It's 5:00am. I switch on my light, wrap myself in my fleece-lined flannel while still under the warm covers, and reluctantly get out of bed. While my tea water boils I look out the window to determine my clothing choices - the snow is blowing sideways and there’s plenty on the ground. Shortly after 5:30 I head out the door, swathed in layers from head to toe, headlamp beaming into the dark, my Salomon spiked running shoes biting into the icy snow.

By the time I make it back, around 8:30, I’ve done battle with Mr. Grumpy in an old work truck outfitted with a plow up on Fish Creek Falls Road, avoided SUVs filled with eager families racing down Steamboat Boulevard to the ski mountain, and, though I’ve been snacking and sipping from my running vest, I’m hungry, tired, and ready for some hot coffee, even if it is decaf.

That was my Saturday morning routine last winter. I was training for the Run Through Time trail half-marathon in Salida last March, and my daughter and I compared notes on training all winter since she was doing it too. Most of my Saturday long runs involved some version of a blizzard, although there were a few clear mornings that were so frigid I got colder as the hours went by. That’s winter training.

I would not say that I looked forward to those long run days - and most especially I dreaded the run-ins with the foul-tempered snowplow driver. But I was highly motivated to get the miles in, wanting to be as prepared as possible for Salida.

This year is different. My daughter and I are doing the full trail marathon in Salida this coming March. After a decade away from trail running (with the sole exception of the half-marathon last March), I started training on Emerald Mountain in August. But instead of my long runs being something to be gotten through, I’ve discovered that running Emerald Mountain is my favorite thing to do. 

I’ve written about some of the things that make Emerald special (There’s No Place Like Emerald Mountain Part 1 of 3, and Emerald Mountain - More Than A Gem Part 2 of 3). But I’m also aware that it is running specifically that makes my time there so fulfilling. There is something singularly satisfying when trotting along those trails. Ducking under gnarled and blackened tree boughs on Eye to Eye’s crazy maze-like switchbacks. Climbing the steep Stairway to Heaven, knowing that it is getting me to the top as quickly as it can. Hudson alternating between sunny clearings and patches of woods ominous and dark from trees tightly packed. The quiet peace and long views to the west on Wild Rose, delicately sprinkled with a touch of white. Of course this could all be experienced at a walk. But it is the running, where even at my slow pace, there is a brief moment when both feet are off the ground. With each and every stride, I am flying, just that little bit. 

It could also be the endorphins. I’m up there long enough for the endorphins to come and go, and return again. The trail marathon, with its 4000 feet of climbing, might take me over 7 hours to complete. Although my longest run to date is only 4.5 hours, that is still tons of endorphin-marination for my body and brain.

But the other morning, I realized one of the key reasons that running on Emerald is my happy place. I headed up in a soft rain, which was pleasant until the build-up of heavy clay mud rendered my trotting to a slip-slide-squelch. With a bit more elevation the raindrops became snowflakes, the mud firmed up and gave way to snow. When I reached the top I paused before heading back down. All was hushed. The dark trees stood, eerie in the misty fog, their witches’ brooms prominent. The trail, carpeted in thick white, beckoned as it disappeared around a bend. 

Eager to accept the trail’s invitation, I headed down. I made my way towards Blackmere (the main dirt/gravel road up to the Quarry), aiming to hit it towards the bottom to avoid the worst of the muck I’d come through on the way up. Thus, I exchanged one trail for another all the way down - a mountain do-si-do: Stairway to Prayer Flag, a quick side step to Hudson, back to Prayer Flag, then Blair Witch to Larry’s. Navigating roots and rocks, up and around curvy switchbacks, pushing the pace on firm ground, tip-toeing through slushy puddles. 

In the midst of all this, it came to me: play. Yes - play - that was why I loved it up here - I was having a great time! I remembered how much fun Charlotte and I had one morning, even though we got separated, because we were always just missing each other on the trails, always nearby but not close enough to see one another. It was like playing a game of tag with the mountain as our playground. 

I think Emerald is wise to this. It welcomes the sense of play, and the love of its stories and its history. Emerald Mountain is aware of the fact that there are silly humans like me running around its generous flanks, reveling at the way the icicles drip from horizontal branches as the sun rises, at the glimpse of a chestnut fox darting across a meadow, or a chocolate brown moose tranquilly chewing breakfast. Or the way the Tree Sprite gives me a wink at the end of every run. 

​Thanksgiving is here. That means turkeys are the main focus: running races (Turkey Trots), pre-orders at the grocery store or meat vendor, discussions of how to thaw, how to cook, to brine or not to brine, to deep fry or rotisserie, and so on. 

My Thanksgivings growing up in southern California had a fairly set pattern. We left early, though never early enough to avoid the 405 traffic to my grandparents. My uncle’s family and ours would all converge by late morning, and each year my grandma aimed to eat at 1:00. We were usually lucky to sit down by 5:00. The hold-up was mostly due to waiting on the turkey.

The males gathered in the tiny TV room to watch football, everyone squeezed onto the two armchairs, my cousins wearing out the reclining mechanism on Grandpa’s. We females would hang out in the kitchen with Grandma, snacking on enough sour cream onion dip and potato chips to last until next Thanksgiving. When I was in high school, my grandma and I would sneak margaritas - she’d make them from these packets of powdered drink mix. I fancied myself quite the sophisticate, sipping from the salted rim of my glass, and I didn’t at all mind the turkey delay.

Why is it that turkeys are such an integral part of the holiday we call Thanksgiving? Also, what are all those red things around their faces and necks? 

As it turns out, turkey was not necessarily a part of the “first Thanksgiving,” a feast held by the Wampanoag people and English settlers in 1621 at Plymouth Colony in what is now Massachusetts. Most likely that meal included geese, ducks, and even seafood like lobster. It most likely did not include sweet potatoes with marshmallows or green bean casserole.

The association of turkey with the Thanksgiving meal is largely due to the author Sarah Josepha Hale, who wrote the 1827 novel Northwood. In that novel, she described a New England Thanksgiving in great detail, including the turkey as the key component of the Thanksgiving meal. She lobbied to have Thanksgiving designated a national holiday, and in 1863 Abraham Lincoln signed the presidential proclamation to make it official. 

Wild turkeys are native to Mexico. European explorers brought wild turkeys back with them and thus turkeys were domesticated in Europe. The English settlers later brought domesticated turkeys with them to North America. Benjamin Franklin wrote that the turkey, a respectable bird and one native to the Americas, would make a more fitting choice as the nation’s symbol than the bald eagle.

Wild and domestic turkeys differ from one another in various ways:

• Wild turkeys have dark tail tips, while domesticated turkeys have white tail tips. 
• Wild turkeys live three to four years, while domesticated birds live about 26 weeks before they end up on our Thanksgiving table. 
• The wild male (tom) can be up to 20 pounds, while the females (hens) are up to 12 pounds. Domesticated toms are up to 50 pounds and hens up to 16 pounds.

Turkeys can run - fast! - approximately 25 mph. Domestic birds can fly into trees for safety, but their wild cousins can actually fly. It is only the toms who gobble, usually in the spring and fall, to attract the hens. The wild turkeys don’t just gobble, they can make almost 30 different calls.

Unique Anatomy
Wattle - loose red skin attached underneath the beak, turns a bright red when the bird is excited.
Snood - flap of fleshy skin that hangs over the beak, also turns bright red with excitement.
Beard - wobbly area on the chest made of keratin bristles.

Sources/Learn More

• Almanac: Turkey Trivia
• Brittanica: Why Do We Eat Turkey on Thanksgiving?

Originally published November, 2023

​There’s running trails, and there’s running on Emerald Mountain. 

Yes, Emerald really is that special, for many different reasons.

First off, its history. The first known inhabitants were the Yampa (also Yamparika or Yampatika)  Band of the Ute People, for which Emerald Mountain and Steamboat Springs were summer hunting grounds. The Ute People call themselves Nuuchu, which means “the human” or “the Ute.” The Utes stewarded the land, the plants and the animals in the Rocky Mountains until they were forcibly relocated to reservations in Utah and Southern Colorado, where they aim to continue their traditions, language and ceremonies and ancestral heritage. 

After white settlers arrived, the mountain was known as Quarry Mountain and Onyx Mountain. The quarry itself, as I understand, was instrumental in Carl Howelsen’s staying in Steamboat long enough to hold the first Winter Carnival and to start what is now known as the Winter Sports Club. The Flying Norwegian was ready to move on, but James Crawford made sure that Howelsen, a stone mason by trade, had plenty of work using stone mined from the quarry. There are still buildings on Lincoln in which Howelsen’s work can be seen. At some point in the decades that followed, the mountain became known as Emerald and that is the name that stuck.

Fast-forward to the early 90’s. Gretchen Sehler, a ski instructor and avid mountain biker, had the vision of a network of recreational mountain bike trails on Emerald. As it turned out, Gretchen also had the gumption, persistence, know-how and relationship-building to make that vision a reality. That reality is truly a gift to all of us in the Yampa Valley.

It was Larry Johnson who first introduced the Sehlers to Lyman Orton, who owned much of the land on Emerald Mountain. An enthusiastic biker himself, he was supportive of the trails being built, and sold the land to the City - for the same amount he paid for it, $300,000.

Gretchen and her late husband Marc Sehler took trail building courses through the International Mountain Bike Association (IMBA) in order to have a solid understanding of how to build a good trail: sustainable and fun to ride. They would design, walk and meticulously flag each trail, following a formula which allows a ratio of grade to flat so that rainwater and meltoff can be absorbed or dispersed naturally, without the use of waterbars. Trails designed this way are built to last, as erosion created by rapidly moving runoff are minimized. As a runner, the bonus of trails built this way is that I’m never climbing or descending straight up or down for a long period of time - there is an undulation that creates a rhythm and relative ease to my effort. 

Gretchen also formed relationships with the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) and United States Forest Service (USFS), as well as with the City of Steamboat Springs and with Routt County Riders (RCR). The RCR worked closely with the City, who secured grant money needed for the trails project. Though several entities were involved, the glue was Gretchen. She realized the crucial role of relationships, and nurtured them to create win-win outcomes. Sometimes this required serious patience, for example waiting out a change in leadership to move forward, but Gretchen’s tenacity produced results that continue to benefit Routt County residents and visitors.

Gretchen and Marc held volunteer work days to actually build the trails they’d so carefully laid out. Some days, so many folks showed up to help that people were turned away because there were no more tools available. This was truly a community effort from beginning to end.

So maybe that is a part of what I feel when I’m up there trotting around. That sense of local engagement, caring and respect. Gretchen has even overheard kids speaking up to protect “their” trail to an unaware mountain biker: “hey, knock that off, I helped build this trail!” 

What pulls all these factors together and pushes the Emerald experience over the top are the trail monikers and iconic treasures that have popped up over time to mark them. Rather than arbitrarily assigning trail names, Gretchen says the trails earned them - there’s a story behind each name.

• MGM: Mica, Gretchen and Marc. Mica was a dear four-legged friend who spent many hours assisting Gretchen and Marc.
• Eye to Eye: originally a pirated trail, this was rebuilt to be more sustainable. The narrow trail switchbacks onto itself like a side-winder’s S-shaped curves. Passing someone going in the opposite direction, you are both eye to eye.
• Abby’s: Another four-legged family member of Gretchen and Marc’s. Abby always liked to go that way, though Gretchen was saying, “no, this way!” Abby was persistent, and that way became her trail.
• Hudson: Hudson cars were built in from 1909 until 1957. In 1919 Hudson broke the record for the fastest climb up Pike’s Peak. (Detroit Historical Society: Hudson Motors). Just off the trail called Hudson, you’ll find a corroded Hudson shell, probably driven up there and abandoned in the midst of some long-ago revelry. There’s a little car adorning one of the Hudson trail signs.
• Root Canal: this trail makes all the others seem butter-smooth - it is teeming with enough roots to make your teeth rattle. The trail sign has a pair of wind-up “chattering teeth” attached.
• Angry Grouse: grouse aren’t known for planning ahead. They tend to wait until you are right upon them before creating a dramatic getaway - so ridiculously unstrategic it is a wonder they are not extinct. However, they also have tempers. One evening Gretchen was minding her own trail business when a grouse flew at her ankles, pecking away, and wouldn’t ease up on its attack. Gretchen finally gave in and left. Now that was one angry grouse.
• No Mo’ Blues: originally this was another pirated trail, called Blues Bridges. Gretchen and Marc fixed it, and dubbed it No Mo’ Blues to indicate Blues Bridges was no more.
• Orton Trail: honoring Lyman Orton, without whose gift of land this project wouldn’t exist. Orton Trail treats you to a little golden meadow time, and a little time switchbacking through copses of trees. When I’m on my way down after a long run, Orton feels like home.
• Larry’s: honoring Larry Johnson. There is a red-hatted gnome that watches over the Larry’s trail sign, and the gnome is thought to be connected to John Kole, the late owner of One Stop Ski Shop. I’m hoping to learn the full story at some point.
• Wild Rose: so-named for the homestead that once sat on the lower west flank of Emerald.
• Blair Witch: a narrow trail through tight trees reminiscent of the 1999 Blockbuster film, The Blair Witch Project. There’s a spider web adorning the trail sign - perhaps a gift from the Blair Witch herself…
• Beall Trail: named for Ben Beall Senior, Routt County Commissioner from 1993-2000, who arranged the land swap to make that trail possible.
• Morning Gloria: named for Gloria Gossard who also donated a parcel of land to the Emerald trail system. 

*****
Every time I run, lope, walk and stumble around the trails of Emerald, the stories of the people who made this place possible are with me. There is a sense of awe whether I’m gazing at a jaw-dropping vista, deep in the evergreens, breathing in that sharp yet earthy scent, or running on a carpet of golden aspen leaves as the sun lights them up.


Sources
​A very special thanks to Gretchen Sehler, for her vision, her decades of trail work, and her willingness to share some of the stories with me.

Tread of Pioneers: Background on Ute People
City of Steamboat Springs: Indigenous Peoples of Yampa Valley Recognized
Steamboat Pilot: What’s in a Name?

You’ve probably never heard of Elzada Clover or Lois Jotter. But maybe it's time you should. Brave the Wild River by Melissa L. Sevigny, is the story of how these two intrepid botanists set out to map the plant life of the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. The 43-day whitewater journey was a harrowing adventure, but their resulting work continues to influence science today, and has led to greater awareness and protection of that river ecosystem. 

In 1938, the two women set off from Green River, Utah, with four men and three small wooden boats: the Botany, the Wen, and the Mexican Hat. Hailing from University of Michigan, Clover was a 42-year-old botany instructor, and assistant curator of the botanical gardens, and Jotter a 24-year-old graduate student working on her PhD. 

The Colorado was considered to be an unruly and dangerous river, where many had died in the attempt to run it. The news reports of the time focused on the novelty of women on the river, and the general consensus that women did not belong on that river. Rather than covering the botanical intent of the trip, reporters drummed up the perils of the Colorado, and wrote about the women applying their make-up and cooking for the men

It is true that Clover and Jotter were up every morning well before the men. They did cook breakfast, and they did apply powder and lipstick. But their time was also spent gathering plant specimens. The plant gathering was a tedious process. They needed to get the entire plant, including root, stem, leaf and flower. The specimens were flattened and arranged carefully and placed in a plant press, consisting of layers of newspaper and thin wood strips. This was all carefully strapped down. For cacti, the pulp had to be scooped out, and the specimen laid just-so to preserve the spines. From their work, four new cacti were identified. 

After hunting plants up steep climbs in the desert heat, they’d go run some serious rapids. The women were not allowed to paddle the rapids (thank goodness that’s changed: currently women make up roughly one-third of Grand Canyon river guides). Sometimes the boats would go through the turbulent water blunt stern-first. Sometimes they’d line the boats - difficult work to climb over boulders on-shore while keeping the boat on a line and walking it down in order to skirt the more burly rapids. 

Ultimately the crew, with a few changes in personnel, floated into Lake Mead alive and well. Clover and Jotter’s work made it back to the University of Michigan, and the two continued to contribute to the field of botany for the rest of their lives. 

In 1994, Jotter made another trip down the Colorado with a group of scientists and other “Old Timers” who’d studied the river ecology prior to the construction of Glen Canyon Dam and the creation of Lake Powell. Their observations led to the 1996 policy of the dam releasing large amounts of water in order to stimulate spring river surge and restore some of the river life to the way it was.

Though Clover and Jotter are not household names, their willingness to literally risk their lives to gather botanical information is a fascinating story, and their work has impacted anyone who recreates in or cares about the Colorado River.  

Just upstream from Lake Powell, at the confluence of the Green and Colorado, begins a 41-mile river section known as Cataract Canyon. It was so-named by Powell because of the canyon’s 14 miles of gnarly rapids - so gnarly in fact that Powell and his men did not run a single one of those rapids. When Glen Canyon Dam was built, and Lake Powell filled, over half of Cataract Canyon became impounded, slow water. In recent years, as the water level in Lake Powell has dropped due to overuse and evaporation and drought, the impounded water in Cataract Canyon is diminishing, and is starting to flow again. This has also resulted in some side canyons reemerging. For river runners familiar with this area, two of the side canyons are affectionately known as Clover Canyon and Jotter Canyon, within a stretch known as Botany Aisle. 

Learn More/Sources

• The primary source for this blog post. Brave the Wild River by Melissa L. Sevigny
• A short version of the story of Clover and Jotter, with some terrific photos. University of Michigan Heritage Project: River Rat
• American Rivers: Changes in Cataract Canyon

Originally published September 2024