Author: KARLA_HENDERSON

The fall equinox came a few weeks ago. It is officially autumn by the calendar as well as in the air. I think about changing seasons these days since I live again in an ecosystem that has such marked variations. Fall begins in early September in the mountains, October in the Midwest, and November in North Carolina.

Fall follows a progression. Signs of fall are understated at first. No changing leaves or evident sky changes, but the subtleties of all senses become magnified over time. The emotions I feel are often a combination of loss and gratitude as intimations of autumn turn into the beginning of winter.

Leaves are one the first signs of fall for me. As I walk on the trails, I hear the change in the sounds of the aspen leaves still on the trees. The summer’s clear wind driven soothing, rubbing sounds starts to become a dry rustling chatter even though the leaves have not changed color. They eventually begin to change color. The brilliant golds, oranges, and sometimes reds of the aspens that dot the hillsides in the park are breath-taking. Walking in a small grove of aspen trees is like walking in “yellow” until leaves let go to dance toward the waiting earth.

Sometimes early in the fall, I hear the faint sound of a young bull elk whose aspirational bugling is good practice but offers few opportunities. That cacophony of bugles reaches an apex in late September and dwindles into October as the rut concludes and elk resume their “normal” behavior.

Most notable as a sign of fall is the change in lighting. Days become shorter as the sun rises later in the morning and sinks below the purple mountains earlier in the evening.

Fall brings the end of most flowers. However, Albert Camus noted, “Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.” Leaves are the fall flowers. This season also offers edible opportunities such as raspberries and choke cherries. I sample some of them but leave them mostly for the bears who have something tasty besides the grass and insects they feasted on during the summer. They are in hyperphagia—frenzy eating as much as possible to prepare for winter’s hibernation.

I welcome the fall and all its stages. In the mountains autumn is winding down as winter weather becomes more common. It brings me feelings of loss and gratitude. The letting go of summer is sometimes hard as we put the vegetable gardens to bed and note the coming of muted black and white landscapes.  I cannot help but feel a loss as plants and animals go into various levels of hibernation.

Yet, I am grateful for everything the land has provided over the summer. I am grateful for the new anticipations fall brings– my birthday, fresh snow, the coming holidays. I balance the feelings of loss with gratitude and look forward to the transition to dimensions of winter.

I posted over 50 blogs in the past year under wanderingwonderingwithkarla.net. It is hard to believe that I reached this milestone given my trepidation about this project. I wondered: Would I have anything interesting to say? Would I have the motivation to write each week? Would I be willing to take compliments with potential criticism? One week at a time added up.

Writing to share beyond the academic writing I did during my career was a major retirement goal. Without the expectations of teaching, research, and being a good colleague, I hoped to have time to savor the writing experience. It took six years to muster the courage to post the first blog. The support of friends made it possible.

I like the blogs I wrote. They are about me and my experiences and reflections. I own them. Writing about oneself, however, has pros and cons. I know more about myself, obviously, than anyone else. On the other hand, I am a private person and am exposing myself to the world.

I thought about the possibilities of a blog for years and did frequent reflections that remained as ideas in my journal and/or in draft form on my computer. I felt confident in my writing skills in publishing textbooks and professional articles but writing about my personal wandering and wondering was a different genre.

I am grateful to close friends and my Estes Park writing group for encouraging me. They listened to my rough sketches and gently asked from time to time, “Have you published your blog yet?”

Writing thoughts and ideas is invigorating. The technical aspect of getting the blog online is the hard part. I could do more with graphics, pictures, and layout but that interests me little compared to sharing my points of view.

My goal was to post once a week and that worked. I usually have 2-3 blogs in draft form going that I work on each day. I do not know how much longer I will continue. For now, I have ideas and dozens of beginning notes with whims that may or may not develop into something interesting.

I will persist as long as I am having fun. If it becomes onerous, I will stop. If I run out of ideas, I will discontinue the writing. Although I say to myself that it does not matter if anyone reads my blog, I am grateful for those of you who follow my entries or read the posts occasionally. I hope that some bring a brief smile and/or provide a prompt for reflecting on subjective experiences that might be similar to mine.

Even if I do not have readers, I have found this writing enables me to reflect on my life and feelings that are significant. My values are evident in what I choose to write as I have the privilege of wandering and wondering.

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.

“How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?” I read this question on a friend’s refrigerator magnet years ago. I think about it frequently. When I was in my 50’s, I often felt that I was more like in my mid-30s. Now that I am over 70, I think the number has moved up to mid-40s.

Aging was not something I thought much about until I realized that I was really getting older. They say, however, that age is a state of mind and I have chosen to adopt an affirmative stance. I believe that aging should be more about the number of memories and stories to tell than the number of years.

Positive aging is a dominant idea in popular literature. Also called healthy aging, the notion advocates for making good choices in the present to improve one’s life in the long-term. Positive aging is an attitude that views aging as a normal part of life.

I am lucky to have good examples of positive aging in my life. As a child I always thought of my parents as “old.” In retrospect, however, I recognize how active physically and mentally they were until close to the end of their lives. My mother, especially, was purposeful about making positive choices about her life.

My association with a variety of individuals through active running and outdoor clubs has been an inspiration to me. For several years I ran regularly with a group of women who were at least 10 years my senior. My goal was to keep up with them as we all got older. Today, I hike in the mountains with some women and men in their 80s. I aspire to be like them!  

People who keep their minds active through reading and continual learning also serve as role models to me. Being curious, adventurous, and reflecting critically on the world seems to be part of the positive aging process at any age.

I am reminded that I am not as young as I used to be when I tune into my body. I do seem to have more aches and pains than in my youth. I used to watch my dad make little noises as he got up from his recliner and never quite understood why until now. A few little aches may be a small price to pay for getting to remain active every day I can. I like the saying by an unknown author, “Wrinkles mean you laughed, grey hair means you cared, and scars mean you lived.”

To age positively requires effort. I enjoy taking time to keep myself healthy. I love to reflect on all the memories that come with my older age.

I have a new passion for wildflowers. I receive such delight in seeing them, trying to remember their names, and noticing their intricacies. This summer, by many accounts, has been one of the best years ever for flowers. I am grateful.

Wildflowers have been of minor consequence much of my life. The main wildflower I remember from growing up in Iowa was the wild rose commonly seen along roadways. I am sure other native prairie flowers existed, but so much of the land was cultivated that I do not recall much about anything but domestic flowers.

When I was a counselor at Cheley Colorado Camps in 1971, one of the projects that campers could do on hikes was to identify wildflowers. They had to point them out to the counselors and when they recognized a certain number, they got a wildflower patch or something. I knew little about the flowers and when the campers came to me and asked if this was “such and such,” I usually responded yes. Perhaps I was unknowingly channeling Silas Houses statement that, “They are wildflowers. They would not want a name.”

My two years spent in Texas was not the best time of my life, but the fields of wildflowers in the spring in Texas were a definite highlight—Bluebonnets galore.

New rituals for me in Colorado are looking for the first signs of spring through wildflowers—the Pasque flowers and tiny Spring Beauties. The Pasque flower precedes most other greenery in the spring.

The final flowers of the summer are now appearing. The fireweed comes back to disturbed spots including the burned areas of the park. The adage goes that when the fireweed blooms to the very top, the first frost is not far behind.

The arctic gentians are the last summer flowers seen on the tundra. These delicate flowers are beautiful to encounter but portend the end of the flower season in the mountains. Rangers sometimes call this the “boo-hoo flower” because when it blooms the short alpine summer is almost over.

My favorite Colorado wildflower is Indian Paintbrush. It blossoms prolifically in many parts of the park for a majority of the summer and comes in a variety of colors-scarlet, orange, coral, magenta, yellow, white, and rose, although the varied colors probably have other more specific names. I never fail to smile when I encounter paintbrush while wandering on the trails.

Recently I read a Native American proverb that summarizes for me my new relationship and connection to wildflowers. Whether wildflowers have a name or not, this thought is my wish for everyone reading this blog: “May your life be like a wildflower growing freely in the beauty and joy of each day.”

My Dad took me back to the airport after a long weekend in Iowa several years ago. As we turned right to go down the main street of Toddville and started the 20-minute drive to the airport, Dad announced, “I’m not afraid to die. I’ve had a great life.”

My Dad was usually quiet, and this statement took me by surprise. He went on to say, “Marge and I have been married for 65 years and we have done a lot of things. We have seen the world. Not many people have done all that we got to do.”

            My father passed away seven years ago this month. I think about him every day. When I was growing up, I saw him as a humble farmer when I had designs on trying to do something great to change the world. I now understand how my Dad’s life was anything but insignificant. To be a farmer who cared deeply about his family and the land was remarkable. As I reflect on my Dad, I am grateful to him for inspiring me about travelling, the outdoors, animals, and leisure.

            I saw how special travelling was to my parents. I remember going to Arizona to visit my grandparents on a train when I was 10 years old. In the middle of a moonlit night rumbling through Kansas, Dad excitedly explained to me all that he knew about wheat fields. He loved to talk about what he learned about farming on their trips to Canada, Europe, Brazil, Norway, Australia, and New Zealand. He prided himself in having been to all 50 states. I was with him when he got the 50^th one—South Carolina—in 2004. When I have the privilege of travelling, I think about how much Dad would have enjoyed my trips.

Dad loved the land. I doubt he would describe himself as an environmentalist, but I saw what he did. If anyone practiced repair, reuse, reduce, and recycle, it was my Dad. When Dad sold the farm, the Soil and Water Conservation officer in Linn County said he had created 1 ½ inches more fertile topsoil than when he began farming. He embodied leaving the earth better than he found it.

Dad loved animals. He cared that the animals he raised were healthy and comfortable. He also had pets that were special. For several years he had a pet goat that followed him everywhere. When Herbie died, dad spent a day finding a suitable burial spot for the animal on the top of a hill where the goat could forever behold the farm operations.

            My Dad’s work ethic was central to his good life. He taught me to work hard, and also to take time to enjoy the simple things of life—a beautiful sunset, a baby rabbit, a raccoon peeking out a hole in a tree. Although he worked from before sunrise until after sunset, he showed me how to find leisure in unpretentious pleasures.

            My father was a man of few words. I learned something exceptionally touching about my Dad two years ago after my mother passed. My sisters and I were reading some of the letters my Mom had saved from Dad when he served in WWII. They planned to be married when he returned home. Several of his letters ended with a heartfelt salutation to my mother, “I love you in all ways always.” That statement sums the secret to Dad’s great life—loving one’s spouse, family, animals, and the land zealously.