Month: March 2021

Volunteering in Rocky Mountain National Park (ROMO) is a great pleasure in life. My encore performance in life is volunteering. I cherish the beauty and the wildlife that I experience every day, and I welcome the opportunity to be a helper in engaging people in conversations about the park regardless of whether they are locals or may only visit once in their lives.

A question I sometimes get working at the visitor center or at Bear Lake is, “What’s there to do here?” This question confounds me as I wonder what people are expecting when they come to a park. I find that responding back with, “What would you like to do in the park?” helps me best understand how to accommodate them. Some things cannot be done in the park like snowmobiling, target practice, or taking dogs on trails. Usually people just want to “see” the park, so I send them on a driving tour with a couple short walks.

“How long does it take to do the park?” is not an uncommon inquiry. That question also takes me aback. I say that it depends on how often you stop and admire the scenery, take photos, and/or walk on the trails. When people say they will be in the area for several days and want to get out to hike or snowshoe, I can give them dozens of suggestions.

Another common question relates to what animals are to be feared. Most people are concerned about bears. Educating them about the difference between grizzlies and black bears is useful. It is an opportunity to clarify that our black bears want their food and not them. I explain that the most dangerous animals in the park are the moody mooses and momma elk who have babies. Reinforcing that the park is NOT a zoo and these animals are NOT tame no matter how docile they look is a challenge.

The Information Office operates the phone line where people call with questions. One call I got was about the cost of a senior/lifetime pass. I told the man that the cost was $80, and he hesitated a bit. Then I described a $20/year annual senior option that could be converted to the lifetime pass in four years. He chuckled and said, “I think I will go with the $20 per year since I’m 92 years old and can’t guarantee that I will make it for four more years!”

When staffing the desk at Beaver Meadow Visitor Center, a middle-aged couple came to inquire about scattering the ashes of their deceased uncle in the park. The park allows such scattering of cremains (human and animal) but requires a permit with certain limitations on where ashes can be scattered. The gentleman told me soberly that they would be coming to the park again in a few weeks and wanted to scatter the ashes then. I gave him the form, explained some of the restrictions, and suggested a few places that would be lovely for ash scattering. As the couple turned to leave, I thought it was appropriate for me to say, “I am sorry for your loss.” The man quickly responded expressionlessly, “Oh, don’t be. He was a son-of-a-#*@!h.”

Most people come to the park genuinely interested in learning and doing the right thing. I love being a helper, as Mr. Rogers would offer. It isn’t altruism, however. I am invigorated when I see the park anew through a visitor’s perspective. I appreciate working with other volunteers who feel as passionate as me. I never tire of the conversations regardless of how profound or mundane they are.

In Illusions, Richard Bach describes my attitude about the sky, weather, and clouds, “the sky is always changing, but it is always a perfect sky.” I keep my eyes on the sky. I unabashedly claim the title of weather nerd since all my life I have been interested in the weather. I would have been a meteorologist if I had had any confidence in my science and math ability. Not having pursued that career, I revel in my amateur status as one who loves looking at clouds.

My fascination with weather began on the farm. I learned early from my dad that every endeavor in farming was influenced by the weather. A farmer’s eyes were always on the sky. The failure or success of crops as well as livestock management depended on knowing what weather might portend. Dad taught me to read the weather—what clouds meant, what wind changes might ordain, and how to smell coming rain and/or snow. I kept a cloud chart on my childhood bedroom wall. I have amused my friends over the years with my “predictions” of impending weather that often, not always, come true.

My professional career was little influenced by the weather. Weather had more to do with my personal activities, although most of the time clouds and weather did not slow me down. If I bundled up, I could run in subzero temperatures in Wisconsin. A little rain was often a refreshing experience in the heat of running in the South, as long as it was not a thunderstorm. In Colorado I refuse to let the wind in the winter dictate how much time I spend outdoors.

Carolina skies are blue, and Colorado skies are bluebird blue. I have more access to the wide-open spaces making my sky observances easier now than when in the tree canopies of North Carolina. I am still learning to make sense of the weather patterns often mitigated by the presence of mountains and upslope winds. I continually look to the sky to see what it forewarns as well as the splendor it offers. 2015 was my “year in clouds” on Facebook. I shared photos of clouds that thrilled me, whether they were breath-taking sunrises or sunsets, or just interesting cloud formations. I am always mindful of the ever-changing perfect skies.

When I think of clouds and the sky, I sometimes reflect on the words from Joni Mitchell’s song, Both Sides Now. The metaphor seems to be that clouds are equivalent to life. I cannot agree more. The lyrics note, however, “so many things I would have done but clouds got in my way.” Yes, sometimes life got in my way, but clouds generally have not deterred me.

To take Mitchell’s cloud symbols further, I believe skies have taught me to reflect, “It’s cloud’s illusions I recall. I really don’t know clouds at all.” I am learning that the beginning of wisdom is when a person comes to wonder just how much she does not know about clouds (or life). I continue to learn about the world, and part of that learning is to be conscious of the beauty and awe of the skies.

I deeply adored a rabbit. His name was Wilson who had been rescued from an animal shelter by my neighbors. They built a 3’ x 8’ covered hutch in their backyard where Wilson lived alone but cavorted with local squirrels and wild rabbits. The neighbors were moving and asked if I wanted him. They assured me he was low maintenance—rabbit pellets, water, a clean and dry place to live, and a daily carrot. How hard could that be? We moved him in the hutch to my backyard.

All went well for several months until Wilson (aka Bun-Bun) acquired an eye infection. I found a vet who made a house call to diagnose him. I feared having to catch him in the hutch. The vet, however, captured him, checked him over, gave some antibiotics, and charged me an exorbitant fee for the visit. He got better for a few weeks and then the infection returned.

Another vet nearby specialized in dogs, cats, and rabbits. I caught and crated Wilson for the vet visit. Dr. Bussey was caring and stern. She informed me kindly that I had no business owning a rabbit since I knew nothing about them. Keeping a rabbit alone outside year around in a cage was not the best practice. She procured a 6’ x 6’ collapsible metal fence hutch for me to put in my living room. I had to exercise Wilson every day by letting him out to hop around the great room. She treated the infection and assured me that the new living conditions would be in Wilson’s best interest. In the house he had two cats as potential friends, but the cats cared less, and Wilson mostly ignored them. A couple times I tried to cuddle with him, but he wanted nothing to do with my overtures. Nevertheless, I became devoted to Bun-Bun.

His eyes did not improve. Dr. Bussey determined that he had plugged tear glands and needed an operation. I felt sorry for Wilson and also guilty about being a terrible rabbit mother. One of the eyes was fixed before he coded on the operating table and had to be revived. The $1500 surgery was only partially successful, but he didn’t have any eye problems again.

Several months later, however, Wilson began having seizures. Medication helped control but Dr. Bussey warned me that it was really hard to tell how old Wilson was and she did not know what might be causing the seizures.

The seizures became more frequent and eventually Wilson refused to go for his daily exercise and ate less and less.  He seemed to be uninterested no matter how many carrots and greens I used for bribery. It was time to let Bun-Bun go.

I held Wilson in a fluffy fleece towel while Dr. Bussey gave the first shot of sedative to calm him down. He snuggled up to me– the first time that had ever happened. His deep brown eyes connected with my blue eyes and then he closed them gently while mine filled with tears. Wilson took one last deep breath. I imagined him now in a peaceful field where he could see everything, run in the grass with other rabbits and not on a hardwood floor, and where carrots were abundant.

I doubt I will have another rabbit. I did the best I could as a rabbit mom, but I do not want that role again. Whenever I see a cottontail rabbit or a snowshoe hare in the wild, however, I remember Bun-Bun fondly.

The Hidden Life of Trees is a book about how trees have social systems among themselves and how they take care of each other. Trees have “brains” in their roots that protect them and help communicate with one another. Another book called The Overstory: A Novel is a compelling fictionalized account of people’s experiences with trees and their value for civilization. In thinking about the meanings of trees in my life, three special trees come to mind.

A sprawling tall maple tree shaded the south side of my childhood farmhouse. I loved the tire swing dad put on a lower branch for us kids to use. The Angus cows huddled in its shade on the other side of the fence. It tendered the most brilliant red and orange leaves in the fall. Since our farmhouse was set on a hill, the maple was visible for some distance. When my parents sold the farm years ago, the tree was showing signs of stress. I drove by the old farm a year ago and the tree was gone. Since the farm had been in the family for almost 150 years, the maple had lived a long life under Henderson appreciation.

North Carolina has trees—lots of them. Many are tall white pines. My house in Durham with its three-fourths acre lot had dozens of trees as its natural landscape. My favorite, however, was a cedar tree that grew outside my home office window. The tree provided privacy, and songbirds loved to roost in the lower branches. My realtor offered helpful hints to make my house more desirable when I was preparing to move to Colorado. He suggested that my relationship with the house and trees might not be alluring to everyone. The cedar tree was hiding the curb appeal of the house. I balked at cutting it down. Unfortunately, a winter ice storm broke off the top. It had to go. I waited until the weekend before I put the house on the market and my neighbor helped me cut it down. My house looked naked, and I blessed the tree for all the years it had brought me and the birds such joy.

I love many trees in Rocky Mountain National Park. One of them was along the trail to Hollowell Park. It is a lone Ponderosa that had died many years ago but left a majestic silhouette of gray branches reaching toward the sky. It was the gateway to an old CCC camp once located in the area. I can imagine the stories it could tell for the century or more it presided in that meadow. Last year it fell down. The skeleton is on the ground, and the stories continue from a different vantage.

These remembered trees, and other living trees, are my ardent connection to the outdoors. I have other favorite trees that I look forward to seeing along the trails. They are like old friends when I wander upon them—the twisted limber pine on the way to Mills Lake, the tuning fork shaped ponderosa on Bridal Veil Falls Trail, and the huge Ponderosa on the northeast corner of Sprague Lake, to mention only a few.

I envy the trees. They experience firsthand the fluctuating weather as well as season transformations. I imagine trees rejoice in the bathing of the sun. I suspect they welcome the animals and insects that call them home. They are resilient in cruel weather that could tear them apart. Trees hold secrets that humans may never understand unless we continue to love and protect them.  

I miss the making of music. I felt that loss when group music-making was taken away by COVID-19. I know others who play musical instruments and/or sing in choruses feel the same way.

I began my musical life when I was 7 years old. Mom made me take piano lessons and exchanged eggs for the lessons each week. I loved playing the piano and even dabbled at composing some piano music. My most famous piece was called Picasso because it was a mish mash of chords and rhythm. In 5^th grade I started playing a cornet and gave up piano lessons.

We had an old cornet in the family that my uncle once played so I was destined for that instrument. I practiced religiously and loved playing in band–marching band, pep band, and concert band as well as small group ensembles. I did not like playing solos, however, and froze whenever it was forced upon me. I relished making music and being part of musical groups. In high school, I switched to playing a borrowed French horn because we needed another horn player in our concert band.

After graduating from high school, I did not play a brass instrument for over 20 years. In 1990 a friend, Leandra, leased a trumpet for me for two months as a birthday gift (she signed herself up as my band parent!). I had talked about wanting to play because I knew a couple other musicians, but it was just daydreaming. I picked the trumpet up and played a recognizable version of my high school’s fight song, On Wisconsin. I soon joined the Durham Community Concert Band. Rehearsals were two hours of each week when I became totally immersed in music without thinking about anything else. I love the concept of community bands because anyone can participate regardless of age, ability, or talent.

For 30 years I have been a mediocre amateur musician. I delight in playing with other music makers and I often feel a well of emotion for the beautiful music I can help create. Playing the Hallelujah Chorus with its great trumpet parts always brings tears to my eyes. I am humbled to play music from contemporary composers such as Edward Elgar (e.g., Nimrod from Enigma Variations) and Eric Whitacre (e.g., October). I have been associated with some inspirational directors/conductors who have transmitted the emotions of music deep to my heart.

Almost a year has passed since I rehearsed or performed with any musical group. At first I didn’t mind. I thought we would be back together soon. After six months, it became obvious that it was not going to happen quickly. Deb, who also plays a cornet, and I decided that we really needed to get our lips back in shape for the time when we could play with the local groups again. Since December holiday concerts were cancelled, we undertook a zoom Christmas Concert for our families and friends. We described our concert as “6^th grade students” playing junior high music. Our zoom guests, however, were appreciative.

Deb and I continue to practice so we are ready to make music with our community band when the time comes. I cherish the opportunity to go back to rehearsals every week and be part of groups aiming to bring concert music, regardless of how sophisticated it is, to the community.