Author: KARLA_HENDERSON

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.

Friends I will remember you, think of you

Pray for you

And when another day is through

I’ll still be friends with you

John Denver

John Denver’s song, Friends with You, has always been a favorite of mine. I was talking to a friend I met over 40 years ago in Wisconsin, and we were remarking about the length of our friendship and the number of friends we had encountered over the years. Denver also noted that one of the gifts of growing old is having stories to be told.  Friends have evolved in my life as I change, and circumstances change. Some friends come for a short time. Many friendships last a lifetime.

I think about friends in two ways: circles and affinities. One circle surrounds me closely. This first small circle includes emotionally supportive friends that I have a consistent sharing of daily activities and decisions. The second circle going outward is friends that I see or communicate with on a somewhat routine, but not daily, basis. We enjoy each other’s company and would help each other in a moment’s notice if needed.

The third expanding circle is people with whom I might not have frequent contact, but I keep up with the ups and downs of their lives from time to time. I know they are in my corner and they know I will always be there for them. Probably a final circle is Facebook friends. Some inhabit other circles, and some folks are just interesting and special people to follow. They add an additional dimension to my life.

Another way I categorize friends are those with whom I have established affinities because of common interests. I think about friends made through groups such as running clubs, hiking/trip adventures, and writing groups. I have classmates that I have known for decades. In addition, band, volunteering, and professional associations are sources of friendship. Some friends become friends through their association with other friends. Friendship circles and affinities can always expand.

I am lucky to have a variety of new friends where I now live. Two years ago I had shoulder surgery and couldn’t drive for three weeks. My neighbors who lived across the street remarked about all the different cars that pulled into my driveway to bring me food and take me places. I am grateful for these recent networks.

Not all friends are friends for life. Unfortunately, I have lost special friends due to death. Some friends have drifted away for lack of nurturing those relationships. I have not put energy into keeping friendships with people whom I learned I could not trust. Some friendships are conditional.

My mother had a cross stitched wall hanging in our house on the farm. I now have it in my house. In addition to John Denver’s words about the friends we have in time, these sentiments are special to me: “Remembrance is the sweetest flower of all the world’s perfuming. Memory guards it sun or shower, friendship keeps it blooming.”

“The mountains are calling and I must go” wrote John Muir. That phrase describes my daily life. Hiking is my way of wandering. I am passionate about hiking regardless of where I go. Woods, lakes, meadows, waterfalls, overlooks—all have a draw for me. However, mountain tops will always have a special magnetic attraction.

I am not a mountain climber but a mountain hiker. Therefore, for the most part the mountains that I can walk up are the ones I pursue, which does eliminate some possibilities. I have hiked to the top of several notable and high mountains including Kala Patthar (18, 514), Mt Whitney (14,505), Longs Peak (14,259), and Grand Teton (13, 775). I have hiked my favorites in the park that are relatively accessible many times including Flattop, Hallet, Twin Sisters (my very first), Mt Ida, Sundance, and Deer Mountain. I never climb the same mountain twice since each time the trek is different.

Several years before I moved permanently to Colorado, I dreamed of hiking all the “14ers” in Colorado. There are over 55 of them. I met people who had done all or had this goal. I had already hiked 10 mountains in Colorado over 14,000 feet when I set this target.

About the time I decided I had the ambition, however, I read Jon Krakauer’s book, Into Thin Air. It is a personal account of the devastating events associated with climbing Mt Everest in 1996. That book socked me in the stomach to remind me that no mountain top is worth dying in the effort. The mountains will always be there, and not to summit is not a failure. As mountaineer Conrad Acker offered, “The summit is what drives us, but the climb itself is what matters.”

Each new or revisited peak ascended teaches me something. I have a different experience no matter how many times I go up the same mountain. Further, as one of my favorite “prophets,” Dag Hammerskjold, suggested, “Never measure the height of a mountain until you reach the top. Then you will see how low it was.”

Little in my life can displace the thrill of being on a mountain top. I am grateful that I continue to have the physical ability to walk up mountains. I love the vistas and the 360 views. Many mountains are breezy on top, and to an extent, I enjoy the breeze. Many of the mountains in Rocky have active marmot colonies near or at the top.

Regardless of what the peak holds, I am always inspired by my smallness amid the panoramas. Getting to the top highlights a delicious fatigue that powers the way back down. Getting to the top also reminds me how beautiful the forests, lakes, waterfalls, and meadows are below.

This modified chant from my high school days seems apt to describe my feelings about the volunteer group at Rocky Mountain National Park, the Weed Warriors. We wage (and rage) war on invasive and exotic plant species in the park.

Invasive plants are not native to a specific location and tend to spread to a degree that can cause damage to the environment. The term applies to introduced species that adversely affect the habitats and bioregions they invade. In the case of Rocky Mountain National Park, they can take over meadows and crowd out beautiful native wildflowers and grasses.

If someone had asked me five years ago if I would ever volunteer with such a group, I probably would have said no. Plants aren’t my thing and I am much more interested in the social interactions occurring in the park. Nevertheless, I have become energized by the toil I assume once a week with the Weed Warriors.

Great satisfaction occurs in seeing a meadow devoid of (prickly, purple) musk thistle, (fuzzy) mullein, and (sticky, dreaded) houndstongue. Further, however, I find the camaraderie of the Warriors to be an attraction that keeps drawing me back. This group of mainly older women and a handful of men are some of the most dedicated and passionate volunteers I know.  They work hard for hours but chat, laugh, and enjoy the unpaid labor every day.

Eliminating weeds works best as a team effort. We are a team. We are assigned grids to cover and line up in ways to assure that we are swathing the areas in a systematic way.  We have either a park supervisor or another lead volunteer who directs us each day. Everyone in the group, however, has a role. One of our members is a wonderful baker and is trying to perfect her high altitude baking so brings us delicious treats when she comes. Another member is our unofficial safety officer and reminds up continually to drink lots of water. Several members are wildflower experts who point out the beautiful flora that is supposed to inhabit the meadows. My role is as a worker bee.

Each week in the summer and as much as we can throughout the rest of the year, we combat the invasive weeds that have been brought into the park on people’s feet, in horse manure, and by the winds. Every day is a skirmish, each year a battle, and eventually we will win the war by making the meadows of the park full of native flowers and grasses.

Although I contribute my time, this volunteer opportunity has numerous psychic rewards. What could be grander than being outside, walking in meadows, seeing snow-capped mountains all around, feeling warm breezes and sunshine, and making wonderful volunteer friends? It doesn’t get more restorative than being a mighty, mighty weed warrior.