​Imagine not being allowed to enter a running race because you are a woman. 

That was the state of things in the late 1960’s, when Kathrine Switzer joined the Syracuse men’s running team. She began running with an older coach, Arnie, who became a consistent running partner, sharing his stories from his decades of training and racing. 

One December evening when finals had just completed, Arnie showed up for their evening 10-miler, despite the blizzard conditions. Kathrine resisted but was finally persuaded to head out. They ran along roadsides, dodging cars, their canvas sneakers and cotton sweats soaked by the winter storm. At one point in their conversation, Arnie mentioned that a “girl” could not run the Boston marathon - a distance of 26.2 miles. Kathrine stopped in her tracks and held her ground, until they had an agreement: if she could run 26 miles in training, they’d do the Boston Marathon.

Kathrine trained all winter, without telling her boyfriend or her parents about her goal. She and Arnie completed 31 miles one training day, and the next day Arnie brought her the application for Boston. They had examined the rules, and nowhere did it state that females could not enter, although at that time the couple of women who did participate hid in the bushes near the start and jumped in, then jumped out right before the finish.

Switzer, a journalism student, completed her application with the name K.V. Switzer, as that was her byline. Her medical clearance required for the race stated her full name. Her application was accepted and she was officially entered in the Boston Marathon. 

The Boston Marathon is always run on Patriot’s Day, the third Monday in April. 

At the starting line on April 19th, 1967, Kathrine, accompanied by Coach Arnie, her boyfriend Big Tom, and Arnie’s friend John, were warmly greeted by the male runners all around. A few miles into the marathon, a press vehicle drove up, and race director Jock Semple jumped out. A large, imposing man, he began to physically and verbally attack Switzer, screaming that “no woman can be in this race!” He tried to rip her number off, and she managed to avoid him though she was in complete shock from the unexpected onslaught. Tom stepped with a body block that sent Semple to the curb, and the foursome ran on, worried about reprisal, or possible arrest. Tom accused Kathrine of causing him to get in trouble and ruining his Olympic chances for track and field, ripped up his own race numbers, and took off. Kathrine would eventually pass him, still on the course, and though he begged her to slow up and stay with him, she chose to continue running. 

She had begun to understand, not only from Semple’s attack, but from the variety of reactions of female spectators (loud cheers, frozen silence, hostility), that her finishing Boston was infinitely more than simply running a race, and certainly not a stunt which some were suspicious of. It was about finishing strong, and showing what women were capable of. 

Kathrine was so focused on what this race had come to mean, and still processing all that had happened, that they were up and over Heartbreak Hill without her even realizing it. She might have not only been the first woman to officially run Boston, but also the first person to be unaware of Heartbreak Hill!

Keep in mind that back then, there were no aid stations, and they did not drink or eat. Kathrine finished in 4 hours 20 minutes - quite a decent time. Her feet were so covered in blisters that she was treated by a doctor at the finish line. She, and the pictures of Semple attacking her, became national news. Check out this video of the story from Kathrine herself.

Following Boston, Kathrine became a lifelong advocate for women’s running. She also trained intensely, and would eventually run the 6th fastest time in the world (at the time) at Boston - a 2:51 in 1975, and she won the New York City Marathon - 3:07 in 1974. She remains the last resident of New York to win the New York City Marathon, and her margin of victory over the next woman finisher (27:14) remains the biggest margin of victory in that race. In 2017, at the age of 70, Kathrine Switzer ran Boston, 50 years after her first running of it. Her time was 4:45. 

Switzer went on to champion women’s running, traveling globally to promote races as the founder of Avon Running Global Women’s Circuit. Those races, over 400 in 27 countries, for over a million women, were a factor in her successful lobbying to finally have the women’s marathon event in the 1984 Olympics. Kathrine, fittingly, was commentator, as Joan Benoit Samuelson decisively won the day.

I think of Kathrine Switzer on cold snowy training mornings, knowing that my modern technical gear keeps me dry. On long runs, I have a vest I can stuff with hydration and food. I know I can enter any race I want to and the race director will not try to rip my number off. 

My weeks of early runs, long work days, and volunteer work on evenings and weekends for the things I’m passionate about also remind me of her. She put in more time than I, and sacrificed her health at one point. Her accomplishment of inspiring women all over the world to run, and bringing the women’s marathon to the Olympics, created opportunities for women, and allowed many to believe in themselves, some for the first time. 


Sources/Learn More
Kathrine Switzer website
Marathon Woman by Kathrine Switzer

This year, the Boston Marathon will be run on April 21st. 

Zip! 
Zing! 
Zonk! 
That’s the sound of the squirrels of Thompson Park. They sprint around and up the tree trunks, spring from branch to branch, and pause once in a while to hurl a piece of bark or a hard berry at us as we gaze up at their antics. 

Thompson Park, in Longmont, Colorado, is a favorite of young Charlotte and mine. It consists of five acres of green grass in summer turning to snowy fields in winter, with a large play area and a few bushes perfect for hide and seek. The huge shade trees are perfect for sweltering days, and the squirrel population is busy year-round. We often meet our friend Kate (Charlotte calls her Cake), and her two charges, boys a little older than Charlotte. Secretly I think the squirrels are aiming for the boys. 

One day a game of tag brings us to the little gazebo at the southeast corner of the park. Curious, I look at the posted signs inside and discover a bit of history. It seems that the magnificent trees, including Hedge maple, Littleleaf linden, Greenspire linden, Ohio buckeye, European mountain ash, and Turkish filbert, were planted by the women of Longmont sometime in the 1890’s. They carried buckets of water from the St. Vrain river, about a mile away, to nurture the trees. This astounds me. I imagine the women, their thankless days of rearing children, doing laundry and other household tasks, meal preparation, and dressed in those long-sleeved, stiff-collared dresses and pinchy-toed black boots, toiling uphill from the river to the park with heavy buckets of water for the saplings. This, indeed, was a labor of love.

The definition of the expression “carry the water” is: to perform menial tasks for; to serve; to assist; to be forced by politics or pragmatism to endorse or promote a belief, individual, or organization that in reality one does not fully support. (From yourdictionary.com)

I think it’s time to overhaul the meaning of the phrase. To carry the water is a way of serving that is an honor and a privilege. I carried water to my daughter when she was young and not feeling well. I carried a bowl of water to my dog, her panting tongue halfway to her knees after chasing the ball long and hard. To a client in skilled nursing who couldn’t hold the glass on their own. To a runner heading out for the next difficult leg of an ultramarathon. 

For the women of Longmont, carrying the water might have been tedious and strenuous, but it was in service of something meaningful to them. Perhaps they had a vision of young saplings dressed in the bright new green of spring. Perhaps they knew that years in the future, the broad canopies of mature trees would provide shade for their grandchildren to have picnics. That the trees, in their stately and stalwart presence, would create in Thompson Park a home for critters to scamper and birds to sing, and a welcoming place for the entire community to spend time.

Carrying the water is something we do to nurture what we believe in. Actions we take for the people we care about, whether or not we know them. Efforts we make on behalf of our natural world and non-human inhabitants, whether or not we think it directly affects us. Carrying the water is humble service, an open-hearted, open-minded generosity for what truly counts. Think of all we can do with the water we carry.

​
Sources/Learn More
City of Longmont, Thompson Neighborhood Park:
https://longmontcolorado.gov/facility/thompson-neighborhood-park/

City of Longmont Forestry, Longmont Tree Tour: 
https://storymaps.arcgis.com/stories/f14b12797d9444e7b2557580b2cd0e25

Colorado Encyclopedia, Longmont Historic Districts:
https://coloradoencyclopedia.org/article/longmont-historic-districts

​Bridge: A structure linking two areas, allowing passage from one side to the other. A connection between two different things: cultures, ways of thinking. 

​I feel the vibration moving up the thick slab of snow beneath my feet, the gurgle and rush of water filling my ears. I’m suspended over Fish Creek on a bridge of January snow, a natural structure that will only last a few days while the nighttime temps drop low enough to solidify the white stuff. The creek pounds under me, and I’m both elated and in awe of the powerful reverberation.

The snow bridge allows me to move from one bank of emerald evergreens to the other, one piece of solid land to another, to continue my journey up the canyon. I pause a while on this snowy transition, appreciating the novelty and freedom its structure affords.

Bridges are on my mind today because of how they span two different things, connecting them. Whether it is a quaint bridge of stones in a small town or a marvel of engineering in San Francisco, crossing a bridge from the known, where we’ve been, is the opportunity to contemplate something different, something new, on the other side. The bridge heals a divide. It forms community, provides support, makes us stronger than when we are alone or isolated. It brings us together. 

Bridges are necessary and vital. When we take the first step onto the bridge and travel it, we already have begun to open our minds and our hearts.


I'll take your part
When darkness comes
And pain is all around
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
-From Bridge Over Troubled Water, by Simon & Garfunkle

Note: The term “Día de Muertos” is how the holiday is referred to in Mexico; “Día de los Muertos” is a back-translation, from the English “Day of the Dead.” I use Día de Muertos to honor the original designation.

In one of my favorite books, Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal Dreams, the main character returns to her tiny rural hometown of Grace, Arizona. In the course of the story she joins the local Día de Muertos celebration. Kingsolver’s description and the concept of this holiday has stayed with me for decades. In the book, Día de Muertos is a family holiday celebrated with an all-day outing at the local cemetery. The families set up camp on the gravesites of relatives with large amounts of delicious food and drink. The children run through the graves playing games, the adults visit with one another, and stories of those who passed are shared throughout the day and into the evening. This celebration of the dead - the honoring of ancestors alongside the present realities of food, drink, play, and conversational connection - is a refreshing and wholesome perspective on the cycle of life. 

In pre-Hispanic Central America and Mexico, Día de Muertos was a time to honor the dead. It was first celebrated over 3000 years ago by the Olmecs, and then by the Toltecs, Mixtecs, Zapotecs, Maya and Aztecs. The belief was that this life is a preparation for what comes after; the honoring of those who had passed into that realm was important for maintaining good relationships with the dead.

Día de Muertos is celebrated in Mexico from October 28 - November 2. Traditionally, certain days were designated for the specific ways in which people passed. For example, October 29 was for those who died from drowning, November 1 marks the day for the passing of children, and November 2 is for adults who’ve moved on. Interestingly, parades were not a part of the holiday until the James Bond movie Spectre inspired the first parade in Mexico City in 2016. Since then, parades are often a part of the celebrations in major cities.

Just as in Kingsolver’s novel, the traditional celebration is an honoring of the ancestors by their families. Gatherings at cemeteries are a part of the holiday, as well as altars, ofrendas, created in individual homes or even in the graveyards themselves. The altars consist of symbolic items which are intended to please the ancestral spirits and bring them home for this special time:

• Cempasuchil (Marigolds), represented death for the Aztecs. It was thought that the orange and gold petals held the heat of the sun. Flor de Muerto (flower of the dead, Mexican marigolds) with their bright color and distinctive scent, lead the spirits to the altar. 
• Copal or Inciense (copal tree resin or other incense) keeps the bad spirits away.
• Velas (candles), so that the spirits of the ancestors can find their way to the altar. Also represents the element of fire.
• Papel Picado (paper cut-outs), symbolize the connection between death and life. Also represents the element of air.
• Agua (water), in a clay or glass jug, for the spirits might be thirsty. Also represents the element of water.
• Pan de Muerto (Bread of the dead), a sweet bread made with anise and orange peel to nourish the spirits. Also represents the element of earth.
• Calaveras (sugar skulls), decorated colorfully and sometimes with the name of the deceased written on the forehead.
• Favorite foods of the departed, as well as photos, notes, and personal items may also be a part of the altar.

Have you ever been to the Día de Muertos altar set up at Bud Werner Library? The official lighting this year is Friday November 1 from 12:00-1:00pm, and the altar is open Wednesday October 30 through Sunday November 3 from 10am - 5pm. I have visited over the past couple of years, and try to go during a quiet time in the evening. There is a poignancy and a peacefulness in the bright yellow marigolds bordering the aisle to the ofrenda, the photos and drawings and notes written to loved ones, all lit by the tiny white flames of electric tealights.

Sources/Learn More
Mano a Mano: Mexican Culture Without Borders: Día de Muertos (Day of the Dead)
The Mexican Museum: Día de los Muertos
Smithsonian National Museum of the American Latino: Día de los Muertos Resources

​Hallowed: from the Old English halgian "to make holy, sanctify; to honor as holy, consecrate, ordain." (Etymology Online: Hallow)

October is spooky month, when ghosts, witches, skeletons and tombstones are a common front-yard sight. October 31 is Halloween, All Hallows Eve, the night where the separation between living and dead is said to be less defined, more ethereal. In the eerie dark hours, we might imagine the spirits rising from their graves to swirl about, misty figures performing their haunted dance.

And what of those places where we find graves? Graveyards, cemeteries, memorial parks, burial grounds - what distinguishes one from another? 






Burial ground is a more general term referring to an area for the burying of dead bodies, an area set apart from the living and a means to honor the dead. It has been thought that Neanderthals and Homo sapiens, with their larger brain case, were the first to have the cognitive ability to see the dead as in a different state, engaging in what is known as “funerary behavior,” where rites and burials are performed. Earlier hominin were thought to exhibit  “mortuary behavior,” also displayed by elephants and chimps, where the living try to interact with the dead, as if the dead are not separate. Relatively recent finds in the Rising Star cave system in South Africa have led paleoanthropologists to believe that Homo naledi, with their much smaller brain case, did indeed exhibit funerary behavior by dropping the dead through a narrow opening called “The Chute.” The bones found are dated to 335,000 to 241,000 years ago, pre-dating by more than 100,000 years the prior earliest known burial.  National Geographic: Earliest Human Burial

The word graveyard is from the Proto-Germanic words “graban” (to dig) and “gardan” (an enclosed area of land). In the Middle Ages, graveyards, or churchyards, were the areas adjacent to churches for the more common folk to be interred, while the wealthy and influential were often buried in crypts under the church itself. As populations increased, these graveyards became crowded - sometimes layers of burials deep. When many died from disease, graveyards were a centralizing place for the disease, making these places problematic, and actually horrific when floods caused coffins to surface and bodies to spill out. 

Enter the concept of a cemetery, from the Greek word “koimeterion” meaning “resting place.” Cemeteries developed in the U.S. in the 1830’s, and were on neutral ground rather than affiliated with specific churches. They were often located away from city centers, addressing the problem of available space. They tended to have large entrance gates or arches, signifying the separation between the living and the dead. Cemeteries were similar to parks at one point, as public gardens and parks were not yet mainstream. People would visit, picnic and enjoy the day amongst the beautiful grounds and ornate sculpture. Years ago, a couple of my dear clients, a loving husband and wife, told me that their first date was a picnic dinner at a cemetery. It definitely worked for them!

Memorial parks take the concept of distance a step further, often with grave markers flush to the ground for ease of maintenance. Rather than a place to stay awhile, they can be impersonal places with their immaculate lawns devoid of unique headstone decoration.

Personally I’ve always been a fan of graveyards and cemeteries. The more moss on the headstones and the older they were, the better. When I’d visit my grandparents over the summer in Maryland, they indulged my fascination and took me to many a graveyard. The little churchyards, stones marked with just names and dates, told simply and starkly of the deaths of young children or entire families. Some graves were adorned with elaborate sculpture, others with humble headstones, broken and crumbling. There was an occasional (and strange) upheaval of the ground from beneath a marker. 

What drew me to these places most of all was a certain feeling. A stalwart oak, with massive trunk and forest-green canopy looming above, offering shade and solace. The permeating silence despite a soft breeze. Below my feet the body of someone who’d once lived, perhaps walked in this same place, a very long time ago. The rough surface of the stone on my fingertips as I’d trace the markings, wondering about their life. The feeling of a distant past touching the present moment, territory both mysterious and sacred. Hallowed ground. 


Sources

• YouTube Video: The Fascinating History of Cemeteries
• Huff Post: Here’s The Difference Between a Cemetery And A Graveyard
• National Geographic: Earliest Human Burial
• The Atlantic: Our First Public Parks: The Forgotten History of Cemeteries

It’s early morning on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend, and Charlotte and I are navigating the washboard and potholes of Seedhouse Road, about an hour north of Steamboat. She’s home from college for a couple of days, and we’re taking advantage of the perfect weather to do a little backpacking on the Zirkel Circle. 

Seedhouse Road got its name from a 1910 U.S. Forest Service seed-processing building. Workers roasted cones from Engelmann spruce and lodgepole pine over fires in the seedhouse in order to release the seeds, which they then sold. The operation lasted only a year, but the name stuck. 

We pull into the Slavonia trailhead at the end of Seedhouse Road. The moniker Slavonia has always struck me as unusual; the area is named for the Slavonia Mine, established by four Slavics in 1904. What was mined there? Gold, silver, and copper were most commonly mined according to the records for Routt County, and you can see a more complete list of the various minerals recorded for the Slavonia region here.

Many prefer to do the Circle counter-clockwise; we opt for clockwise and head down the trail. The Zirkel Circle is an 11-mile loop in the Zirkel Wilderness. Although the loop doesn’t include summiting the 12,185’ Mt. Zirkel, (highest peak in Routt County, and named for German geologist Ferdinand Zirkel), it does offer water crossings, stellar vistas, and both Gilpin and Gold Creek Lakes. 
​
It is a beautiful blue-sky day, and the sun feels warm enough to start shedding layers early on. It's been over two decades since I last backpacked, evidenced by my pack’s lifeless bungee cord and my needing a YouTube refresher for how to even load the thing. 

Being out here with my pack feels familiar soon enough, and the time with Charlotte feels like a lark, and an adventure with the bonus of learning from some of her well-earned wilderness skills. Throughout high school she’d taken advantage of dual-enrollment with the local Colorado Mountain College for math and science, but in her senior year she took part in several field classes, including Desert Orientation, Snow Orientation, and Canyon Orientation. Being out there for days and nights at a time, and learning from the best, has resulted in some serious experience and know-how for Charlotte.  

We reach the turquoise-hued Gilpin Lake, plunked down between sharply angled peaks, and then hoof it up and over the 11,000+-foot saddle to make camp on the other side. Finding a sheltered little spot in the trees, overlooking a huge meadow with Gold Creek merrily gurgling through it, we pitch camp and eat lunch. Then we use our math and shot-put skills to rig the food bag on a high branch. It takes a while but, satisfied with our bear-proofing, we head out for a couple hours of exploration.

We follow Gold Creek trail east and then north, which is the trail to take if you plan to climb Mt. Zirkel by way of Red Dirt Pass. We see no other people on this part of the trail, and enjoy the solitude as the loop trail is so popular. The wind blows down the valley through the long grasses. Red Dirt Pass glows scarlet in the afternoon sun. Then we step over something odd on the trail - a long rusted pipe that disappears up into the ridge of trees to the west. A little further we catch sight of some log cabin ruins, with a metal bed frame and the remains of box springs sticking up above the decomposing cabin walls.

I am mystified. We are at 10,000 feet, out in the middle of nowhere - Mt. Zirkel to the north, Red Dirt Pass to the northeast, and here is this cabin with its decorative, heavy, bed frame. What self-respecting miner would bother hauling a bed frame up here? It is hard to imagine a miner returning after a long day of hard work to enjoy the decorative bed - more likely they preferred a plain old bottle. 

It turns out this is the site of the Slavonia Mining Camp. Just west of where we stand gawking at the bed frame is a ridge that lies to the east of Gilpin Lake. The Slavonia Mine is located at the base of this ridge. The old pipe we’d stepped over on the trail runs all the way up to the mine, most likely used to drain off excess water when the mine was in operation. I notice another cabin a few hundred yards away, more intact, and with a nice fire ring near it. This area is often used by backpackers as their campsite before summiting Mt. Zirkel. Standing in the quiet, the breeze blowing through the evergreens bordering the cabin remains, the place feels lonely, and a bit…spooky. You couldn’t pay me to stay the night here.

I notice Charlotte smiling and she points out the two pine martens playing peekaboo with her. Their endearing heart-shaped faces watch her inquisitively before they run off. The sun is getting low, and it is time for us to head back to our own camp for a warm dinner and maybe a game of Crazy 8s in the tent before snuggling into our sleeping bags, content with a day well-spent.

Resources/Learn More

• The Diggings: USGS Historic Mining Records
• Steamboat Pilot article: The Mighty Zirkel: Take a Hike to the Tallest Point in Routt County
• Steamboat Pilot article: Wilderness Wanderings: Mining Clues Remain in Zirkel Wilderness

Books:

• Ave, Raymond, Backcountry Adventure Guide to the Mount Zirkel Wilderness. Mountain Jay Media LLC, 2003.
• Thompson, Jay and Therese, Hiker’s Guide to the Mount Zirkel Wilderness Area. Pruett Publishing Company,1992.
• White-Crane, Diane, Hiking the ‘Boat II. Aspen Tree Press, 2003.