Summer stroll among the trees

There are few trees on Little Horse. A dozen still-small evergreens planted by Linda when she first moved here and a small grove of established cottonwood trees. I regretted that sparseness when I first started to live here, but came to appreciate it later, especially when wildfires came uncomfortably close to us one summer, not to mention realizing the preference of bears for tree cover. However, I love trees and sometimes just need to get up close and personal. An excellent place to do that is the forested property across the road.

Sunday was a cool, sunny day, ideal for a stroll there. It’s one of the most beautiful properties on the road, full of Ponderosas, my favorite pine tree. From the road, you can walk up an incline with a perfectly framed view of the south end of 11-Mile Reservoir, which functions as a kind of “borrowed scenery”. This photo shows the view from the top of the incline.

There’s a cabin on the land too, built by Leonard, who has passed away. His grown children own it now. They come for getaways from the city as often as they can, and in the interim, Linda and I try to keep an eye on it for them. We usually do that by walking the dogs there some mornings.

On Sunday I went on my own, to stretch my legs and enjoy the scent of the Ponderosas. Summer sun on pine needles produces an aroma that brings me back to my first days in Colorado in the late 70s. I think I fell in love with the mountains of Colorado at least partly through that aroma.

On this visit I left the path to the cabin and headed to a small grove, where I simply listened to the wind blow through the trees—a blissful sound—and watched a mountain bluebird flit from branch to ground to branch. I channeled Thoreau for awhile, especially the sentiment behind this quote describing some of his summer mornings: “I sat in my sunny doorway from sunrise 'til noon, rapt in a revery…in undisturbed solitude and stillness, while the birds sang around…(until) I was reminded of the lapse of time.”

I didn’t stay all morning; can't remember the last time I let myself lose track of time, actually.  But I wondered why I hadn’t done this more often. I vowed to return as much as possible, without the dogs as well as with them. I came on my own today—this quiet Tuesday before Labor Day, when the reservoir, a state park popular with campers and fishing boats, will draw a lot of visitors. Once again without dog company, I returned to my favorite sitting spot. Again, the weather was sunny and perfectly cool. Taking deep breaths, I felt my limited scent-sniffing human nose was quite adequate for pine aromatherapy. I sat down on the same lichen-covered stone to see, hear and inhale. A few buzzing dragonflies, a noisy raven, distant sound of the road grader, sun through branches, the familiar scent of the Ponderosas. Those moments were so calming—a feeling Thoreau well understood: “Every morning was a cheerful invitation to make my life of equal simplicity, and I may say innocence, with Nature herself.”

Here’s a photo of my spot. Wish it were a video to show the interplay of light and breeze.

Moving away, I walked through the trees and noticed a Native American medicine tree. There's at least one other near the path, and they’re not uncommon in this area, once home to four different Native American tribes. They’re plentiful because Ponderosas were one of the most useful trees around for indigenous people. The inner bark was a highly nutritious food, which could be eaten raw, baked, dropped into stews or peeled and dried. The bark and sap were also used as a medicine and waterproofing material.

This photo shows the scar on this CMT (“culturally-modified tree” in the language of archeologists.) I prefer medicine tree, reminding me how previous inhabitants were nourished by this land.

Aspen trees haven’t started to turn colors yet, but the first signs of fall are already here. Glancing down, I found this a pleasing arrangement.

Finally I reached a sunny clearing where the pine aroma was even stronger, and I could hear more bird song in the trees on the other side. On my “must do” list for next summer is to spend more time observing and listening to birds. My bird ID skills are embarrassingly low—perhaps a reflection of some general disinterest in the task of naming or plain old laziness. Some, though, are just so obvious, like mountain bluebirds and ravens. And hawks. Looking up, I saw this one flying overhead.

One of the great advantages of coming to the high Colorado country in the summer is the relative lack of mosquitoes, especially after the summer monsoons are gone and there are fewer standing puddles of water. Not a single buzzing insect found me today, and I regretted I hadn’t brought a book and a blanket.

Not able to lose track of time, I got up after a short while and wandered back home across the road, feeling refreshed, slightly hungry, and inspired to write this. I thought of Thoreau, who had these experiences too, and who left his viewing spot, at some point, to make lunch.