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“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.

I have a love/not love relationship with yoga. Hate is too strong, but I have tried for 25 years to really enjoy yoga. I find, however, that the only way I can love it is when I do it regularly and have a teacher who calmly leads me through the practice. I am currently going through the “not love” phase because I haven’t been able to motivate myself.

Yoga for me is a discipline that includes breathing, simple meditation, and an attempt at specific body movements. I appreciate the spiritual aspects but they are not central to me. When I have done yoga regularly (for me that means once or maybe twice a week), I feel healthier and more relaxed.

I resonate with the parts of yoga that are meditative and that help me relax into my body. I appreciate the philosophy. I dislike the part that forces me to stretch muscles that don’t move that fluidly. And yet, when I finally make them stretch, it feels so good.

Stretching has never been a favorite. My body was not designed for bending and flexibility. When I was in elementary school, we had to do the Presidential Fitness Test. As a competitive child, I found it quite fun seeing how well I could do the flexed-arm hang and the shuttle run. I hated the sit and reach or stand and reach because I simply could not score in the 50^th percentile, no matter how much I tried. I have been blessed with a fair amount of athleticism but stretching has not been my passion or forte.

I had a friend many years ago who was a ballet dancer until she had a career ending injury. She still stretched daily and remarked every time how good it felt. I wondered how she could feel that way. Nevertheless, I am seeking that illusive revelry that I have yet to find.

I have had several outstanding yoga teachers. I do not go back to a group yoga class unless I sense the calmness of the instructor since I cannot do most of the poses well. Teachers say continually not to judge oneself, but that is hard for me. Nevertheless, I appreciate yoga under encouraging tutelage.

As a runner, I never give a second thought to running alone. If I have people to share a run, it is great, but I am personally motivated regardless. Yoga is not the same. I need the camaraderie of a teacher and other yogis to enjoy the effort. I cannot get a personal solo practice going and then, of course, that spirals into negative talk to myself and so on and so on. I want yoga guidance and inspiration.

Sometimes to name an issue makes it easier to resolve, but I am not so sure about my relationship with yoga. My fitness level is good except for the flexibility issue. My mental energy is usually fine and the meditation and calmness aspects of yoga would make it even better. I will continue to seek the balance that I know yoga can give me. Namaste is a salutation to others, but I will continue to try to make it a salute to my own self-care.

The Land of No Trees is a new appreciation of mine in Rocky Mountain National Park. I love trees as I have I have written previously. I am, however, acquiring a passion for the space with no trees called the tundra.

One-third of the park is tundra, a greater quantity than any other national park in the country.  Until I started wandering every day in the park, I had little appreciation for the tundra. I had hiked on trails crossing the tundra and had admired the flowers in the summer, but I really didn’t identify with this magical world until I became immersed in it.

The tundra is an ecosystem filled with beauty and contrasts. The land is almost completely uninhabitable in the winter, but teeming with plants, insects, and mammals in the summer.

One of my volunteer activities is being a Tundra Guardian, now referred to as an Alpine Volunteer. I get to go up Trail Ridge Road to the tundra regularly and talk to people about this unique environment. Some of the most interesting facts about tundra include:

• Tundra can be found in arctic areas often referred to as the “land beyond the trees” such as in Alaska. It can also be alpine tundra, as it is in Rocky, which is the high elevation “land above the trees.”
• The growing season can range from 6 weeks to 12 weeks depending on the amount of snowpack. A simple law suggests that for every 100 feet in elevation gain, spring comes a day later, and fall comes a day sooner.
• 99% of alpine plants are short perennials, grasses and sedges, flowering plants, mosses, and lichens.
• Living organisms on the tundra tend to hibernate (marmots, chipmunks), tolerate (ptarmigans, pikas), exterminate (plants, butterflies, bees), or migrate (elk) before the severe winter.

I feel more affection for the tundra each time I visit. Elk and their babies summer on the tundra and enjoy the rich grasses and sedges. Marmots lounge in the sun while the pikas prepare their hay piles for the coming winter.

Although the tundra environment is highly fragile and stepping on a plant can destroy what has been growing for decades, these plants are amazingly resilient because they HAVE been growing for years. Walking on the tundra is a captivating experience. Ambling on the tundra should be done lightly by staying on trails and/or by stepping on rocks as much as possible, not following directly in someone else’s footsteps, and walking slowly and deliberately not to disturb the earth.

Rocky has designated 2021 as the Year of the Tundra. The emphasis this year, and every year, is on helping people understand this vast area and what can be learned about and from it.

The tundra reminds me of two words: Renewal and Resiliency. Renewal is the way that the flora and fauna resume their activity after the extreme winter interruption. Resiliency reflects the capacity that these flora and fauna have to recover in their challenging environment. Resiliency represents toughness within fragility.

I am honored to call myself a tundra guardian. I am learning my own lessons about renewing my life after the COVID interruption. I am also practicing how to be resilient and tough in all types of situations.

I loved to fish when I was 7 years old. Summers were often spent catching minnows in the creek, fishing for sunfish and bullheads at Wally’s Pond, or early Sunday morning fishing with my dad to the bayou of the Wapsie River.

Wally’s Pond was a tiny body of water that was a few feet deep. It was a short half-mile from our farm on a gravel road. My neighbor, Russell, and I used to fish at the Pond about once a week in the summer.

We used sturdy long sticks as poles and tied lines, floats, sinkers, and hooks to the sticks. Earthworms were dug up from damp places on the north side of livestock buildings. We carried the worms in a tin can.

Most days we didn’t catch anything and soon grew bored with fishing. However, some days we were lucky. One such day, I caught a 5-inch-long sunfish. I was so excited and wanted to take it home to show my dad. Russell had the brilliant idea that we should empty the worm can and put water in it so the fish could stay alive until we got home. It was a good plan but dumping the worms on the ground resulted in them trying to escape. I had the second brilliant idea of putting the worms into one of my shoes.

I was wearing the new school shoes that I had gotten a few days earlier. They were Buster Brown Saddle Shoes, and I was so excited to have them. I begged mom to let me wear them to the pond and she finally relented and said yes. With the new excitement of having caught a fish, we continued fishing longer than usual that day. We knew we had better head for home. I planned on throwing the worms into the pond to feed the fish before we left, as we always did. 

I picked up the shoe to heave the dirt and worms into the pond and my fingers slipped. The whole shoe went floating through the murky water until it disappeared. Russell and I stood there with our mouths open. We knew we couldn’t go into the pond, and I knew I was in big trouble. My mother was going to kill me as this was my only pair of shoes for the new school year.

I limped home with one shoe on and the other foot barefooted. I told my mom that there had been a slight accident and somehow my shoe had fallen into the pond. She was mad. “You are just going to have to go barefoot to school next week” she said. “How could I be so careless?” she asked. I cried, of course, and wondered how my feet would fare when it got colder that fall.

The next day, we went back to Cedar Rapids. I got a new pair of shoes for school, just like the ones I had had for two days. I learned some important lessons from my shoe disaster: 1. Don’t put worms in your shoes, 2. Don’t accidently throw a shoe into a pond, and 3. Moms can get mad, but they will not let you go barefoot to school.

Several years ago, my associates and I published a research study about “what parks mean.” We found that parks, whether local, state, or national had personal and social benefits as many of us have experienced. However, the unifying theme that clearly emerged from the essays analyzed was the idea of memory-making. Parks make memories.

I think about parks often since I either volunteer or hike essentially every day in Rocky Mountain National Park. I recognize that an iconic beauty like Rocky can be different from a local park or green space. And yet, the theme of memory-making applies across the board.

I had a favorite childhood park. It was a county park, Pinicon Ridge, only three miles from our farm. Growing up on a farm is a nature experience but going to a park with trees and picnic tables and a tower to climb to see the panorama above the trees was a treat. I have many recollections of the numerous Sunday nights when the family went to the park, sometimes with another family, grilled steaks/hamburgers, ate fried potatoes or potato salad, enjoyed our fresh garden veggies, and often had homemade (my favorite was apple) pie for dessert. Now that my parents are deceased, I remember the times with my family even more fondly.

My adult life includes evocative remembrances of parks: hearing the wolves howl on a very rainy and challenging backpacking trip at Isle Royale, climbing my first mountain (Twin Sisters) at Rocky Mountain National Park and developing a lifelong passion for high places, traversing most of Mt Ranier on the Wonderland Trail, and seeing the BIG 5 animals at Kruger National Park in South Africa.

In dissecting the essays for the paper we wrote, we found reminiscences were most often based on the human interaction with landscapes as well as the connections people had with others during their park visits. People talked about coming to a particular park as a child and then wanting to bring their children, and later grandchildren, to experience those meaning-imbued places.

Hundreds of thousands of people want to visit Rocky Mountain National Park this summer. Some have been visiting Rocky for years but missed last year because of the pandemic. Others are visiting for the first, and perhaps only, time.  I want them to experience positive memory-making, but I am worried that it may not always happen.

Rocky Mountain National Park has currently restricted access to the park to certain places at particular times. This approach is not popular with some people, and I certainly miss the freedom in the summer to go wherever I want when I want. However, this land and our wildlife simply cannot sustain opportunities for memory-making if overrun and overcrowded. Our park is being loved to death.

Parks can be protected in the future if people feel an affinity and desire to support these places in their local communities as well as nationally. Limits exist, however, to how many people can enjoy an outdoor spaces before they become depreciated. Parameters are necessary. To save National Parks requires that more outdoor spaces for memory-making are made available on municipal, county, regional, and state lands.

Parks make life better because they provide a connection to personal and social pasts, and present realities. They must be preserved, managed, and remembered to foster enduring connections into the future.

Fifteen Bighorn Sheep came running down the ridge, crossed the road, and headed for Sheep Lake #3. I grabbed a Stop/Slow sign and headed to the road. They had already crossed but we never knew when they would be coming back.

As I situated myself on the side of the road and waited, three light colored fluffy coyote juveniles came sauntering along in the meadow 100 yards from the lake. Suddenly one of the bold coyotes bolted toward the sheep. The sheep immediately scattered and almost before I could get my STOP sign held up, were sprinting back across the road headed uphill. Four of them broke off to the right headed toward Morning Point, and 11 headed left with one of the coyote siblings on their hooves. The other two coyotes sat placidly by the lake and began howling for their brother/sister. A few minutes later the ensuing coyote came trotting back and crossed the road to re-unite with his/her kin. A lone coyote could not take down a Bighorn unless it was a lamb, and only ewes and ram yearlings were part of this day’s group.

Such was the high drama on my first day of the 2021 volunteer season as part of the Bighorn Brigade in Rocky Mountain National Park. Volunteers assist the sheep in crossing the busy road and engage visitors in conversations about the sheep and the park.

Bighorns are the symbol of Rocky Mountain National Park. Before the park was designated over 100 years ago, several thousand sheep were in the park. They were hunted massively and have suffered from disease over the years to the point where there are now estimated to be only 300-400 living stably in five herds in the park.

The Bighorns that visit Sheep Lakes live in the Mummy Range. They make their 3 -4-mile trip to Sheep Lakes to eat the minerals in the mud. After a long winter of eating dry grass, their bodies are depleted of elements such as sodium, magnesium, and selenium. They do not come to eat the grass or drink the water but only for the minerals during the months of May-early August. The sheep are unpredictable regarding when they come and only show up about 30% of the days in the summer. They may stay only a few minutes or, sometimes, several hours. If they feel unsafe because of predators or too many people, they may not journey to the lakes.

I am in my sixth year with the Sunday Bighorn Brigade group (The sheep were on their own in 2020!) For almost 30 years, park staff and volunteers have monitored the area to assist the sheep from becoming stressed when crossing (unless a coyote is chasing them).

Many moose now frequent Sheep Lakes to eat the water plants growing in the lakes and to cool off in the summer. Three years ago, the Sunday Bighorn volunteers saw almost as many moose as sheep. We threatened to petition to change the name to Moose Lakes!

Visitors to Sheep Lakes are a mixed bag with of low drama. Some know nothing about sheep and wonder what all the fuss is about. For some the predominant question is, “Where is the nearest bathroom?” Other visitors come regularly to see if the sheep are there—Sheep Lakes is a part of their park routine. On their last day of vacation, one couple I met stayed all day in hopes of seeing the sheep one last time before they headed home to Arkansas. They brought their breakfast and several hours later pulled out sandwiches for lunch.  

Being part of the dedicated and passionate Bighorn Brigade is a delightful part of my week. I love the sheep, and like many other volunteers and visitors, am resolute to reduce drama except for the excitement of beholding the sheep.

I forgot how much I loved gardening until the past two years when I had a chance again to get my hands dirty with vegetable gardening. Smelling the earth, seeing the earthworms, planting tiny seeds, watching them grow, fighting the battle against pesky weeds, and eating the lovingly grown fresh produce is wonderful. My newfound connection to gardening is as a volunteer at the MacGregor Ranch Garden.

The garden is part of historic MacGregor Ranch. The homesteaders who lived there had a large garden. Our efforts represent times past when people relied heavily on gardens for food for summer and winter. Volunteers plant the garden with traditional vegetables—carrots, onions, beets, potatoes, cabbage, and squash, although we also planted kale and kohlrabi last year and I doubt the settlers had those veggies. The volunteers share in the harvesting of the vegetables when they mature.

Growing up on an Iowa farm, gardening was in my DNA. The family garden was a supply of food year around. Mom wasn’t big on flowers, but she loved the vegetables and I learned to love them similarly.

When I joined 4-H as a 10-year-old, I had my first 4-H garden project. The garden was the minimum required, 10 feet by 10 feet. The next year I begged for more, and eventually I was responsible for the whole family garden as my 4-H project. Sometimes I had extra vegetables to give away or to sell a bushel or two of tomatoes. Every summer included a garden judging when a judge and the 4-H gardeners in the area visited each other’s gardens. We were rated on how weed and insect free the garden was. When I was in my teens I became a junior garden judge. I loved seeing other people’s vegetable patches.

A second part of the 4-H project was to take vegetables to the county fair for judging on size, color, and conformity. My mother was hospitalized during my first county fair and my grandpa helped me with the 4-H exhibit. I had some insect holes in the tomatoes, and he told me to turn them upside down and no one would notice. Little did I know that the judge would pick them up. I got a red ribbon that year but learned a lot and always got blue ribbons years after.

Gardening in my adult life has been a trial. In Wisconsin, we had a garden in the yard not far from the water on the lake where we lived. The garden flourished but I had no idea that muskrats could be a pest.

Gardening in North Carolina was a disaster. The ground was not the fertile black earth of the Midwest. I could grow nothing in the shade of the trees despite how much dirt I hauled in. The plants were totally spindly, and I got no produce. I gave up after two years and grew some tomatoes and herbs in pots on my patio deck. I never found patio gardening as satisfying as having dirt to dig.

I share the MacGregor Garden with three dozen other volunteers. We endeavor to battle rodents, keep ungulates out, and monitor irrigation for this high desert area. We are successful, however, and I love watching this garden grow!

I got an email recently from my university alma mater congratulating me on having graduated 50 years ago that day. I was aware of this upcoming 50-year marker since I had gone to my high school class 50^th reunion four years previously, but the email reminded me overpoweringly of the passage of time.

“Like sand through an hourglass, so goes the days of our lives.” That phrase from the popular soap opera has many meanings to me these days. Where does time go? How can I be the age I am today? I don’t feel like a senior citizen, older adult, or whatever people of my ilk are called.

I remember growing up when time seemed to stand still while waiting for something special to happen. It seemed like Christmas would NEVER come. The promise of school being out and having a summer vacation time was eagerly awaited. Summer was a welcomed eternity. I liked going to school but liked more the freedom of summers on the farm and having the playtime to do what I wanted.

Now I feel like time is speeding. Perhaps it is because they say time flies when you are having fun, and I am, but I would just like it all to slow down a bit. I feel like I never have enough time each day to do everything I want to do.

I have been a scholar of leisure throughout my professional career. We all yearn for a balance of life that includes enough time for all genres of meaningful activities including work and leisure. Leisure and what it affords cannot be taken for granted.

One of the ways that leisure is quantified is as “free time.” I find that idea rather curious since nothing is completely free. Constraints are omnipresent.  As I have argued elsewhere, with freedom comes responsibility. Each day I think about my mostly free time–what I want to do, how I want to do it, and try to assure it does minimal harm to me or others in my use of time.

All of us have the same amount of time each day. Because of responsibilities, however, we do not have uniform free time opportunities. Decisions about the use of time vary. Some folks have obligations that require serious amounts of time such as caregiving. Others have greater choice in organizing their lives as I gratefully feel now in my encore performance (aka retirement).

Nevertheless, we do not have the same amount of time on this earth. Running out of time on a daily basis does not seem nearly as consequential as running out of time on this earth. I think about how I can make the most of my remaining days. I miss my family and friends who were limited in their earthly time. Although I would like to slow time down, I also want to enjoy each minute and be grateful for all the sands through my hourglass.  

My Marathon T-Shirts Quilt and Pillows

I am reminded of t-shirts daily as I drive through downtown Estes Park on my way to volunteer or hike. Estes Park is a scenic mountain gateway community next to a highly visited National Park. The town caters largely to families and outdoor enthusiasts. Living in a tourist town has some noteworthy characteristics and one is the abundance of t-shirt and taffy shops. I am not a fan of taffy, but I find t-shirts amusing as a means of communicating values, humor, and allegiances.

The first t-shirt I remember owning was one that said Iowa State University. I wore that t-shirt proudly as I knew early that I would go to college at Iowa State. The t-shirt was way oversized, and it drove my mother crazy to see me wearing it, but that perhaps made it all the more appealing when I was a teenager.

I venture to say that I have owned hundreds of t-shirts over the course of my life. As an avid runner, I received a t-shirt for every race, and I wore some of them proudly as part of my running history. I really can’t say that I had one favorite t-shirt, but I do recall wearing out a shirt that had a picture of a person and cat sitting together that said, “Life is good.”

What does one do, however, with scores of t-shirts that cannot possibly be worn out? I suspect I have given away over a dozen large garbage bags of t-shirts to thrift stores—many of them never having been worn. The other project with t-shirts, thanks to my talented quilting sister Suki, was to make a quilt with my marathon t-shirt decals and other special events associated with the Carolina Godiva Track Club. It is a colorful bedspread in my guest room.

Today I seldom get new t-shirts. I am not competing in races, and the last thing I would spend money on is a t-shirt. Sometimes I wonder who buys them, but people do, or they would not be for sale. One shop in Estes Park is called Rocky Mountain Tops and sells nothing but shirts. As I wander in downtown Estes Park, I see examples of what I could buy. Some shirts are clever, and some are a little weird. Here are a few of the ones I saw in shop windows in mid-May:

May the Forest Be with You

The Mountains are Calling and I Must Go

Run, Forest, Run (with a picture of various animals running down a road)

Nice Rack (two bull elk standing and looking at each other)

National Park Junkie

Bigfoot Doesn’t Believe in You Either

I Don’t Always Roll a Joint, but When I Do, It’s an Ankle (Colorado)

Hike and Seek

Be Wild and Wonder

Camping—It’s In-Tents

I have a love/hate relationship with t-shirts. They do bring good memories and I find humor in some shirts. Today I guess I can live with(out) them.