Month: September 2021

I grew up on an Iowa farm. I didn’t appreciate it that much until I got older. I do not want to romanticize growing up on a farm when it was possible to make a subsistence living on 180 acres. It was not easy and had challenges, but it was a healthy environment for learning basic values and remaining innocent.

I have enjoyed John Denver’s light jingle about being a country boy. The sentiments also apply to country girls: “Well, life on a farm is kinda laid back, ain’t much an old country [girl] like me can’t hack. It’s early to rise, early in the sack…My days are all filled with an easy country charm, …My Daddy taught me young how to hunt and how to whittle…He taught me how to love and how to give just a little, thank God I’m a country [girl].”

When I was young, I was jealous of my friends who lived in town because they played with each other. I had my sisters and the boys who lived across the road. I also had free access to roam the countryside. As I look back, I cannot imagine any other setting that would have been as influential in my development—my love for animals, growing things, changing weather, and a caring community as I have written about elsewhere.

In high school, I came across “A Country Girl’s Creed” written by Iowan Jessie Field Shambaugh. Several lines resonated with me then and still do:

“I am glad I live in the country. I love its beauty and its spirit. I rejoice in the things I can do as a country girl for my home and my neighborhood. I believe I can share in the beauty around …I want to express this beauty in my own life so naturally and happily as the wild rose blooms by the roadside. I believe I can have a part in the courageous spirit of the country…With this courageous spirit, I, too, can face the hard things of life with gladness…. I can find joy in common tasks as well done….”

Two years ago, I was at the farm where I grew up to scatter the ashes of my parents. They had sold the farm 25 years before. Upon their deaths five years apart, they wished to have their ashes comingled and half buried at a headstone in the local cemetery and the rest scattered across the land that they had loved and nourished for over 50 years. As I released the bag of ashes and the wind scattered them across the cornfield on the knoll a hundred yards away from the farmhouse, I thanked God that I had grown up on a farm with a family committed to each other and the land.

Family farms and rural areas have changed. I still love the idea of the country life and its simplicity. I am proud to be a country girl.

I’m Ellie the Elk. I’m almost 1 ½ years old and looking back on my 2020 diaries.

May 26, 2020 I am a day old and making my first entry into this memory bank brain. Things went from warm and dark to chilly and light with mom licking me all over and nudging me to get up and get something to eat. The sun felt warm on my spotted little body. I am glad to be in this new world.

May 29 The last few days I hid in the tall grasses while mom went off to eat. I waited for her to return so I could get my milk and snuggle next to her during the cool nights.

June 8 I met my cousins today. We joined the nursery in Moraine Park. My mom and all my aunts gathered, and we wandered through the meadows as a group. Mom said it was for our safety. I loved kicking up my heels and playing with all the other young ones until we got so exhausted we had to lay down. 

June 17 Mom got me up early to go on a long trip. We went to a mostly treeless place called the tundra where we would spend the summer.

September 3 It is time for us to go back to the lower meadows for “the rut.” I had no idea what mom was talking about.

September 6 Today I saw some of the biggest elk bulls I had ever seen. Mom said they would be hanging around for a few weeks. She said she hoped that my dad would show up. I was excited to maybe meet him.

September 15 We spend every day similar to the previous grazing in the meadows. I play with my cousins. The big dirty bulls circle us and make these really high-pitched screeches every once in a while. Mom says not to let it bother me. Cars come in the evening and people in yellow vests keep the people away. Mom says these vested people are our friends and to ignore them.

September 29 A huge muscular 6 x 6 bull jumped on my mom today. I couldn’t watch. She found me right away to assure me that she was fine and happy with her choice, although this bull was not my dad. In about 8 months I would have a new baby sister or brother. She said the bulls would not bother her any longer, but we would remain in this harem until all the drama was over.

October 25. It snowed last night. I had a hard time walking around. Mom said we would be making another big trip the next day to rejoin her extended family and head down the mountain where the snow would not be so deep. We would return next spring when my new half sibling would be born. I could teach him/her all that I had learned in the past few months. I can hardly wait.

PS from Karla. I apologize for anthropomorphizing this little elk—I can’t help myself!

Twilight descended on the meadow. We were concluding our evening duties as volunteers with the Elk Bugle Corps. As I walked up to a low knoll to retrieve the cones that had been set to keep people from going too far into the meadows, I could hear two bulls doing dueling bugling in the distance. As I stood for a minute listening to the shrill screaming coming from the beasts and feeling the evening breeze shudder the meadow grasses, I also heard coyotes howling in the distance. A chorus of falsetto bugles and yelping coyotes filled a foggy Moraine Park dusk with only the magical sounds that come from nature.

For six weeks in the fall of each year, I am a part of the Elk Bugle Corps, a dedicated group of volunteers who spend each night in the Park’s meadows during the elk rut helping to safeguard the elk and facilitate positive experiences for park visitors. The Park’s Public Information Officer reminds us that our tasks are “To protect the elk from the people, to protect the people from the elk, and to protect the people from the people.”

Not every night is as enchanted as the one described above, but every night is interesting. Our primary charge is traffic control, so roads do not get clogged with gridlock and illegal parking. Along the way we tell people about the rut and explain why these animals are not tame and that the park is not a zoo.

Each fall the bull elk gather their harems of females that they want to impregnate. The males make themselves as “pretty” as possible by rolling in wallow holes of dirt, water, and urine, and strutting their muscular bodies and shiny antlers to attract the cows. Their piercing sharp prolonged squeals attempt to scare away other competitive males and charm the cows. The females are nonchalant about the process but become more involved when they go into eustress and seek to choose the finest bull to father their children.

Shorter days, cooler temperatures, and the possibilities of snow in the high country signal the start of the rut in montane meadows. The bulls’ antlers have fully grown, they leave their bachelor herds, and become mortal enemies to one another as they prepare for their contests to woo the cows.

The rut presents high drama. The bulls are testosterone driven and single-minded in their quests for females. They lose their minds. I feel sorry for them. At the same time, I admire the calmness of the cows as they coyly wait for the right bull to come along.

Being an EBC volunteer can be challenging at times in balancing the enthusiasm of the visitors with allowing the spectacle to play out naturally. The elk behavior cannot be controlled but the visitors can. The challenge is omnipresent to keep every being, animal and human, safe. It is a privilege to be a part of one of nature’s unique autumn theaters.

Dr. Seuss stated pointedly, “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.” I think a lot about what caring means as I wander in the park and wonder about the future of the planet.

I am reminded of a concept I learned early in my parks and recreation graduate education called carrying capacity. It relates to the number of people and other living organisms that an ecological area can support without environmental degradation. For outdoor space management, it addresses the number of people that can be sustained in an area before physical damage becomes omnipresent. Land managers have the responsibility to assess carrying capacity on public lands, and further it can be each person’s responsibility to bring to that land a caring capacity.

In 1968, ecologist Garrett Hardin explored a social dilemma in “The Tragedy of the Commons.” Hardin argued that individuals could not rely on themselves alone without considering the impact of their actions as a common concern. For example, if every individual felt he/she had the right to graze as many animals on a landscape as he/she wanted, the landscape soon would be decimated for everyone. If individuals act only in rational self-interest, resources will be depleted. The use of common resources for personal gain with no regard for others and the land cannot be sustained.

In the context of avoiding over-exploitation of common and natural resources, Hardin concluded freedom and necessity are linked. People are only free when they consider the impact of their actions on others. The linking of carrying capacity as determined by science with a caring capacity at the heart of individual behavior is necessary.

I love Rocky Mountain National Park and other public lands. I want them to be around for generations to come. Yet I fear that regardless of what management plans are developed to preserve natural resources, the element that must occur in tandem is the development and maintenance of a caring capacity by individuals who enjoy these resources. Caring is not just about kindness for others but also kindness for the land.

Caring, attention, affection, appreciation, and love are precious gifts to give. The challenge in a society that tends to value the individual more than the community is to nurture the caring capacity in each person to address common good. I believe humans are inherently virtuous and want to do the right thing. However, I continue to worry about what the future may hold for communities who do not have enough individuals who care about the land as well as about each other. I am striving for a whole lot of caring capacity in my own life as well as in the lives of others.

I just returned from a 3-day backpacking trip on the East Inlet Trail of Rocky Mountain National Park. I have enjoyed backpacking and overnight outdoor adventures sporadically for 50 years. I don’t have many opportunities, so the experiences are sweet.

Carrying everything necessary to survive on one’s back is not everyone’s cup of tea. I realize, however, what a privilege it is and how little I really need to be comfortable, safe, and happy.

As in any recreation experience, it isn’t just the trip that lends enjoyment but also the preparation and anticipation as well as the memories and recollections. The activity itself is the main course, but it would not be as enjoyable without the appetizer and dessert.

I pretty much know what I need to take with me. Yet, it is tempting to take too much. It is also possible to forget something important. I have a list that I use to double check. I don’t want to get out there and have forgotten something like a spoon or the tent poles.

Backpacking takes effort especially in carrying weight on one’s back. For me, however, the benefits far exceed the effort. Being way away in the backcountry in the silence and the unknown is thrilling. I love day hiking but setting up a camp in a remote area and going to places that few people ever get to see is awe-inspiring. The solitude outweighs the aloneness.

I have experienced wonderful trips with special people resulting in stories to tell. I love going to places in Rocky with Deb and Rhonda. My graduate school friends Dan and Leo and their families have been comrades in adventures to the Wind Rivers, the Tetons, Bob Marshall Wilderness, and the San Juans. Stories to tell about endless days of rain, Dan’s broken ankle that occurred 15 miles from a trailhead, and being evacuated because of a forest fire. The dozens of beautiful sunrises and sunsets, stories told at the campsite, and seeing animals in their wild kingdoms are regular trip highlights.

Backpacking outdoors means that I don’t have access to depressing news. Imagine our surprise this week to find the flags flying at half-staff at the park and wondering what horrible thing happened while we were away.

Backpacking is a great privilege for several reasons. First, I am grateful that I have the ability, stamina, and skills to do this recreation activity. In addition, I recognize that these adventures are a choice I make, and I can go back to the comforts of home when I return. Many people in the world live a homeless life carrying few possessions not due to their choice—people such as political refugees and disaster victims. Backpacking is a luxury I do not take for granted.

There is a deliciousness in being able to return home and have such indulgences as a refrigerator full of food, a convenient bathroom a few steps from my bed, and a warm shower. I revel in the fond memories of backpacking as I snuggle into a soft dry bed with a kitty on each side of me.