that I was not able to capture with my camera. This disconnect was especially frustrating when there was no place to pull off on the shoulder less ribbon of highway to get a picture. But I kept looking and thought of these closing lines also from the movie “Jeremiah Johnson”:

“The way that you wander, is the way that you choose.

The day that you terry, is the day that you lose.

Sunshine or thunder,

A man will always wonder, where, the fair wind blows.

…where, the fair wind blows.”

And Nature Runs Through It

“But when I’m alone in the half light of the canyon, all existence seems to fade to a being with my sole and memories, and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it.

The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words. And some of the words are theirs.

I am haunted by waters.”

- The ending of the movie “A River Runs Through It”

Those words have always moved me. I admire how they simply convey complex emotions. Lately, I have been thinking about how to use their format and convert them into how I feel about nature. On a recent hike up to Mills Lake in Rocky Mountain National Park, I got the idea to insert hiking in as the main subject instead of fly fishing. So my version follows:

But when I’m alone in the sunshine of the mountains, all existence seems to fade to a being with my sole and memories, and the sounds of Rocky Mountain National Park, and my quiet footsteps and the hope that an elk will appear.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and nature runs through it.

The Rockies were thrust up by plate tectonics with rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless footprints. Under the rocks are impressions made by millions of travelers on the trails. And some of the impressions are mine.

I am constantly amazed by nature.

Fifteen years earlier, a friend of mine and I traveled to Rocky Mountain National Park for my first visit. We had only one day to view the park and chose Mills Lake as our destination hike. We parked our rental car at the Sprague Lake Park and Ride and took the shuttle bus to the Glacier Gorge trailhead area. We began our hike and on our way to Alberta Falls, we were amazed that there were people actually pushing baby strollers on the trail. Once we cleared the falls, the remainder of the trail was less crowded and we found some solitude at the Lake for lunch. I remember the bugs that were all around the lake on that July day greeted us warmly. Mills Lake was truly an awesome sight though and well worth the logistics of getting there.

In the time since that day, I have visited Mills Lake only one other time and that was in the winter. My recent hike to Mills was on a busy late September weekend, so once again I was encouraged to take the shuttle bus from the Sprague Lake Park and Ride. I was carrying a rather heavy tripod and a backpack with camera equipment that made the standing up on the crowded shuttle bus exciting as we navigated the winding road up to the Glacier Gorge Trailhead.

Upon arrival at the trailhead, I sprang from the shuttle bus onto the trail. I was greeted with unseasonably warm temperatures and sunshine as I made my way up toward Alberta Falls. It is then that the idea of my “nature runs through it” popped into my head. The aspens on the trail were turning and it was a gorgeous day to be alive. I made it to Mills Lake and instantly saw a scene that I had to try and capture. It was a waterfall from the outflow of Mills Lake and it was beautiful.

And once again, I was amazed by nature.

On the trail - October 2, 2011

Cars sometimes hit animals that cross the road. In Michigan, sometimes deer hit cars. In Montana, sometimes deer hit horses.

An incredible story came out of Montana this summer of a wrangler on a trail ride whose horse was hit by a deer. The distracted deer was running for its life from a 750 pound grizzly bear. The grizzly, thrown off by the deer/horse collision, then took up after another horse on the trail ride instead. The chaos that ensued was settled when the wrangler and her horse challenged the charging grizzly head on. A tragedy was prevented as the grizzly bear veered off and gave up the chase. The bear was hungry and its instincts took over. It was trying to get something to eat, deer, horse, human, whatever.

Triggering a grizzly’s predatory instincts is not a wise thing to do. A couple involved in a grizzly attack this summer apparently ran 157 yards before the bear caught them and ended up killing one of them. By running, they triggered the bear’s instinct to chase them and the ensuing mauling took one of their lives. The bear was just being a bear. The people unfortunately did the wrong thing at the wrong time and it was a fatal mistake.

My hiking partner Ras Erdal once had a grizzly encounter with different results than the above mentioned tragedy. He was hiking in Glacier National Park with his wife when they came upon a beat up BEAR-IN-THE-AREA warning sign in the middle of the trail. Because of the condition of the sign, they figured that it was old and not a current warning. So they continued on their hike. All of a sudden, a huge grizzly bear, not more than 20 yards away, stood up on its hind legs and starred at them.

What Ras did next probably saved his life. After an eye to eye contact, he simply froze, titled his head passively down and to the side, and slowly started backing up away from the bear. He instructed his wife to get the bear spray from his pack as they moved slowly away down the trail. The bear did not react aggressively. It simply followed them from a short ways off the trail before heading back into the forest.

The eye contact thing about down and to the side is real bear talk. A smaller bear would do it if he confronted a larger bear and there was a standoff over things like who eats the berries or who can fish in this site. The whole gesture tells the big bear that he’s the boss and that you’ll move out of his way…and that you are not prey.

The ranger that Ras reported this incident to said he couldn’t have done a smarter thing as three other hikers were mauled that same week in the area.

Ras told me he did have a camera around his neck at the time, but feared if he had tried to take a picture, he may have provoked or spooked the bear. Being alive to tell the story is a lot better than being mauled or dead with a blurry picture of a charging bear to prove it.

And speaking of pictures to prove it, my family and I were driving out of Estes Park at dusk the other day when we came upon a huge bull elk just off the side of the road. My camera unfortunately was in my backpack in the back of the car as we drove slowly by to gawk at it. We decided to turn around and get a picture. My wife was in the front passenger seat and was within a few feet of this magnificent creature as we drove by on our second pass. It was then that I got scared. All the elk had to do was turn his head and she could have been gored.

So I quickly drove by and we turned around again. This time I tried to capture the essence of this giant from across the road out the driver’s side window. As the flashes went off in the twilight, the big bull began to move away down the river bank into the darkness. The photo op disappeared, but the memory safely remains.

On the trail - September 18, 2011

Proposed Title: The Sounds of Fall

“The mountains are calling and I must go.” - John Muir

The rhythm of the cricket’s night time melody is slowing down. As the night air cools, the cricket’s energy level seems to wind down, their song slows, and their mellow chorus starts to lull us into lethargy. It is a sure sign that fall has arrived.

Some people dread fall. To them, it is an end to the carefree days of summer and the anticipation of tougher times ahead with the battle of winter on the horizon. To them, the trees are not turning, they are dying. To them, the season of light is over and the season of darkness has arrived.

With the autumnal equinox coming up in a few days, whether we embrace fall or not, it is going to occur. I for one have found memories of fall and appreciate it more and more as I have gotten older.

Growing up in Illinois, I remember hearing and then seeing flocks of geese heading south for the winter. On crisp September mornings, an odd honking sound would appear from high above and you would spot them flying in huge V formations. It was both exhilarating and sad at the same time. The sound of thousands of geese was awe inspiring, but the realization that summer was truly over and that winter was on its way was a little depressing back then.

When it was time for me to go to college, I followed the lead of the geese and headed south eventually ending up at The University of Texas. The honking of the geese was replaced by the cheering of college football fans in stadiums across the country on Saturday afternoons. This new obsession would prove to be a wonderful distraction for the transition from summer to winter.

When a new job found me relocating to the state of Colorado, a new sound of fall was waiting for me in the meadows of Rocky Mountain National Park, the sound of elk bugling. This sound seemed to embrace the idea of it being fall. The bulls seemed to be saying, “Bring it on”. The rut represented the continuation of life with the hope of rebirth in the spring.

In Colorado, the notion that winter was coming to humans was good. Winter meant snow. Snow meant skiing. Skiing meant fun. And in the meantime, we could embrace the change of seasons by getting outdoors and taking it all in.

Hiking in Colorado in the fall is awesome. Cool mornings on the trail help to ease the exertion level of strenuous hikes that squeezed perspiration out of you like a sponge during the warmer summer months. Cobalt blue skies along with the yellows and the oranges and the reds of the aspens await you as the season progresses. The season’s first snows frost the higher mountains and the sounds of the elk bugling echo throughout the valleys.

The noisy crowds of summer are long gone on the trails. Your chances of seeing that Bull Moose munching on willow branches in the mist of the early morning increase. You hear the sound of the crickets as they continue their ballad from the night before. The solitude of the trail helps you to reconnect with nature and embrace the season. This helps you to slow down like the cricket’s song and fondly remember seasons past and at the same time look optimistically forward to seasons to come.

On the trail - September 11, 2011

Proposed Title: These are my mountains

The Longs Peak Scottish Irish Highlands Festival is held in Estes Park each year the week after Labor Day. I discovered this gem back in 1999, the year I moved out to Colorado. I was hiking earlier that day up at Rocky Mountain National Park and ran into a major traffic jam in Estes Park on my way back. I decided to check out what all the fuss was about.

The sound of bagpipes filled the air as I meandered throughout the fairgrounds adjacent to Lake Estes. I then tripped over a rope holding up a performance tent and stumbled into a crowd of happy people listening to a guy named Alex Beaton singing Scottish folk music. Everyone was singing along to the following song:

“For these are my mountains…
And this is my glen…
The braes of my childhood…
Will know me again…
No lands ever claimed me…
Though far I have roamed…
For these are my mountains…
And I’m coming home…”

From the song These are my Mountains by Alex Beaton

I was hooked. He captured how I felt about my new home in Colorado. Also, the guy was hilarious. Back then, Alex looked like Sean Connery and spoke with a thick Scottish accent. In between songs, he entertained the crowd with stories of historical significance from medieval times in Scotland.

It became a tradition of mine to see Alex at the festival each year. He was always there with a new album of songs and/or his wry sense of humor. I once asked him what it was like to perform year in and year out at the festival. He responded simply with “Madness, utter madness” and walked away.

Unfortunately, this year Alex will not be at the festival. Back in July, Alex fell ill and is currently in the battle of his life to recover. I hope he does. I hope he returns to the festival soon, because autumn won’t seem the same without him.

Another of Alex’s songs that captures the spirit of his music is called River and here are some of the lyrics:

“River…
Take me along…
In your sunshine…
Sing me a song…
Ever moving…
And winding and free…
You rolling old river…
You changing old river…
Let’s you and me river…
Run down to the sea…”

From the song River by Alex Beaton

Over the years, it has also become a tradition of mine to play Alex Beaton music in the Jeep on my way to hiking adventures. His story telling of adventures from long ago inspires the attitude necessary to attack life boldly with a can-do spirit. And though his music might be an acquired taste, like fine wine, it has aged gracefully into my western experience. The affect the environment has in your life dominates his songs from hills, to mountains, and from the sea to the shore.

One song Alex sings that I think sums up how I feel on this anniversary of 9/11 is called Flower of Scotland. Some of the lyrics follow:

“Oh flower of Scotland…
When will we see…
Your like again…
Who fought and died for…
Your wee but hill and glen..
And stood against them…
Proud Edward’s army…
And sent them homeward…
To think again…

Those days are past now…
And in the past…
They must remain…
But we can still rise now…
And be the nation again…
That stood against them…
Proud Edward’s army…
And sent them homeward…
To think again.”

Let this be a reminder to those who tried to bring our nation to its knees…we will rise…and be a great nation again.

On the trail - September 4, 2011

Proposed Title: Stewards of the Land

We pulled into the Mount Margaret trailhead parking lot near Red Feather Lakes around 8:00 am. It was a comfortable 56 degrees with bright sunshine. The entry gate to the trail was soaked in morning dew as we walked thru and began our hike. We surmised that it must have rained heavily the day before for the trail was moist sand with tracks of storm water runoff. It was quiet except for the occasional birdsong. The world seemed fresh and new.

Fast forward to around noon and we found the world had changed. The sun had warmed the dry air and the sandy trail had dried out. The light was harsh and the colors of the landscape were washed out. The sounds of the trail were now filled with hikers, dogs, and mountain bikers. We then heard a series of rifle shots. A little startled, we figured someone was target shooting on private property adjacent to the trail. There was now a stark contrast between the peace and quiet of the early morning and the gunshots echoing off the rock formations in the early afternoon.

My hiking partner and I this day were hiking as members of the Poudre Wilderness Volunteers, a local organization who fulfill an important role as the eyes and ears of the United States Forest Service for the Canyon Lakes Ranger District. Our hike today would include cleanup of established campsites, fixing damaged trail signage, and assisting and educating the public on conservation principles as stewards of the land.

I commented to my hiking partner that the trail and the campsites were in relatively good condition considering the easy access to the trailhead by automobile and the amount of use this trail gets by hikers, bikers, and horseback riders. We discovered this was no accident when we spoke with a mountain biker out for a morning ride. The man told us he loved the area and that he too was a member of the Poudre Wilderness Volunteers. He went on to say that we should have seen the campsites last Monday that he cleaned up. I told him he had done a great job and that it had made a difference how I viewed my hike today.

As we hiked, it occurred to me that my partner was also a fine example of someone who cares about the environment and makes a contribution to preserve it for those who will follow. His name is Ras Erdal and he is a first generation American. His parents were from Norway and eventually settled in Brooklyn, New York. Ras remembers growing up in a concrete jungle where there wasn’t a blade of grass for blocks. His sense for adventure and mountains started with the Boy Scouts and eventually led him west where he has been for the last 18 years.

A decade ago, Ras was my mentor on a hike to Mount Margaret for the Poudre Wilderness Volunteers. We have remained friends and I enjoy and appreciate his company and zest for life. On this day, Ras and I would finish our 8 mile hike before 1:00 pm and head back down to Fort Collins contemplating the day’s activities full of contrasts and contradictions. As we drove home, it suddenly occurred to me that Ras is an entire generation older than me. He will be 80 this fall.

Our quiet hike of the morning to me represented the rewards of conservation and stewardship of the land. Our noisy finish to our hike represented the challenges that lie ahead and how people like Ras have made a difference by setting an example of the effort needed to preserve the land for generations to come.

On the trail - August 28, 2011

“Summer's almost over.
Sad, isn't it?
Makes you want to...
I don't know...
Reach out and...
...hold it back.”


From the movie The Great Gatsby

Adventure can be found not only on the trail, but on the water as well. The following is a story from last year that I want to share with you:

I loaded the kayak onto the Jeep around noon and headed off to the lake (Horsetooth Reservoir). It was the last day of August. I had been kayaking all summer long and this was to be a sort of farewell to summer paddle. When I put in at the dock at the south end of the lake at South Bay, it was 12:40 pm.

There was a nice breeze blowing from the south and the lake was virtually empty of motor boat traffic. I decided to paddle into the middle of the lake and let the wind carry me where it may.

The sun was bright and warm and I was enjoying the day. Normally, I would paddle just enough to realize that I had to paddle just as far back. Today was different. Today I just felt like seeing how far to the north I could go.

After about 2 hours, I began to recognize the surroundings of the north end of the reservoir. Wow, that south wind must have really been pushing me. I was going to paddle all the way from the south end to the north end of the lake, cool.

Since I was tiring, my mind began to start to rationalize a minor detail; how was I going to get back to the south end of the lake?

I docked my kayak at Satanka Bay, the North end of Horsetooth, at 3:03 pm. I was alone. The sign said nobody works here on Mondays and Tuesdays. My mind was like...hey buddy, you just paddled the entire length of the lake with a stiff breeze at your back and it took you 2 hours and 23 minutes. How long do you think this is going to take going against the wind?

3:53 pm. I push away from the dock after exhausting all my options and tell myself that I need to pick small incremental goals and just not think about the task at hand. My shoulders are telling me that this is not going to be my idea of a good time.

I select targets on the horizon to aim for like: buoys, rock outcroppings, trees, and fishing boats and paddle on. I begin to think about having hot dogs and a beer when I am finished. By this time, I have begun to count my strokes to keep my mind off my pain. Counting to 100 seems to distract me and I press on.

The south end's familiar surroundings finally come into view and I am close to being done. At 6:02 pm it is over. Surprisingly, I make it back in 2 hours and 9 minutes.

I throw the kayak up on the Jeep and tie it down and am home by 6:45 pm.
Because of errands and other duties, I would not get those hot dogs and a beer I had been hallucinating about until well after 9:00 pm.
It is then that it begins to sink in that I had paddled the equivalent of a half marathon on this last day of August both with and against the summer wind.

And it is then that I realize with contentment:

“There'll be other summers.”

Also from the movie The Great Gatsby