​It is a strange season here in Steamboat Springs. Following a November with warm days more reminiscent of September, Mother Nature eked out a few inches of snow the first week of December, and then daytime temps returned to the 40’s this week. The white stuff is melting away.

Having lived here in the early 90’s, my recollection is of cold and snowy Thanksgiving week ski area openings. I remember walking to work when the temp was -15’ and wondering if I would survive. (Not only did I live, I got so warm with the ridiculous amount of clothes I swaddled myself in I had to de-layer halfway there.) Since I moved back to Steamboat in 2013 some seasons were better than others, but never a start to the season this dry and warm. I’ve been thinking this is a first. Not so.

In December 1976, things were so bad at ski resorts in Colorado prayer services were being held for snow - daily. Locals in Steamboat headed to mid-mountain, shook snow off the trees onto plastic sheets and moved it to pack the runs. With only 29 inches of snow by early January 1977, the airlines cancelled the winter flights, lodging reservations were cancelled, and Colorado’s state senator was requesting emergency funding from President Ford. 

The Steamboat Ski Area closed that year on February 13. Hundreds of people were out of work. The closure and prior visitor cancellations had a huge impact on the entire town. When enough snow arrived to reopen in early March, even the schools closed to allow students and teachers to ski on what they dubbed “Steamboat Day.”

That 1976-1977 season was the impetus that eventually resulted in Colorado ski areas investing in snowmaking. Snowmaking allows for more consistent early season openings and a consistent base for later in the spring when warmer days begin to melt the snowpack.  

Clearly, this season, although the runs are few, snowmaking has provided the means for the area to open and remain so. The Wild Blue Gondola moves skiers to and from the colder and snowier south summit, avoiding the snowless lower slopes. 

We’ve come a long way since 1977. In both snowmaking and a fancy new gondola there’s a bit of an insurance policy, and with the generosity of this community, people out of work or working limited hours can get some help from LiftUp. 

In the face of our current snowless season, it feels encouraging to remember that we always have abundant years too. It is heartening to look at the story of the ‘76-’77 snow crisis and see how the locals pulled together and overcame the challenge. 

But I also can’t help wondering if these low-snow years will come more frequently than in the past. Something to think about.


Learn More/Source
Steamboat Pilot: Life Before Snowmaking

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

Scritch, scritch. Huff, huff. Scritch, huff, huff, huff. Uhh! Oooof!!!
That’s me trotting down the trail, hitting a rock with one toe and finding myself all fours, having yanked my upper hamstrings but good. I take in the browns, yellows and dark oranges and burgundys of the crunchy leaves under my body. I take a breath. Nothing is broken, I can still hobble along. I dust off my gloved hands and running tights, and move on. 

I’m here on Emerald Mountain because of the deal I made with myself when hiking the Colorado Trail (CT) last July with my daughter. (The CT Part I and The CT Part II.) As I dragged up and down Thirteeners carrying more weight than I wanted to in my pack, I fantasized about the good ole days of doing Ironman - after all, that was just a one day thing. I didn’t have to get up each morning, unrecovered from the day before, and do it all over again, like I was doing on the CT. 

The CT experience taught me a lot. My top lessons: 
1) Charlotte has the patience of Job and the attitude of sunshine.
2) I can do more than I think I can - albeit more slowly than I think I should. 
I came off the CT ready for a one-day goal, and decided on the Run Through Time Trail Marathon in Salida this coming March. With Charlotte, of course.

This may not seem like a lofty goal to some - but for me, it is. My training has two components: increasing mileage (doable over time), and more time on trails (daunting). 

Years ago I did some trail training, but after a fall resulting in pain and tingling in my hands and wrists, I threw in the towel. I was scared of getting hurt again, so I stopped running trails. In hindsight, I can see that my life got smaller because of that fear and the choice I made. 

I started to address that fear and live a bit larger last March when Charlotte and I ran the Run Through Time Trail Half-Marathon - when crossing the finish line, I had completed my first trail race. However, the training for that half-marathon was on snowy roads. So when I committed to the full marathon, I committed to running on Emerald. It was time to face my fear.

When I headed up those trails on the last weekend in August, it was my first time to run Emerald in a decade. I made it to the top and was proud. But making it through the run without crashing and burning was my #1 point of pride. And though I’ve crashed since then, I continue to run Emerald. I just have to focus and use my core to lift those feet a little higher! Because being up there is worth the risk.

Running on Emerald Mountain is special. 

On Emerald, there is the sense of my body moving along the undulating trail. There is the sight of the sun climbing, beaming down on the aspen: shiny golden fountains erupting out of long white trunks. There is the effort of hoofing it uphill, lungs puffing white clouds into the chill fall morning, and the contrasting warmth of the day at the top. The fun of cruising along switchbacks that double back on themselves, ducking under tree limbs that twist across the trail, blackened and grasping, like something out of Snow White’s enchanted wood. 

In an ideal world, I would spend most of my day, every day, running those trails. But, since there are things like life, and work, and the injury I mentioned in the first paragraph, resulting in time spent healing, running up there isn’t a daily occurrence. So I keep running on Emerald in my heart and mind most days, and savor the time when I actually get to run there. Do I float to the top, fly like the wind up or down the trail? No. Some days are hard going, and I’m challenged to put one foot in front of the other. But running on Emerald is the best, even on the worst days.

Emerald Mountain - More Than A Gem (Part 2 0f 3)
Emerald: A Singularly Satisfying Run (Part 3 of 3)

​One afternoon this past spring my parents and I were enjoying the fresh air and warm sunshine in the wooded canyon behind their Little Red Cabin, known in the family as the LRC. We came upon the hooped tree pictured above. Wow! We hadn’t noticed it on previous hikes, and it seemed rather magical. How did this happen?

It is possible that one side of that particular branch was damaged, and did not grow at the same rate as the other side, creating the asymmetry that caused the branch to grow back towards the ground. Another possibility is that that low branch was weighted by snow long enough that the branch did not resume growing skyward. It continued to grow downward, causing the bend in the main trunk before the tree righted itself to grow straight up once again.

My research did not turn up a definitive reason for the hooped branch of our tree. Regardless of the cause, this hoop - and what I found poking around online -  is a testament to the resilience and tractability of trees. 

Trees have three main parts: crown, trunk and roots. The trunk conducts nutrients, the foliage on the branches (boughs or twigs) conducts photosynthesis, and the roots provide nutrients from the soil. All parts of the tree grow: roots, branches and trunk, and are quite versatile over time and with necessity. I found this article’s illustrated trunk cross-section interesting:  Arborist Now.com: The Basic Anatomy of a Tree

Roots have hair-like projections which serve to stimulate growth in the current direction, or stop growth if an obstacle is encountered. The root hairs accomplish this by a protein at their tip; this protein causes uptake of calcium for growth, and the cycle continues. The roots can grow out to a distance twice the height of the tree. If the root hairs hit an object, the calcium uptake - and thus the growth - come to a halt. All About Trees.com: Trees Can Grow Around Obstacles

Edaphoecotropism, also known as “stress avoidance” is the ability of living tissues to grow around things. The engulfing occurs as the roots and woody tissue of the tree grow towards areas of least stress, thus surrounding or “eating” the item. The objects do not hurt the tree; in fact some articles indicate that the incorporated objects help strengthen the tree.

Here are some amazing photos of objects like trucks and fences swallowed by trees: Scenic Hudson.org: Trees that Eat Things. My favorite from this article is the bike tree. A young man headed off to World War I left his bike against the tree, but never retrieved the bike. The tree, in its edaphoecotropic (according to Google this word does not exist, I believe it should) manner, grew up and around the bike, so that the bike is now well above the ground, a part of the tree.

I loved the playset in my grandparent’s backyard in Glen Burnie, Maryland, between two towering oak trees. It had a slide that the squirrels would careen down over and over, having a marvelous time. It also had a swing. Long before my time, and the ends of the pole to which the swing was attached had been stuck in the oak trunks. Over time the trunks had grown around and onto the pole a few inches - there’s that edaphoecotropism again. The trees growing like this was a wonder to me, and I never tired of looking at those guardian oaks keeping my swing safe.


Sources/Learn More

• Arborist Now.com: The Basic Anatomy of a Tree
• All About Trees.com: Trees Can Grow Around Obstacles
• Scenic Hudson.org: Trees that Eat Things

The tints of autumn...a mighty flower garden blossoming under the spell of the enchanter, frost.
John Greenleaf Whittier, American Quaker poet, advocate for the abolition of slavery, best-remembered for his anti-slavery writings

*****
“The colors are brighter when we’ve had a drought.” “Color is best with lots of rain.” “Oh, the colors start when it freezes.” “It has something to do with the angle of the sun.” “The trees just know.” 

Having heard these and many more conflicting theories on the fall leaves in past weeks, I thought it was high time I read up on the matter. Here are a few things I learned.

Deciduous leaves are luscious with the green of chlorophyll during spring and summer, their growing season. In the process of photosynthesis, the chlorophyll absorbs sunlight’s energy to transform carbon dioxide and water into oxygen and sugar, thus providing the majority of food for the plant.

In the fall, shorter days and cooler temperatures signal the end of food production, so the chlorophyll begins to break down. As the chlorophyll fades, the colorful carotenoid and anthocyanin chemicals already present in the leaf are no longer hidden by the intense green. Carotenoid pigments, also found in corn, carrots, pumpkin and tomatoes, are yellow, brown, red and orange. The red, blue and purple pigments of anthocyanin can also be found in berries, grapes, and red apples.

Since the tissues of tree leaves are tender and can’t survive cold winters, the leaves are dropped. In this process a layer of cells forms where the leaf stem attaches to the tree. This seals off the leaf, and when the leaf eventually drops those cells have sealed the cut on the tree. This is known as a leaf scar.

Most of us will gather up our piles of leaves to keep things tidy. Or to stuff giant plastic pumpkin bags in preparation for Trick or Treat. But those fallen leaves are vital to the health of the forest floor. They break down, adding nutrients to the soil and help provide the sponginess to absorb moisture.

Here’s the lowdown on leaf color:

• Temperature and moisture are the main influences.
• Yellows and golds are fairly constant from year to year.
• The combination of warm days and cool (not freezing) nights causes the sugars (anthocyanins) to build in the leaves, to give the most brilliant reds and purples - and these vary from year to year.
• Some moisture, especially in spring, can boost colors in the fall, but some sources say too much rain can lessen color intensity.

My favorite takeaway is that each autumn is unique in terms of color. With so many variables in temperature and moisture throughout spring, summer and fall, the colors are amazing in their own way each year. 

As I write this, I’m looking out my office window at a large tree branch covered in…dead brown leaves. Hmm. Perhaps not so amazing. But I notice how the evergreen in front of the less-than-lovely leaves is a beautiful deep green in contrast. I also think what a satisfying crunch those brown leaves would offer underfoot. They, too, make their own contribution to these gorgeous - and fleeting - fall days.


More Info
Smithsonian: Why do leaves change color in the fall?
David Domoney video: Why Do Leaves Change Color in Autumn?

Originally published September 2022

I push off from the dock, my board sliding through the quiet reflection of still-grey clouds and sky. I dip my paddle carefully, not wanting to disturb the calm, and settle into the rhythm of my circumnavigation of Pearl Lake. Neoprene booties keep my cold feet from freezing, and I’m glad of my warm lined pants, thick gloves, and soft knitted burgundy hat. When autumn hits I’ll be adding a down coat to my current jacket, so I’m grateful now for the relatively warm temperature. 

I move out of the quiet cove in the direction of muted golden light, shyly peaking over the mountain tops, not quite sure of committing to the full brightness of a new day. Grass, the rich green of deep summer, and July wildflowers - yellows, whites and purples - spread across the meadows and spill over into the water, as if the land can not quite contain them all. Little crawdads skitter across the lake bottom as I move by, and mama duck urges her little ducklings from their hiding place amongst the shore grasses into the open water, keeping plenty of distance between themselves and me.

I recall the one morning a duckling, with better things to do, didn’t immediately follow the family away from the shore. Suddenly realizing how far off the others were, the little one sprint-paddle-flapped to catch up, and rejoined its siblings while mama delivered a serious earful to her recalcitrant offspring.

Tucked away in several cove-edges, curls of steam hover a foot or two above the water’s surface, lending a touch of atmosphere to the whole scene. Eventually the sun comes fully over the mountain, bringing out the blue of the lake. I absorb the warmth, breathe in the pungent pine wafting across the open water, the gentle breeze fresh and cool on my face.

In the midst of this stillness, I notice a disturbance: frantic ripples from something in the water. It is a butterfly, mostly black with white stripes and markings, who has danced too close and whose wet wings will not lift her above the blue surface. I swing around to go back, to rescue her. I try scooping her up with my paddle, but can’t get the right angle. She is weakening: her wings becoming more sodden, her struggle less frequent and lacking the conviction that she’d succeed. I maneuver forward and back, then sideways, starting to panic as I try again and again, worried I’m going to drown her rather than save her. I get the paddle under her body but then she slides off, back into the depths of the smooth dark water. 

I try once more and I succeed, gently placing her on the front of my board where she can bask in the full sunlight. She doesn’t move. I still have about half of my morning paddle to go, and I keep watch over her. Eventually there’s a tiny movement, then a pause, then more movement. I glide into the final cove, feeling confident she’s going to make it.

But as I coast my board onto the sand near the dock, she seems reluctant to lift off from her comfy platform - or maybe her wings are still not dry enough. I carry my board to the foliage at the edge of the dirt lot, then lift her with the lightest touch I can manage and deposit her onto a large, white, many-petaled flower I hope she’ll like. I wish her well and slowly back away, feeling hesitant to relinquish my watch over her. My last glimpse is of her calmly resting on that cloud of a flower, surrounded by many other blooming wildflowers, with the aspen leaves above filtering the sunlight to a green-gold.

Later, I do some research and learn that she is a Weidemeyer’s Admiral, named for John William Weidemeyer, a 19th-century entomologist whose specimen from the Rocky Mountains was used to describe the species. (Wikipedia: Limenitis weidemeyerii)
I also learn that one of their preferred flowers is cow parsnip (Heracleum) - which is the flower I set her upon.

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.