​The word gaslight may inspire the image of old-fashioned lanterns along a dark, cobblestone street, dispelling the damp and fog with their warm glow. In contrast, the term as we use it today is more about encouraging fog and definitely doesn’t leave one warm and glowing.

Here’s how the word gaslighting is defined at Merriam-Webster.com:
psychological manipulation of a person usually over an extended period of time that causes the victim to question the validity of their own thoughts, perception of reality, or memories and typically leads to confusion, loss of confidence and self-esteem, uncertainty of one's emotional or mental stability, and a dependency on the perpetrator.

Our usage of the term stems from the 1944 film Gaslight, directed by George Cukor, and starring Ingrid Bergman as Paula Alquist and Charles Boyer as Gregory Anton. The movie, originally a 1938 play by Patrick Hamilton, is the story of a wife who is psychologically manipulated and controlled by her husband. She begins to doubt her own sanity, relies heavily upon her husband, and withdraws from relationships outside of her household. 

Bergman’s Oscar for this role is well-earned: watching elegant, loving Paula unravel is excruciating. The tactics Gregory employs become especially cruel as Paula believes he is the one person she can trust. By film’s end, Paula and her strength win out - in no small part because someone validates her and supports her. 

The film is an example of gaslighting in romantic relationships. But gaslighting can occur in other areas of life. Here are a few examples:

• Medical gaslighting - telling the patient it is all in their head, disbelief.
• Workplace - someone calling attention to a toxic work environment or sexual harassment is told they are misinterpreting or overreacting.
• Political - denying something that was said or done in the past; rewriting history

Seeking support and talking to trusted individuals are among the steps to take if one feels they are being gaslit. 

Learn more

• Simply Psychology Article: Origin of the Term Gaslighting
• Newport Institute Article: How to Tell If Someone Is Gaslighting You

Originally published July, 2023

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. (Wiktionary)

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
• City of Longmont Forestry, Longmont Tree Tour 
• Colorado Encyclopedia, Longmont Historic Districts 

Originally published November, 2024

​
​Biomimicry (bai·ow·mi·muh·kree) is a practice that learns from and mimics the strategies used by living organisms to solve challenges comparable to the ones we face as individuals and societies.  -Biomimicry Institute


Nature has much to teach:  peatlands store carbon (twice as much as all the world’s forests); the water filtration and nitrogen reduction by oyster beds nestled amongst mangrove roots (a single oyster filters as much as 180 liters of water per day, and mangroves absorb at least 50% of the nitrogen passing into open water); and a leaf’s use of chlorophyll, sunlight, carbon dioxide and water to create energy via photosynthesis. When we look to nature as teacher and mentor, and implement or mimic what we see, the solutions are fascinating and effective.

I first heard about biomimicry on a podcast interviewing Janine Benyus. Benyus first coined the term in her 1997 book Biomimicry: Innovation Inspired by Nature. Growing up, she’d spent a lot of time outdoors, encouraged by her parents, who moved more than once to be distanced from developed neighborhoods, allowing Benyus many hours interacting with and observing nature.

What struck me about the interview was the perspective Benyus shared. She spoke of biomimicry not as a way to get what we could from nature, but to see nature as being wiser than us. Nature has been around much longer than we have and has developed brilliant systems. When we view what happens in nature with wonder, and begin to learn about innovative solutions to our current problems, we can be students of nature and work in harmony.

In the interest of innovative solutions, the Biomimicry Institute, co-founded by Janine Benyus, funds and trains companies demonstrating those solutions through its Ray of Hope Accelerator program. One of my favorite examples is Mycocycle, founded by Joanne Rodriguez. Mycocycle addresses the problem of construction and demolition waste which is largely petroleum-based. In the U.S. alone, 660 million tons of construction debris is produced every year. 

Mycocycle mimics the way trees in a forest are broken down by fungi and from the resulting material new trees grow.  Mycocycle uses fungi (think mushrooms) with the optimal enzymes to break down and detoxify construction and demolition waste. When the fungi break down the waste into its components, those components are then absorbed into the system to create a new product that is durable and lightweight. This product can be used in things like flooring and concrete, and is both fire and water-resistant. Check out the details and video here.

The concept and various applications of biomimicry is something Janine Benyus discusses in her Ted Talk. This opens up a whole new world of ways we can thrive on this planet without causing harm. Benyus also calls attention to the arrival of spring, that riotous show of color and life emerging from the receding blanket of winter white. Bright green buds, blossoms unfurling, robins everywhere you look. Nature inspiring life.

Learn More
Smithsonian Science Education Center: 5 Things to Know About Biomimicry

Originally published January 2024

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

​What does Essentrics mean?
It is a play on the word “eccentric.” An eccentric contraction is a muscular contraction in which the ends of the muscle are moving away from one another, like when you lower your arm with  the weight at the end of a biceps curl. The actual biceps curl is a concentric contraction, where the ends of the muscle are moving towards one another. 

What makes an Essentrics workout so effective? 
Eccentric contractions are more efficient in building muscle strength than concentric contractions. Joints are decompressed with eccentric contraction, and tendons and ligaments are strengthened leading to injury prevention.

In an Essentrics workout, we focus on movement of all 640+ muscles of the body. This results in the rebalancing of the entire body, rather than just focusing on one specific group or chain of muscles. We gently move within a stretch rather than hold it in one spot, because the myotactic reflex kicks in with a held stretch, causing the muscle to tighten. We also move and articulate the joints throughout the body, for example the hands and feet, which helps increase mobility and energy. If you don’t think tight hands and feet drain your energy, try flexing your feet stiffly and walking a few steps that way, or grip your hands tightly and try opening a doorknob. 

The music and movements of Essentrics help us to move fluidly and rhythmically, and the focus throughout on pulling up our posture, using specific muscles in specific movements, and the reasons for doing each move (yes, every movement has a purpose), enhance body awareness and brain engagement. In fact, one of the most effective things you can do for brain agility is combine physical exercise with brain-work, and I start each of my classes with a few minutes of brain-work to get that ball rolling. 

We don't use weights in Essentrics. Rather, we work against our own resistance which allows us to work as hard (or as loosely) as we want to, supporting gains in strength without injury.

Did I mention that we have our arms up overhead for a good portion of our workout? This is how we really strengthen our back and improve posture. One of the things that consistently grabs my attention is the amazing participants in my classes, and how over time they have developed the strength and flexibility to have their arms reaching for the sky like pros. 

What might you expect to notice after an Essentrics workout?

• Improved energy because you’ve released tension throughout your body. 
• Increased range of motion in your hands, shoulders, hips, knees, ankles and feet.
• A sense of ease in your body as you move through your day.
• A brain that is alert and aware.
• Over time, stronger muscles, improved posture, and better balance.
• A decrease in chronic pain.
• A decrease in developing injuries.

Learn more
The science behind Essentrics®
My Essentrics® classes

​It is a warm July Sunday, and I’m eating a late lunch on my patio. Though I’ve been on an organize-and-declutter binge, my little place is still cool inside so the sunshine filtering through the lush aspen leaves is welcoming. There’s a movement in the mid-air to my right, and I see a robin glide to a low branch, a few feet from where I sit in my wooden rocker. From its perch, the robin sings. Smooth rusty brown chest, dark brown wings, black face with some white markings - and its beak doesn’t close. Is this open beak the way it sings? Is the pulsing throat a part of its vocalizing?

The way a bird produces song is by using its syrinx, similar to the human larynx. Air flows over membranes and cartilage to produce sound in the syrinx, which is the shape of an upside-down Y. Birds can use both passages at once, which means they can sing a high note and a low note at the same time. Still, looking at the open beak and pulsing throat of the bird off my patio, I think something is going on besides singing.

The robin flits down to the edge of one of my freshly planted half-barrel planters, the one with the lavender. Good choice. It balances there, facing me, and I notice that the beak still hasn’t closed and the throat fluttering continues, though there’s a break in the melody. Then it dawns on me. Perhaps the bird is panting. The robin then continues its serenade, watching me as I watch it, admiring its color, its bright eyes, the pretty trills emanating effortlessly from its throat. After several minutes the robin catches sight of another bird, and whizzes away. It seems that I have been granted a gift today. 

I'm grateful and also curious. I do a little searching, and yes, birds do pant. Their form of panting is called gular fluttering, where moisture evaporates via their vibrating throat membranes and open beak. Some research indicates that the size of the bird's bill is related to the temperature of their environment; blood flow to the beak is another cooling mechanism.

Birds use other strategies to stay cool in the heat. Bathing in cool water, as well as spreading wings and fluffing feathers, are effective at thermoregulation. They also tend to feed in early morning or evening hours, finding shade and shelter during the hotter part of the day, thus avoiding the heat and spending their energy more efficiently. 

The expression “birdbrain” as an insult to intelligence is a misnomer as birds clearly demonstrate greater wisdom than many humans. Just yesterday I saw someone floppy-jogging down the black asphalt street during peak heat - better to seek the shade beneath a nice large tree or shrub. Birds have a one-up on us: I wish I could produce beautiful song while cooling myself with gular fluttering.

Sources/Learn More

• Finger Lakes Land Trust: Songs In the Key of Life…
• U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service: How do birds keep cool in the summer?
• Audubon: How Birds Keep Their Cool​

Originally published July 2024