A changing ecosystem: on wildlife small and large

Coming back to my cabin after months away always evokes feels that old John Denver song, Back Home Again. Things seem pretty much the same as I remember from last year, and then I start to notice the differences. There’s always the weather, some years being wetter, others drier, and the result is more or fewer worries about fire. This year Linda and I have been talking about how the eco-system is decidedly different from other years. Top changes are the disappearance of ground squirrels, the fewer numbers of hummingbirds and the proliferation of an animal that rivals humans for domination of the planet: ants.

Below is a photo of a ground squirrel, taken a couple of years ago. Ground squirrels live in burrows underground, sleeping for most of the year. By the time I would arrive in the early summer, the young ones were out of the nest, gamboling in my compost pile and chasing each other through the yard. At one point I worried that they would reproduce in such numbers that my backyard would start to look like those 19th century photos of the American West, the ones showing thousands—no, millions—of prairie dog burrows along train tracks. But the population never exploded, as predators kept the balance. Still, I always had mixed feelings about the ground squirrels living next door to me—enjoyment of their playful antics and annoyance that outdoor gardening was impossible.

Those critters are nowhere to be seen this year, and it’s pretty clear there are two reasons for that: evidence (large holes) of one or more badgers during the winter and the appearance last fall of a family of feral cats. Mercifully, the 3 cats are all male, one the father (presumably) and the other grown kittens. How do you know they're all male? I asked Linda, picturing a future “prairie dog village” of felines. “I know,” Linda replied. “I felt their balls.” Reassured by her confident assertion, I began to appreciate them more. They are actually semi-domesticated, and they have names. Linda, who loves this little family, built a hay fort for them to get them through the winter and supplemented their hunters’ diet with cat food. One of the grown kittens, Buttons, likes to be petted, and all three can be seen napping in the shade on Linda’s doorstep during the afternoon. Here is a photo of Babe, the other grown kitten, looking, well, quasi-feral.

Yet, even with these three, it’s clear how the introduction of a predator species can alter the wildlife landscape. The wild rabbits are gone, hopefully safe and nesting in a neighbor’s woodpile; so are the mice (no regrets there, I confess). There also seem to be fewer flies. Is there a connection in that fewer rodents means fewer insects/fleas for flies? Is there a connection with the drop in the number of hummingbirds, who, contrary to popular belief, rely on airborne insects for food as well as on the nectar I still faithfully put out. At the same time, a male broadtail I call “bully bird” has been guarding my feeder, chasing away others except for one female, presumably his. Perhaps something else is going on in the hummingbird world, something we don’t see. Or, as it’s a dry year with fewer wildflowers than usual, the birds could have found a more hospitable micro-climate. With complicated ecosystems, all we can do is speculate.

Then there are the ants. Plenty outside and sometimes they bite. Not too many inside, but enough to bring out my murderous instincts: too close to my kitchen counter? Swat! Hoping to balance out my ants-as-pestilence attitude, I checked out a DVD of a PBS special on E.O. Wilson, the renowned biologist who dedicated much of his life to studying ants. There are 16,000 species of them in the world—which I find astonishing—and that’s just the number that have been discovered. Professor Wilson, now Emeritus, contends that if you put the weight of all of the ants in the world on one scale and the weight of all humans on the other, the weights would be roughly equal. I confess that didn’t curb my swatting instincts. Since our species seems well on the way to promoting our own extinction, I find myself mumbling to them, “You’ll have the earth soon enough!) Wilson says people often ask him what to do about ant invasions. “I tell them to crumble a cookie on the counter and then watch their behavior,” he advises. Clearly it’s better to ask a scientist about curiosity, not extermination. As for me, most days I just focus on not dribbling hummingbird nectar on the floor, cleaning counters and hoping for the best.

In the years I’ve been coming to stay here for stretches of time, my sightings of larger wildlife have been astonishingly few. A small herd of pronghorn crossing the land at a distance, a discreet coyote near the dry stream bed at dusk, an occasional deer jumping the fence across the road, a few wild turkeys. Neighbors with forested land or rocky outcroppings can usually add bears and occasionally, a mountain lion, but here, on this open former pastureland, they would never pass during daylight. Include the semi-wild mammals, and I can add visiting herds of donkeys that stayed for a day or a few before heading out the always-open gate. Then there are the domesticated llamas, cows and horses seen along the road from time to time.

I miss the donkeys. As a species, they’re the descendants of pack animals used during Colorado’s mining days. They’re legally protected in Colorado, and often something of a tourist attraction. Cripple Creek, a neighboring town, boasts a resident herd and a summer donkey race event. “Our” donkeys stopped coming a couple of years ago after the rancher who supposedly owns them built a better fence (or so we heard), stopping their wanderings in the neighborhood.

I suppose scarcity breeds appreciation. This morning, while walking with Linda and her two dogs through the trees across the road, we spotted a deer, a beautiful young buck, wandering freely through the trees. A beautiful moment it was in a changing and dynamic ecosystem. And as we reached the road, we looked over at the haze above distant mountains. Smoke from wildfires in Utah and Arizona,   where ecosystems will undergo major changes this summer. We're grateful to be spared--today.

A room with a view--and a balcony

I'm facing City Park as I write this, having moved into a one-bedroom apartment nearby in October. After two years on the wait list, I was thrilled to be offered a unit with a long balcony facing the park I first discovered back in the late 70s. It's on the 11th floor--the highest I've ever lived--high enough that street distractions don't interfere with a wide view of the park's small lake, winding paths and trees. "I'll take it," I remember saying without hesitation when I was shown the apartment in September. By mid-November, the park was on the cusp of winter, and I took this photo as the morning light covered the tree tops.



I'm lucky enough to have a corner apartment with an east view. This was the scene in mid-October:



I lived just a few blocks away from City Park throughout the 80s and visited just periodically--as Cheesman Park to the south of my old place was a more favored spot for outings with friends.  A few image memories stand out: as a school bus driver, walking around the lake during my breaks between runs, a clean quiet place to stretch my legs and reflect. Another stroll several years later in '89 on a cold March day with my visiting sister and brother-in-law, shortly before I left for Japan. A warm November day with Paula and Linda, watching and laughing as they played touch football.

My building is just a couple of minutes from a park entrance and I've enjoyed a number of walks there since moving to the neighborhood. This photo, taken in early November, shows the restored park pavilion with a view of the Front Range mountains in the distance.



The pavilion up close, followed by my favorite sculpture, dating back to the early 1900s:





Nearby are several displays of the park's long history, starting in the late 19th century. I enjoy learning the deep history of the park, which adds another layer of seeing. There were concerts and picnics, and even an auto campground in the early 20th century. By 1914 as many as 300 "gasoline gypsies" were camped there every night, with the city offering free fuel and amenities. Later it all got to be too much and the campground was moved elsewhere.



My neighbor, Virginia, who is in her 80s and remembers growing up just east of the park, adds more context. In the summer people sat on risers to listen to free concerts--people didn't sit on the ground then--and in the winter, ice skaters could glide over the pond. It hasn't been cold enough for the pond to solidly freeze over since the 50s, she tells me.

The lake--and the smaller one just behind the pavilion--are just fine for the many birds that winter over or migrate over the park. Canada geese are the resident species--perhaps a thousand or more. Last week, when I joined a morning birding event in the park, I took this photo of geese feeding on the small lake.



It's December, and the first snowfalls have arrived, transforming the park every day. The Denver Zoo, with its holiday light display, is immediately north of the park. Every evening I've been enjoying the display and city lights illuminating the darkness. I tried to capture a photo of the park during first real snowfall last Friday evening and took this shot with my iPhone. It doesn't do nearly enough justice to the loveliness of it all. (Google Denver Zoo lights images for close-ups of the "safari" lights.)



Spring will bring new images and I can hardly wait, though of course I will.

Farewell to summer through the senses

I’ve been working at the cabin all day, getting ready to close it over the next two weeks, and making my farewells to summer here at Littlehorse.  How to talk about farewells? Maybe through the experiences filtered through senses over the course of the day: evening silence, the color gold, the taste and smell of harvest veggies, the touch of a paintbrush from a postponed summer task, a yoga sequence.

I always feel a little out of sorts at transition times, trying to fight a sense of loss and the anxiety that comes with it. I go through this every year when I get ready to go back to the city. Anxiety be damned--I want to focus instead on gratitude for the chance to spend so much of my summer here as well as the anticipation of returning to Denver friends and activities.

So as the day winds to an end, I decide to take a long walk.  The evening is so very quiet, and the silence reminds me of what’s missing after summer ends: bird cries and the buzz of hummingbirds, thunder from a late afternoon summer storm, the occasional RV bumping over the gravel road on its way to 11-Mile Reservoir.  The strong afternoon winds have stopped and the air is absolutely still. I hear my footsteps crunch on gravel as I climb up into the trees across the road. Two birds call to each other. As the light fades, I hear coyotes howl in the distance. I start to breathe more deeply. There are no human sounds, and as my anxiety lessens, I’m grateful for that.

Gold--the color of Colorado in autumn. The aspen trees have been turning gold this week, and I can see the change daily. Peak colors will come in another week or so. This background of this selfie, taken last Saturday, gives you an idea.

Then there’s the gold I see almost every evening and morning at sunrise and sunset. This sunset photo, taken a few days ago, features the reds that are more common as fall approaches. No gold tonight, though. The sky was a study in various shades of blue, matching my mood.

I spent the afternoon cooking, steaming broccoli and sweet potatoes, and putting together a pasta salad featuring the cherry tomatoes from plants which *finally* started producing in mid-August. They grew in Linda’s small greenhouse, which I happily share every summer for the pleasure of picking fresh lettuce, scallions greens and herbs all summer. Any fruiting plant—peppers, squash, tomatoes—requires patience. Such is the nature of gardening at nearly 9000 feet. Just as it’s time to pick our reward, well, it’s time to say goodbye to the season. The tomatoes were worth waiting for, however; tasty in the salad but best picked right from the vine. Here’s a photo from Aug. 18 of one day's pickings.

Mornings are the best time for outside chores. The wind is usually calm and my energy is high. This morning I stained the cabin stairs, front and back, and the deck railings. The high altitude sun is merciless on wood, and a touch-up was overdue. Generally I dislike painting/staining—the smell of the chemicals and messiness of it all, so I had put off the job all summer. Today I got it done—testament to the value of deadlines. Final cabin closing day is close and I knew I wasn't likely to get better weather. Surprisingly, the work was pleasant: the dry bleached wood soaked up the stain, and I liked the feel of gliding the brush back and forth.

Perhaps the most delightful sensory experience of late summer came last Saturday when I visited Karen Anderson’s beautiful home and gardens here in Florissant. Karen and yoga teacher Debbie Winking invited me to a yoga day outdoors, along with several other friends and yoga practitioners. I wrote about Karen’s gardens and summer yoga events in this blog last year. (Click here for that entry.) We started with greetings and coffee in Karen’s kitchen. From this photo you can see the visual treat she has every day when she does dishes and looks out at the soft colors outside the window. The inside view gives you a glimpse of the spirit of her home and gardens.

Later we moved outdoors on that sunny and temperate day, and did yoga amid the trees (How perfect for the tree pose!). There was mat work too, and we all found places where we could stretch out and gaze at the gardens and the sky. Here was my spot.

Then came a tasty potluck lunch and time for a circle to close the day. We each drew a word from a bag of small folded papers and reflected on its meaning. I drew the word “solace". I have a Catholic background, and it immediately evoked a mental picture of the Virgin Mary: a tender touch, a soft word, loving gaze. The image/idea of solace has returned to me during the past week. It’s something we give others when a heart is hurting or fearful or just unsettled. And solace, I thought as I walked this evening, is something we can give ourselves. One of the yoga sequences we did involved turning to each of four directions, squatting, scooping energy from the earth and raising our arms to the sky. Each direction represented a quality: acceptance (north), gratitude (east), letting go (south), and trust (west). The elements of solace perhaps? I started today with this activity and plan to do so again tomorrow.

Western Wildfires: Smoke gets in your eyes

It was a wet spring when I opened the cabin in early June this year. I didn't think about wildfires very much until after a week-long stay in Denver the following month. Returning to the cabin in mid-July, I discovered that seven fires were burning in Colorado, bringing a smoky haze to the horizon some days and worry that this summer would bring more fires, more smoke, and possible evacuation. So far we've been spared, but the summer is just at the midway point. The environment continues to dry as we move farther away from spring snowmelt and the July monsoons, which were very sparse this year. The causes of fires are diverse and unpredictable: lightening strikes and careless campers being at the top of the list.

When I moved to this rural area 6 years ago, I had to readjust my concept of fire. To a person like me who has lived most of her life in cities, a fire means a kitchen accident, a forgotten cigarette, or a burst pipeline--occasionally arson. Usually the fire department arrives promptly and puts it out. Larger fires, part of riots ensuing from injustice, euphemistically called "civil unrest", happen too sometimes, and they also are contained, usually within a day or two. The massive fires of yesteryear--the Great Chicago Fire of the 19th century and the ones that nearly destroyed Tokyo after the 1923 earthquake--seem consigned to history, unlikely to repeat with modern building codes, alarms and well-equipped fire departments.

I've been fortunate in that I've never suffered a home fire; nor have I been evacuated because of one nearby. When I was a child I remember seeing the burned shell of a house a few blocks from us in Hammond, Indiana, and shuddering with a kind of dread--that something so big and solid as a house could be vulnerable, could be destroyed.

My next experience with fire close-up was in 2012. My Japanese sister, Junko, was visiting that June, and I wanted to show her nearby Manitou Springs. We stayed at a motel there, and as we were leaving the following morning, we saw the plume from what became the Waldo Canyon Fire. Manitou Springs was evacuated later that night as the fire spread. By then we were west of the area and were never in any danger, though the air was heavy with smoke when I drove Junko to the Colorado Springs airport several days later. Others were not so fortunate. The fire, which spread over 18,000 acres west of the city, was not contained until 17 days after it began. Nearly 350 homes were destroyed and 32,000 people evacuated. Six were injured and two died. Wildlife suffered. This photo shows one view of that fire.

The cause of the Waldo fire was arson, and the arsonist was never found. I wonder if s/he or they ever repented or even knew of the harm that ensued. Hazards from the resulting burn scar remained for the next few years, causing road closures, flooding, and the deaths of two people--one of whom I knew: John Collins, a much-loved and respected local man. Meanwhile, so many had to start over and live with the feeling I had as a child, that something as sturdy as a home could be gone within hours. You can still see the burn scar as you drive along US 24 west of Colorado Springs, but fortunately, much mitigation has been done since the fire.

The largest fire burning near me now is the Hayden Pass fire, about an hour and a half away, southeast of the town of Salida. Started by lightning on July 8, it's now 50 percent contained, expected to burn until October. October! More than 16,000 acres are involved. Will there be other fires in Colorado? Very likely.

The West has always been prone to summer wildfires, but the problem has gotten worse during the past decade and more. More people, more carelessness, more buildings are here. Climate change has brought damage from insects such as the pine beetle, previously killed off during colder winters, resulting in more dead timber. Underlying it all has been a century or more of misguided land management policy. Unlike Native American stewards who did periodic burns to remove ground-level brush, modern land managers have suppressed fires, resulting in more fuel ready to ignite. Climate change predictions are for a steadily drier Western US.

And so, as I spend another summer here on Linda's land in Florissant, I stay tuned to fire-monitoring sites. One of the best is the Incident Information System. It includes progress reports on wildfires in other states as well as Colorado. Today there are 16 burning in California, one of the most vulnerable states this season. I'm holding all of those affected in my heart.

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.