The night before Winter Solstice, Charlotte and I took part in one of Yampatika’s  
winter programs, Citizen Science After Dark, an outing in partnership with the US Forest Service, for the boreal owl survey on the ski mountain. As we arrived to join the group, we spied a fox investigating the base area, sleek body trotting gracefully between mounds of snow. It was the perfect start to our evening. 

Our group of eight didn’t need snowshoes or headlamps: the plan was to stay on packed runs and the Waxing Gibbous moon was bright enough to help light the way. I thought it strange that we were warned to be on the lookout for snow groomers, snowmobiles, and possibly skiers, but that warning was right on the money.

Within the first quarter mile we’d already encountered two snow groomers and a snowmobile. One of the snow groomers had a super long arm on the side facing us. As it reached us the arm lifted, sailing over our heads, and as soon as it passed the last person the arm lowered back down. It felt like we’d received a group blessing from a gigantic mechanical octopus.

We reached our first stop. The protocol was to first listen quietly. If we heard nothing, then several different recorded owl calls were played, one at a time, in each cardinal direction. After each call we listened again. The USFS gathers data on wind, temperature, time, and phase of the moon, as well as any owl calls (real ones) detected. This data is important in understanding the impact of various factors including the ski area itself on owl populations and habits. Typically the owls nest in February and so are more vocal at that time as they defend their nesting territory.

Playing owl calls is not something you or I should do on our own, because unless we’ve had training, we could cause problems. We also learned that pictures of owls flying at the camera posted on social media are often achieved by baiting the owl (eg., dangling a mouse just below the camera). This baiting results in a significant mortality rate for owls. 

The quiet of listening for owls was in significant contrast to the amount of noise at the ski area. Groomers grooming, snow movers working down at the base with their incessant back-up beeping, and even the engine braking of trucks way out on the highway traveled up the mountain. Wild Blue gondola was lit up like a stadium, and equipment lights shone here and there all over the mountain. 

We didn’t hear any owls at our first stop. We then decided to head off-piste and we post-holed our un-snowshoed feet into winter wonderland. The snow was deep amongst the trees  - easily up to my knees. This made for more demanding work than strolling up the ski run, but way more rewarding. 

It felt like we’d entered another world - in some ways the world of the owl. Under the trees the lights were out of sight, but we could see the moon. There was a sense of hush here, and I was aware of the cool air on my face. Our leaders pointed out tracks in the snow: weasel, mouse, and snowshoe hare. I wondered if owls spied those tracks when they hunt. I had never seen snowshoe hare tracks before - they appeared as two large oval (snowshoe) back feet with heels together and toes turned out, and two little feet in front. The presence of snowshoe hare is integral to the health of an ecosystem; many animals feed on the hare including Great Horned Owls and the Canada Lynx which is endangered in the state of Colorado. 

So often when I am out hiking or snowshoeing, I don’t think about the things I can’t see or hear at the moment. Slowing down and observing on this night resulted in the amazing experience of seeing the tracks - to be reminded of the presence of a whole world living and breathing, the hunters and the hunted, on the mountain. 

We didn’t have much luck with hearing real owls until the last stop - when most of the group heard a faint call. It felt like we’d been given a little treasure.

Part way across a ski run on our way down, we paused to regroup along one side of the run. All of us were dressed in dark clothing, standing individually, no headlamps, and silent. Suddenly a skier came around the bend, and we gave him quite the start. He was most likely a liftie enjoying his peaceful ski commute at the end of a long day, and he did not expect to see us. He called a hello, then said “Children of the Corn!” as he went by, shaking his head. 
​
​All in all it was a terrific evening. We learned a lot, had some fun, got some exercise, and even heard an owl.

​
​Solstice
​
Tabletop ablaze, myriad of tiny flames as one,
outshine the pitch of the longest night.
Greatcoats on hooks, debonair chill busters 
whisper stories of their own in the luminous candle-glow. 
My heart's tribe,
Perfect trio of acceptance, non-judgment, love,
We toast with elixir of joy
and magic that endures.

​​Last Saturday afternoon my daughter Charlotte and I set off on our Expedition Evergreen Quest. Along with snowshoes, water and a folding saw, the car was loaded with fresh-baked molasses cookies, hot chocolate and coffee. We were huntin’ trees, and our goals were: 1) don’t get stuck; 2) don’t get lost; 3) have fun; and 4) bring home a tree to decorate for Christmas.

Our tree-stash intel from several trusted sources meant we had choices. We opted for Seedhouse, a road that runs northeast along the Elk River, just north of the tiny town of Clark. It snowed on and off as we drove along the road, just us and the low mountains, with lots of trees to choose from.

After a couple of side-road explorations and turnarounds, we ended up in an empty little lot just off Seedhouse. We grabbed snowshoes and packs, excited to get out for a hike in the snow in search of our tree. 

Still struggling to actually get my snowshoes on (apparently my feet had grown?), a great big pick-up truck raced into the lot. The driver jumped out - boots, no snowshoes - and did a sort of trot/post-hole jig to several different trees nearest the lot, while the passenger/director of operations yelled from the truck. They were like the SWAT Christmas Tree team: get in, grab the tree, get out. I was happy they left as quickly as they showed up.

Charlotte and I took turns breaking trail through the deep snow. Since my binding straps didn’t fit around my giant-sized feet, I came out of my snowshoes multiple times, prompting much hilarity and silliness. We tracked through a little gully, looped around a small meadow, tumbled over logs, and eventually dropped down near the river to just settle for a bit and look around. 

It was quiet, with the gentle sound of the water making its way underneath and between generous pillows of snow. The air was clear and cool, with the slight scent of spruce and pine. Charlotte was wondering what the huge trees at the river’s edge had seen in their long lifetime. She has taught me so much with her thought-provoking awareness of the world.

We made our way back towards our potential trees, and then we made our decision. In keeping with learning from the amazing book Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer, we chose carefully. The trees are living beings. How would removing the tree we cut benefit or harm the surroundings? How could we be respectful of this gift? 

The tree we chose had two smaller trees near it that might do better by removing this one. We asked the tree’s permission to cut it. The thing is, neither of us knew how to understand an answer. Then I noticed that some of the limbs had yellow needles close to the trunk and that the tree felt very dry. I felt that was our answer - it might not thrive on its own anyway. We made a reciprocal offering of water from our bottles, and I cut the tree. 

You might scoff. But taking the tree in this way, with thoughtful respect and sincere appreciation, made the experience feel more complete somehow. Like we were honoring the tree that would come into our home to bring warmth and light for these holiday weeks.

We managed to get the tree back through the snow and into the car. It was tall enough that the tippy-top kept us company on the console. We toasted our adventure with our cookies and hot drinks. The sun was getting low, bringing warmth to the pale milky yellow sky. The golden ball of light glimmered through the trees, the surrounding snowy mountains were silent. 

We drove through this gorgeousness, feeling beyond lucky to live here, to spend time in this place. The afternoon was now evening, lavender sky with a hot pink edge. The sky deepened to indigo, and then finally, to a night of twinkling stars.

After years of avoiding medical screenings, I broke tradition and scheduled myself for a colonoscopy. It was my first, at age 55, and I was reluctant, resistant, and recalcitrant. 

My main problem: I do not like to be hungry. My worry about a day of no eating plagued me for weeks ahead of the appointment. I also didn’t like that I was required to have a ride home after the procedure. I asked the pre-screening person if I could walk. She said I might get lost and fall in the snow and the hospital would be liable. I started plotting a way to, well, lie. I’d tell them my ride had arrived and I’d waltz out the door and walk home. But they accompany you and make your ride sign something. So I made arrangements with a kind and understanding friend. 

I received my emailed instructions, and read them - a dozen times. I purchased the needed prep items days in advance, laid in supplies of chicken broth and carbonated water, and contemplated the prospect of black coffee. I researched, online, and marked on my calendar all the things I should not eat: “no nuts, seeds, popcorn, raw veggies!” 

I learned a thing or two on Prep Day. Chicken broth is delicious, especially when you’re starving. Black coffee is horrendous and if I had to take my coffee black I’d quit tomorrow. The prep went as preps go. I did not get much sleep, partly because I was convinced my prep did not work the way it was supposed to. I had failed Prep Day.

I hoofed it to the hospital first thing on C-Day. I told the nice check-in woman that I needed to speak to the nurse as I didn’t think my prep had worked. The nurse and I chatted for a good while, then she checked with other nurses and the surgeon. It seemed that perhaps it was fine. That perhaps I was a wee bit paranoid.

I could see that colonoscopies were moving along on this particular morning. They were rolling the people in, rolling the people out. Everyone seemed to be healthy and happy. Perhaps it was the Propofol? The entire staff was upbeat, energetic, and so friendly. I was starting to think about applying for a job. 

Then it was my turn - it was game on! The nurse popped the IV in, I signed the papers for the surgeon and the anesthesiologist saying that I would not sue if I died, and that I actually DID want to have this procedure WITH anesthesia. I felt like a celebrity, the star of this show, as they wheeled me inside. The anesthesiologist began whistling the theme to Rocky! This was gonna be awesome!! Suddenly my palms were sweating and felt my whole body tense up. I told the nurse in the darling flowered cap that I was really anxious. “We have drugs for that!” And indeed, they did. 

When someone shook me awake a few short minutes later, I was having a dream that I was giving massages to the entire crew: nurses, doctors, everyone. I told the anesthesiologist, and he said one person did their taxes while they were under. The miracles of medicine.

I felt a huge sense of relief that it was over. The surgeon told me everything looked great, and that I had a ten-year pass before my next one. Also: my prep had definitely done the job.