Glimpsing a dragonfly while on the trail is a special treat. These sightings put a little extra spring in my step because they are an unexpected gift. I usually notice the bright flash of green or blue, and I smile to watch the long, elegant body with its four shapely wings flitting through the greenery near the creek. Dragonflies symbolize transformation, which I find hopeful and encouraging. I’m curious why dragonflies do not also symbolize perspective, considering that their head is made up of many compound eyes with thousands of lenses. They can see up to twelve meters (over 39 feet) in all directions in order to spot what they’re hunting. (Woodland Trust: What Do Dragonflies Eat? and Other Dragonfly Facts)

Dragonflies spend a large part of their lives as larvae (nymphs) in the water, and as adults, around the water. Lakes, streams, rivers, ponds, and even bogs are their home. These habitat areas are sensitive; a robust dragonfly population is an indication of the health of these environments, and the reverse is true. Since dragonflies snack frequently on insects like mosquitoes it behooves us to nurture these habitats, and thus the dragonfly population.  (Bridgewater State University article: Life Cycle of Dragonflies and Damselflies)

Dragonfly life as an adult is relatively short, usually just a few months, giving them just enough time to reproduce. Dragonflies are carnivorous predators. In addition to mosquitoes, they eat midges, flies, small butterflies and even other dragonflies. 

In general the dragonfly life cycle follows this pattern:

1. Eggs are deposited directly into the water, or into sand or a plant in close proximity to the water.
2. After hatching from the egg the nymph remains in the water for several months or several years, feeding on insects and tadpoles.
3. When ready - sometimes triggered by warming water temps in spring and summer - the nymph makes its way out of the water and clings to a plant or rock, taking in air to expand its entire body. The skin behind the head splits and the adult dragonfly pulls itself out of what was its body - now a shell called the exuviae.
4. After several hours of drying time, the adult dragonfly is ready for liftoff and flies away to find its first meal out of the water.

Dragonflies come in an astounding number of shades - yellow and black striped, iridescent green and blue, brown and black. Different species also boast fascinating names. Here are a few (find more details and excellent pictures in this Sweetgrass Farm Garden blog post: Exploring the Different Families of Dragonflies):

• Darners, due to the darning needle appearance of their bodies.
• Clubtails, as the distal end of the body is enlarged, resembling a club.
• Petaltails, for the attachments on their abdomen resembling petals.
• Cruisers, because of their penchant for not dawdling in one watery home for long.

Dragonflies are sometimes mistaken for damselflies, and vice-versa. The two are closely related but there are a couple of ways to tell them apart. When perched, the damselfly pulls its wings in and behind its body, while dragonflies keep theirs out to the sides. Typically, damsels have a slightly smaller and more slender body than the dragons.

Dragonflies predate dinosaurs. From the fossil record, these prehistoric dragonfly insects, called  Meganeuropsis, had a wingspan of 75 centimeters, or 29.5 inches! Though our current-day dragonflies are related to Meganeuropsis, they clearly have evolved to a size that works better in today’s environment. (Earth Archives: The Biggest Insect Ever Was a Huge “Dragonfly”)

Lest you think dragonflies are all whimsy, know that they are considered the most successful predator, with a hunting success rate of 95%. The movie Alien borrowed from the dragonfly nymph’s ability to move their lower jaw like an arm, so quickly the prey doesn’t know what just happened as they are being swallowed by the nymph. (Willistown Conservation Trust article: Dragonflies: Nature’s Most Successful Predator)


​Sources/Learn More

• NPS St. Croix National Scenic Riverway Dragonfly Fact Sheet
• Woodland Trust: What Do Dragonflies Eat? and Other Dragonfly Facts
• Bridgewater State University article: Life Cycle of Dragonflies and Damselflies
• Sweetgrass Farm Garden blog post: Exploring the Different Families of Dragonflies
• Earth Archives: The Biggest Insect Ever Was a Huge “Dragonfly”
• Fact Animal: Dragonfly Facts

Originally published June 2024

Note: I haven't spent as much time at Pearl this summer, so this is a welcome reminder of a beautiful way to start the day.​
*******
It starts the night before. I heft my 11-foot white-and-blue paddle board onto the roof of my car, pulling my sturdy tie downs snug. Coffee is prepped in the maker, turquoise dry bag by the front door.

The 5 AM alarm isn’t pleasant, but since it isn’t pleasant for anyone that means I get the lake to myself. With the car heat on high, I drive 45 minutes along the Elk River, the road winding through pines and small ponds, then opening to views of the verdant valley with a dramatic backdrop of snowy mountain peaks. 

It is 33°F when I pull into the lot at Pearl. Layers are essential: thick knit hat, down jacket, old ski gloves, fleece pants and neoprene booties. I don’t like being cold. I feel exhilarated when I push off, wondering if surfers have this sense of excitement, too, every time they launch themselves into the awaiting water.

I stick close to shore, comfortable in my solid balance on the board. Crawdads scuttle underneath as I glide by. The dip of my paddle is rhythmic, the stillness of the entire lake bigger than any thoughts I’ve brought with me. 

Circumnavigating the lake, I know where to hug in close and where to give space: the old submerged wood and wire fence; the fallen tree with branches just beneath the surface; the beaver lodge, air bubbles rising up from between the heaped twigs and boughs, then vanishing with a soft pop. 

White steam rolls across the navy water, and the golden-yellow sun peeks, just barely, above the mountains. A blue heron, whose fishing I’ve disturbed, flies off in a huff towards the opposite shore for more solitary hunting grounds. I pause, listening to one of the feeder creeks trickling into the lake, and spy an eagle overhead. I watch as it takes up its post at the top of a large evergreen, feeling very lucky. This is the first eagle I’ve seen here. 

The breeze picks up near the dam, rippling the water into tiny waves that slap the bottom of my board. I look for the marmot scampering on the dam rocks, but it isn’t here again, and I wonder if it has moved to another home this summer. I point my board into the last stretch of my loop, turning my head to find the yellow, white, and purple blossoms tucked amongst the long grasses. Wild roses, their pink faces hanging right over the lake, compete with the pines to see their reflection in the watery mirror. 

The cove where I’m parked is now warm with sunlight, slender white aspen boughs arching over lush emerald mini-meadows. The lot is empty and I relish the quiet between bird melodies drifting through the air. I say a silent thank you, taking it all in one more time, before driving back up the road, drinking my still-warm coffee.

Originally published July 2023

​If you missed it: The Colorado Trail Part I: Fear and Flora on the CT


It is Day Three. We’ll be above treeline all day, and we plan to do only 11 miles, a nice change from the 15 of the last two days. My fears have eased with sleep, and I feel ready for the day as we head down the trail shortly after 7:00. Somehow, though I think my efficiency is improving, breaking camp takes a good 90 minutes. Deflating, rolling, stuffing, and repacking all take time. I also notice that my ziplock bag of the dreaded cold oatmeal goes down more slowly each morning. 

We’re up and over the first pass fairly quickly, and then we descend to a highway - Cottonwood Pass. We start up the next climb and encounter some day hikers. It is weird to see the highway - we’re not so much in the middle of nowhere as I thought. It is also weird to see people who are not through- or section-hikers. One woman we pass is dressed for mall-shopping, and her perfume smells strange and unnatural. The smells of the trail are the norm right now. I’m glad when we’ve made it past the “crowd” and can settle into our peaceful and un-populated trek once again.

The small streams flowing through deep green mosses and multi-colored wildflowers today are exceptional. Charlotte knows the names of most. She examines them, takes photos, and in the evening studies her small wildflower identification book and makes sketches in her journal. Her knowledge of flora earned her the trail name Botany when she did a segment of the CT last year. She joined a group of friends who completed the entire CT for their last 75-mile section from Molas Pass (near Silverton) to Durango. A trail name is not a name you give yourself - it is a name given to you by those you know or even meet and hike with on the trail, and it evokes an essential quality or characteristic about you. A person hiking with Charlotte’s group last year was dubbed Waterfall after he fell down a waterfall (he was not hurt). And Hummingbird is the trail moniker of a solo hiker we met because she subsists on lots of sweet snacks while she’s on-trail. 

I do not yet have a trail name. At this point in our journey, I am sticky and dusty and stinky. I’ve sweat-soaked my quick-dry hiking pants and sun hoodie multiple times. I have layers of lavender essential oil on my feet and underarms, arnica and bandages on my bruised hips, bacitracin and bandaids around my blistered toes. I’ve gone through a ton of hand sanitizer and do my best to clean the sunstick off my face at night. I nurse my lips through their dryness with Aquaphor. Taking in my full array of remedies, Charlotte knights me Apothecary, and thus, I am now trail-named. 

We pull into camp in the early afternoon. We’re just a few feet below treeline so coverage is sparse. A sizeable marmot sunning on a rock nearby settles in to supervise. Occasionally munching on some roots, the marmot is our camp mascot, watching over us through the afternoon. Charlotte says that marmots control the weather, so we hope this one is happy with us.

We hang out at the creek, dipping our feet in the ice cold water, which feels like a million bucks. It is nice to relax inside the tent while an afternoon storm blows through, and Charlotte reads aloud from The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. We hit the hay before 9pm, with the alarm set for 5:15.

Day Four. We’re on-trail before 7:00. Charlotte is continuing to carry the greater percentage of weight, and our meal consumption has reduced the load as well. We immediately start the climb to the first pass of the day, which summits at just under 13,000 feet. I don’t feel great. I’m slightly nauseous due to fatigue, and my body is not moving well or quickly, despite the lighter pack and extra rest yesterday. I understand that each one of these days has been extremely demanding - put them all together and well, I don’t exactly feel a spring in my step. I inform Charlotte partway up the pass that I refuse to have cold oatmeal the next day, which is to be our last. I will have a tuna packet instead - anything but that oatmeal. I can’t think about it too much as it makes the nausea worse.

So I look around me. We are climbing the southeastern end of a long valley, the northwestern end of which we descended yesterday. Though the valley behind us is lush, the current terrain is stark in its beauty. Dark rock is strewn across green tundra, reminding me of the Scottish Highlands  - minus the castles and lochs. It is so quiet, almost haunting.

The descent includes a lot of areas of broken rock fragments, or talus fields. Talus isn’t bad for a change-up, but navigating it is challenging. Charlotte, despite her heavier load, is way up ahead with her poles in one hand making it look like a hop, skip and jump. Then there’s me. Reminiscent of Quasimodo with my pack giving me a hunched back, and my slightly uneven gait, over-relying on my poles to help balance, tap-tap-tapping across the talus. Until a pole gets stuck, I almost fall over, pull it out, right myself, and move on. This only happens a dozen times or so.

We’re almost at the top of the next pass when I hear Charlotte talking. She’s conversing with a grouse that has startled just as she passed by. They never seem to figure out they should run off before the danger is upon them. The silly thing is running around as if it has no idea where it is or how it got here. At almost 13,000 feet I wonder the same thing. On top of this pass we encounter two men with plaid shirts, white beards, and well-used old-school gear who assure me that they are slower than me. Then we meet a woman kitted out in a long hiking skirt, a sun hoodie and stylish hat, and colorful Dirty Girl gaiters over her trail shoes. She is clearly a trail veteran. We visit for a bit, and learn that she spends nine months out of every year on-trail. She’s been doing that since retirement, 11 years ago. And, as it turns out, she is parked right next to Charlotte’s car at the trail head where we’re finishing. Small, and very cool, world.

After descending through shady and fragrant wooded terrain, with giant blooms of columbine and four-foot tall larkspur, we come to Tin Cup Pass, the last serious climb of our journey. As we start up it is only 11:30 but ominous rumblings emanate from the dark clouds hanging in the direction we’re heading. I tell Charlotte how sorry I am, that it is my fault we might be in harm’s way, because I am so slow. Charlotte looks at me and says, “focusing on how slow you are isn’t very useful.” She is so right. So I stop apologizing, reset my head, and enjoy this last climb up through the alpine tundra. The paintbrush at this altitude morphs from orange-reddish to fuchsia pink or pale waxy yellow. So many colors grow up through the deep green I have to keep reminding myself to move forward. I try to capture all that I see with my phone, but the pictures don’t come close to doing it justice. And I am thankful. Thankful that I am healthy, that I have the time and the wherewithal to be here, and that I am doing this with the person I so love to spend my time with - the amazing Charlotte.

The clouds move north of us and we make it over the high point without mishap. Right after lunch, though, the rain sets in for good. It is a steady, soaking, lovely rain. We’re walking on an old railroad bed so the descent is mild and smooth, even though it’s morphed into a creek with all the rain. Ethereal wisps of cloud hang in the air above the deep valley we’re skirting. The scent of the trail and the trees is pungent and earthy with the moisture, and the plants seem to be coming alive - bright green and plumped up. All is silent but the sound of the raindrops touching down.

The camp spots we’d planned on were so close to the trail, and so full of puddles, with steep slopes above and below - not good candidates. Also, I was now fantasizing about pit toilets. Sad, but true - I was not sure my legs would be able to squat anymore. We decided to push on to the finish, so Navigator Charlotte overlapped a couple of downloaded maps to find our way. And she did it! 

It was surreal to see the car, to be finished a day early - and to realize that we had completed our 60-mile journey with approximately 16,000 feet of climbing. Taking the pack off my back and sitting in the car seat felt pretty amazing. But it was also kind of hard to absorb that we were really done. All the planning, training (at least for me), prepping, the challenge of the actual trail - and now we were driving down the gnarly rocky road in the rain, heading to Salida. And some gluten-free pizza.

*****
I learned so much:

• Frequent fluid and snacks are critical
• Cold oatmeal is not an acceptable breakfast item
• It’s okay to respect the pace my body is willing to go
• The true experience is about tuning in with all senses, rather than a tunnel vision on the destination
• Appreciation for my body’s fortitude - I could have gotten altitude sickness or my body could have given up the ghost but it hung in there the whole way
• A kind or insightful remark can make someone’s day
• Although I usually spend my time in nature solo, this journey would simply not have been as rich, as fun, or as meaningful if Charlotte were not there. 

I also had a shift in perspective regarding focused efforts. Throughout our time on-trail, I found myself thinking “Ironman wasn’t so bad - one hard day and then I got to rest.” These four extremely demanding days in a row made me hungry for a one-day challenge. 

It has taken awhile to recover from our CT experience. I looked like Frankenstein on my walks and runs, lurching along with stiff concrete legs. But, about ten days after getting off-trail, with my Frankie-gait mostly resolved, I set a new goal. The Run Through Time trail half marathon this past March with Charlotte was the first trail running race I’d ever done, and the first distance I’d done in years. I was planning to run that again next year and focus on improving my time. But our days on the CT showed me that I could challenge my fears and raise the bar. And so, I am now training for the Run Through Time full marathon trail run in March of ‘26. The course has close to 4000 feet of climbing, so it will truly be a challenge. But I won’t have a 35-pound pack on my back. My new mantra is: I can do anything for one day. And the next day, I can rest.

​Grateful for the clouds dialing down the sun’s heat, I hoist myself and my 35-pound pack one more step up Hope Pass. We’ve gained close to 3500’ of elevation in just a few short miles, and though we’ve encountered a few hikers and several groups of runners, it is now silent but for the cool breeze across the alpine tundra. My trekking poles are the only things keeping me from falling over at this point. When I stop to take a look around, I revel in the view of the valley we’ve just climbed out of: dark green conifers surrounding the navy lake in the far distance. I bring my gaze to the beauty right at my feet - wildflowers, so many varieties and hues: blues and purples, yellows, reds, whites and oranges.

Turning back to the narrow dirt trail, I count one - two - three - four, one - two - three - four, one step at a time towards the next of several more switchbacks. I don’t even hope for the summit until I’m standing on it. 

It is the first full day of our CT adventure, my 19-year-old daughter Charlotte and I. We started out last night from Twin Lakes, just south of Leadville, and hiked in a couple miles to set up camp by headlamp. It was a lighthearted evening and this morning it was a lark to set off on the trail. The lapping of waves on the lakeshore seemed a good omen, as did the beaver out for its morning swim. 

Our plan is to do 60 miles of what’s known as the Collegiate West. In its entirety, the Collegiate West is 80+ miles, starting at Twin Lakes and ending at Monarch Pass. This is only a portion of the entire Colorado Trail, which begins at Waterton Canyon in Denver and ends in Durango, a total of 567 miles. That’s 567 if you do the full Collegiate Loop, which consists of East and West branches. If you do just (!) the Collegiate East you do an entirety of 486 miles for a through-hike of the CT, and if you do just Collegiate West you do 491 miles. A “through-hike” is an end-to-end completion of a trail. What Charlotte and I are doing is “segment” or “section” hiking, where we are hiking specific portions of the trail. 

We make it to the summit of Hope Pass and pause to gaze at the expanse of peaks in every direction. We chat with a young woman who is a solo through-hiker. I’m impressed - not just that she’s taking this on, but taking it on alone. Descending the south side of the pass, the terrain is rocky and steep, and my quads cramp, making my unreliable legs slow to a snail’s pace - and this no longer feels like a lark. I’m laboriously picking my way across a talus field when a runner heading north gives us a smile and says “And this is why they call it the Rocky Mountains!” This makes me giggle and brings a little lightness to my step. A genuine and well-timed remark on the trail can literally turn a person’s day completely around. 

We’ve got a ways to go and my pace has slowed to the point that my patient and encouraging daughter looks at her watch and says nicely, but worriedly, “Mom, we’ve only gone one mile in the last hour!”  She takes some of the weight from my pack, I power up with a snack and some fluid, having burned through lunch some time ago, and she leads the way, me focusing on keeping her strong agile self in sight. The last couple of miles are pleasant, travelling rolling terrain through the woods, and we make it to camp before dark. We have some fun hanging out at the creek where we filter water, and after a beyond-delicious dinner prepared by gourmet Charlotte (gluten-free mac and cheese with rehydrated spinach, yellow squash and tofu) we turn in. We’ve clocked 15 miles for the day, and I’m feeling it, but think that surely the following days will not be as difficult as this one was.

Day Two and we’re off to an earlier start, hurriedly slurping our cold, uncooked oatmeal - just add water to the quick oats and dried fruit and choke it down as best you can. There are more passes to climb, and we get a view of the glacial turquoise of Lake Ann. The wildflower-laden alpine tundra continues to amaze us both.  We get just enough rain to put the rain covers on the packs, but as soon as we’ve zipped our rain jackets up, no more drops from the sky. 

I start looking forward to lunch roughly fifteen minutes after breakfast. Today, like most days, lunch is a packet of tuna (albacore or skip jack - variety is important!) - and let me tell you, the tuna juice in that packet is delicious when you’re on the trail all day. A gluten-free spinach tortilla with almond butter rounds out the two-course meal. This is actually scrumdiddlyumptious. Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it. Post-lunch, the afternoon starts to drag, the day feels very long. Though the camp spots we come to late afternoon are tempting, we decide to push on a couple more miles more in order to get a jump on tomorrow’s climbs. 

In a very few minutes I’m silently cursing whoever built this section - obviously sadistic mountaineers who did not believe in switchbacks. We climb, climb some more, and I look ahead through the trees to see that we climb more. I am viscerally longing for flat terrain. At one point, I seriously fear that I will not be able to do this. I wonder how I’d get out of there if my body collapsed - helicopter? Since we don't have cell service I guess I’d just lay on the side of the trail for a few days. This is a strange feeling, because usually my unrelenting mind decides on a goal and my body gets us there. This evening, though, I’ve dug so deep into my physical reserves it feels like I’ve dug through my well and out the other side. I wonder if I’m doing permanent damage. I’m also worried about how slow I am, and that we won’t make it to camp “on time.” Charlotte tells me not to be concerned about when we make camp, and we agree to take frequent mini-breaks. I relax a bit, focus on one step at a time, and we pull into camp with plenty of light left in the sky.

As we eat dinner (Charlotte having prepared a magnificent meal yet again with rehydrated veggies, salmon and quinoa pasta) we see a mama moose and her young one taking a sunset snack stroll through the meadow just below our camp. It is a beautiful evening and I’m thankful and happy to be out here with Charlotte. Yet I can’t keep my fears about the next day out of my mind: will I be able to make it? 

Read: The Colorado Trail Part II: Botany and Apothecary on the CT