Wandering and Wondering

My new favorite activity is tracking, especially in the winter. I am learning the fundamentals and joys of tracking animals. I am becoming more proficient as a result of knowing Andy Ames and the Wandering Wildlife Society of Estes Park.

My favorite co-tracker is my friend Deb with whom I frequently hike/snowshoe. We had a particularly enjoyable day earlier this winter going out on a beautiful winter day solely for the purpose of tracking animals and seeing what we could find in the recent snowfall. We saw tracks from deer, elk, moose, squirrels, a bobcat, mice and voles, and snowshoe hares.

I love the snowshoe hares that leave their tracks in the snow. I am not sure if it is many hares or just a few extremely active ones.

These hares live in the boreal forests of Rocky Mountain National Park and are active year-round. Snowshoe hares have a seasonal variation in fur color–they are brown in summer and almost pure white in winter, and harder to see. The shedding of the hare coat and gradual replacement of the guard hairs is triggered twice a year by changes in day-length. They gain their name from their large hind feet lined with stiff hairs that form a snowshoe that supports their weight on the surface of the snow.

Hares have perceptive hearing. Upon detecting a predator, they frequently freeze in their tracks. This stopping, in addition to their camouflage color, is an effective means of avoiding predators and also for avoiding those of us looking for them along the trails.

Along with tracking, finding animal scat (moose poop with its sawdust infusions; coyotes and their sometimes hairy and bony feces) is exciting since it portends that in addition to the track evidence, the animals may be around. However, hares will re-ingest their feces to extract all of the available nutrients from their food– another reason they may be so elusive.

I am learning to identify tracks by their configurations as well as by the habitats that I explore. I imagine myself as a snowshoe hare running through the snow and looking for places to hide under downed trees and snowdrifts and seeking delectable snacks available in the hiding places.

Seeing wildlife as a wander in the park is a treat. Thinking about their lives and where they might be living is challenging. I relish knowing that the animals are there because of their tracks regardless of whether I actually spot them. If I become better at tracking, that will be great. If I never improve, I still love the quest, especially in the winter.

In 2021, the Doomsday Clock moved to 100 seconds until midnight. The Clock is a symbol that represents the likelihood of a human-made global catastrophe. It is maintained by the members of the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists and is a metaphor for threats to humanity from unchecked scientific and technical advances. “The Clock represents the hypothetical global catastrophe as midnight and the Bulletin’s opinion on how close the world is to a global catastrophe as a number of minutes to midnight. The factors influencing the Clock are nuclear risk and climate change.”

The 100 seconds is the closest the clock has ever been to midnight. I find it frightening to realize the direction we are going. I remember in the early 1980s it was at 3 minutes because of the nuclear threat. Climate was an issue but not predominate. Both catastrophes are invisible to many people.

In the early 1980s I was involved in anti-nuclear efforts. I remember going to an all-day workshop about anti-nuclear activism. One of the activities was to spend some time with another person and learn all we could about him/her. I don’t remember my paired person’s name, but I do remember the facilitator saying, “Look into your partner’s eyes and think about how you are going to die together in a nuclear war.” I will never forget that experience as we both looked at each other with tears streaming down our faces. I had just met this guy and I didn’t want him to die.

Fortunately, the crises of the Reagan era Cold War were averted, and the clock actually was set up to 17 minutes before midnight during the 1990s. Was that false consciousness? In the past two years it changed dramatically because the climate change crisis has progressed much faster than anticipated. I am concerned. As Greta Thunberg said, “How dare we not respond?”

The Doomsday Clock is controversial, and yet, it makes me wonder what I can and should do about climate change. I try to be positive and hopeful about the future, but climate change is a huge problem. I am environmentally conscious but unwilling to give up my car or quit eating meat. I enjoy the comforts of life. I read an article recently noting that 50 (individual) ways to save the environment is only a band aid approach unless we address bigger upstream policy issues concerning climate change. I like the idea of thinking globally, acting locally but I am not sure how to move forward. I am hopeful that climate change can be reversed, but I worry every day about those 100 seconds.

We have passed the mid-point of winter in Estes Park. Since it seems to last seven months (mid-October until mid-May), we are over the hump. I would not like to live in perpetual winter, but I enjoy the changing seasons and I enjoy what winter offers especially when snow is involved. Yet, winter requires negotiation and an intentional positive mindset.

A park ranger I work with on snowshoe walks reminds people that the difference between summer and winter in the park is that winter is far less forgiving. If you are out and unprepared in the winter, you will face graver circumstances if something goes wrong than if it is summer.

One can take at least two perspectives about winter: Sinclair Lewis noted that “Winter is not a season, it’s an occupation.” Anamika Mishra proposed, “Winter is not a season, it’s a celebration.” Winter does take thoughtful planning to enjoy it. On the farm, chores took longer because of assuring that animals did not have frozen water and that they had enough bedding to keep them comfortable.

On the other hand, knowing how to prepare enables one to enjoy the winter and celebrate the beauty of the landscapes and the resilient animals. I identify with the bird and mammal “tolerators” like coyotes and snowshoe hares who adapt and survive in the winter. I envy the hibernators sometimes, but they also miss the beauty of the circumstances that define winter.

The worst thing about winter in Estes Park is the wind. Before I moved permanently, I met a couple who were returning to Texas after having lived fulltime here for four years. They said they could not tolerate the wind. After my first full winter, I decided not to complain about the wind but embrace it. One can experience trails in the woods that have less wind than other places. In addition, as the saying goes, there is no such thing as harsh weather but bad clothing. Learning to dress for wind with long underwear, neck warmers, wind pants, and puffy jackets modifies the annoyances of wind for me.

I tend to romanticize winter because I had a 29-year reprieve when living in the South. Winter can be unpleasant with prolonged cold and treacherous driving conditions. In Iowa people focused more on the surviving than enjoying winter. Moving to Minnesota and Wisconsin, however, enabled me to redefine winter with activities like X-country ski racing as well as celebrations such as Ice Carnivals. Winter in the South often meant freezing rain rather than snow. But winter was noticeably short, which was the reward for enduring it until the spring flowers emerged in late February.

I like all the seasons and what they bring. I am enjoying new opportunities to celebrate the surprises and opportunities winter has to offer. As John Steinbeck suggested, “What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.”

The day was a usual fall Saturday morning on my way to volunteer at Bear Lake. I usually leave home early and stop at Sprague Lake to decompress before the day with visitors, and to check out trail conditions. I go in my volunteer uniform but am not “officially” on duty until I reach Bear Lake.

The temperature was cool that October morning with a bit of snow here and there. The lake was quiet with a skim of ice and hardly a breeze. The trail was a bit icy but easily navigable. As I was walking along the board walk on the west side, I lingered a moment to look northwestward for moose who were sometimes in the nearby willows. I paused to admire the rays of the sun that were about to crest the eastern hillside.

A young man ambled by and stopped ten feet from me. We nodded to one another. After a short silence, the 20-something dressed in an unzipped parka and a blue stocking cap resting on his blond head said, “It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I saw a moose when I was out here yesterday morning,” he remarked.

“Wow, that’s great,” I replied. “I don’t see any signs this morning although it isn’t uncommon for them to be here.”

“I love this place.”

I waited a moment and then asked. “Where is home for you?”

“I’m from Atlanta. This is my first time in Rocky Mountain National Park. I flew to Denver four days ago and immediately came up here. I’m going back this evening.”

“You picked a great time to visit,” I responded.

“I needed this. It has been a tough time for me with COVID and work and everything. Coming here is the best thing I’ve ever done. It has restored my soul.” He paused and continued, “Do you live here?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever get tired of it?”

I smiled, “No I don’t. Every day, every season is different. I don’t take this beauty for granted.”

“You are so lucky.”

We stood in silence for a moment and then I added, “I better get on with my day. It was nice to visit with you. Keep enjoying the park. Safe travels home.”

He smiled, “Thank you,” and I turned to continue my walk around the lake. I reminded myself of how nature heals consistently, and I can never take this place for granted. The best thing about meeting people in the park is that they show me continually how special these mountains are and how renewed I am to enjoy their nature every day.

People talk about returning to “normal” after the pandemic. The idea of a “new normal” is touted. These conversations have intrigued me to wonder what is meant by normal and whether or not normal is a useful idea.

This discussion may be moot as I am not sure what normal ever was nor if the good old days were better than now. Normal is a perception that may not exist. Normal may now mean that NOTHING is normal. As Davie Hollis noted, “In the rush to return to normal, use this time to consider what parts of normal are worth rushing back to.”  This reflection may be the challenge to our individual and collective futures.

COVID-19 has changed our lives drastically. People write about the disruption as well as the new opportunities. I think about what normal means if equated with the usual, average, or typical condition. Was that state so great? It is important relative to conditions of stability and consistency, and yet, change has been occurring so dramatically for years that I wonder if there is a usual order that we can or even want to count on. Normality may be a comfortable path but may not be interesting.

I have never felt like I was normal. I don’t mind being a bit quirky and am attracted to people who have similar dispositions. I feel that being atypical is not dreadful, but just who I am. I like it. People who want to be normal may lack imagination or courage.

Normal can be conflated with routine and I rejoice in the lack of routine that makes up my life. I like days that are predictable, but I also like days when I do not know what might happen and am open to adventure when it calls. Normal days are best when filled with gifts and opportunities. Something that is wonderfully surprising on a normal day is welcomed.

I do not know what the future holds. I do not expect that normal will exist again if it ever did. I don’t want to return to normal. I hope that abnormal with its connotations of anomalous and aberrant behavior does not become my normal. Yet, I resist defining an ordinary life for myself. I subscribe to what Val Kilmer observed, “There is no normal life. There’s just life. You live it.”

One of my pet peeves is people who overuse the word “awesome.” I hold that word in reverence. The popular usage refers to something extremely good. For me, however, I only use it when something is truly AWE-some. Those moments are highly attainable but few. As I further explore the word, I find deeper understandings concerning unexpected encounters with natural wonders and a feeling of being part of something larger than oneself.

Awe is difficult to define. Further, the meaning of the word has changed over time. Related concepts are wonder, admiration, and elevation. It is an omnipresent feeling of reverence, admiration, and fear produced by something grand, sublime, and powerful. Seeing something as beautiful or positive is not necessarily something that is formidable. Being in awe is a 10.0 on a 10.0 scale.

In Awe: The Delights and Dangers of Our Eleventh Emotion, neuropsychologist Paul Pearsall presented a phenomenological study of awe. He defined awe as an “overwhelming and bewildering sense of connection with a startling universe that is usually far beyond the narrow band of our consciousness.” Pearsall described awe as the 11th emotion beyond love, fear, sadness, embarrassment, curiosity, pride, enjoyment, despair, guilt, and anger. Awe may be the most overlooked, undervalued emotion.

Awe can be a positive or negative and most people associate it with the positive. People experience awe, especially aesthetic awe, when they are not in physical danger. It is interesting to me that “awful” seems to be the opposite of awesome although they can be related.

I am open to AWE experiences in my life and am thrilled when I feel that sense of wonder. Weeks ago, a major storm front come through the area. I started out walking near my house at daylight with clear quiet skies to the east. In five minutes, the sky became yellow and orange to the west with the rising sun reflecting toward the tumbling clouds coming over the continental divide. Minutes later, the clouds descended into the valley turning to dark gray, snow began to fall, the wind roared in, and a blizzard was upon me. It was awesome, and conjured mixed feelings of wonder, sublimity, and respect for nature.

Those same feelings of wonder and awe have come to me seeing a spectacular and highly unusual sunset, standing on top of a mountain with a 360-degree view, seeing ominous storm clouds towering in the distance, or hearing music that evokes a powerful nostalgic emotion. The feelings are humbling. Sentiments of awesomeness draw attention away from myself and toward something grand in the environment.

As I wander, I hope for experiences that fill me with awe. I want to feel connected to the world and the presence of something greater than my small self. For me, going outside, pausing, reflecting, and slowing down are pre-requisites for awe. Realizing awe refreshes my soul.

I think back nostalgically about my family and my early years growing up on an Iowa farm. Not everyone had an opportunity to experience the agrarian life of the 1950’s and I did not always appreciate it. In retrospect, however, I continue to practice these 10 observations every day.

1. Early to bed, early to rise makes a girl healthy, a little wealthy, and mostly wise. I still love getting up early.
2. An apple a day keeps the doctor way, and even more so if it appears in an apple pie or apple crisp.
3. After the rain is over, look for the rainbows and be ever hopeful about the pot of gold at the end. I chased rainbows as a kid and never found that pot of gold. I’m still looking.
4. Chores are routine regardless of the weather or how you feel. Animals don’t feed themselves. No excuses. Just do it.
5. When the going gets tough, don’t give up. You can’t control everything that happens. You may not achieve all that you desired, but something will happen as long as you stick with it. Later I incorporated Kenny Rogers’ advice, “You got to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em, know when to walk away, and know when to run,” and my life has been more balanced.
6. Slow down and appreciate life. There is beauty everywhere. Farm life allows one to take “minute vacations” to savor the sunshine, the animals, and the landscape. I will never forget the farm woman I interviewed for a research project who talked about being in her hay barn and seeing the sun filtering through a window and feeling she was sitting in a cathedral.
7. An 8-hour day does not exist on the farm. This knowledge prepared me to work hard and play hard my whole life.
8. Be careful what you say on the telephone if you are on a party line. That admonition applies to social media these days as you never know where something might end up. I still hate to talk on telephones—thank goodness for carefully edited email and texting.
9. Saving even a penny is worth it. The pennies add up and you never know what the future might hold. Saving was a habit that allows me to live comfortably today.
10. Few things are accomplished alone. Farm life is not an individual endeavor, and you need family, neighbors, and friends. Helping others and asking for help when needed makes my life rich.

I am not romanticizing farm life and I know townies and city kids also learned valuable lessons. I am grateful for my roots, however, and the influence of the messages I received in my rural upbringing.

I have a friend who appears sad. In our conversations, she often challenges me about why I am concerned and trying to change local issues as well as the broader world. I realize I care because I have hope that things can be better if I do something. She said she had little hope for anything to change. The conversations pushed me to think more deeply about hope and what it means to me, especially for this new year.

A professional colleague of mine introduced me to the idea of a “politics of hope” years ago. She explained that a belief (all politics are about beliefs) in hope was not only understanding something but working to critically examine, break down, and question the structures associated with the situation.

I wondered why hope was so important to me and seemed illusive for my friend. I learned, as people do, to hope when I was a child. When I was upset, usually mom and sometimes dad consoled, “It’s OK. It will get better.” I believed them.

I have also been thinking about how a person sustains hope when things sometimes feel hopeless. Big questions relative to climate change and social injustice prevail to mention only two issues. What happens when you lose hope? What happens when a person loses confidence in better days ahead? Sans hope I am in a state of sadness and fear.

The late Desmond Tutu suggested, “Hope is being able to see the light in spite of the darkness.” I have struggled with clinical depression during my life, and I know the feeling of darkness and dim light. For me, being hopeful as I enter the new year embodies positive feelings. More than that, I want my hope to result in inspired actions focused on self-improvement as well as making a difference in the world around me. I have learned that hope is having an expectation that change is possible because of intentional efforts.

Jane Goodall and Doug Abrams’ recent book, The Book of Hope, describes Goodall’s four reasons for hope in the chaotic world: amazing human intellect, the resilience of nature, power of young people, and the indominable human spirit. Thoughts from someone like Goodall gives me a foundation for a belief in human strength and informed actions for the new year.

I am not one to make new year’s resolutions, but I am committed to being hopeful for the future. I will support others who aspire with hopeful hearts and are willing to put actions behind their beliefs, resolutions, wishes, and hopes. Have a hopeful new year!

Unlike the apocalyptic lyrics of John Fogerty’s Bad Moon Rising (“I see a bad moon rising. I see trouble on the way…I see bad times today”), I choose to focus on the positives of a moon rising.

About 15 months ago, I was feeling discouraged about the resurgence of Covid-19 and the inability to return to any semblance of “normal.” I was tired of staying away from people and being continually cautious. Although I was active outside every day and enjoyed the timeless beauty of my area, I longed for social interaction outside my tiny bubble.

I wanted to do something healthy for my friends who had been generous over the months with their time and efforts in making masks, sharing their handiwork, sending notes, and dropping off little goodies.

Something I missed from volunteering at the park was structured park activities such as the monthly full moon walks led by interpretive rangers and supplemented with volunteers. A gift I thought I could give my friends was to organize monthly get-togethers outdoors, fully masked, and socially distanced to enjoy the full moon as it rose at twilight in the park.

Rocky Mountain National Park has plentiful landscapes where people can observe the moon as it crests the eastern horizon and heads across the night skies.

I invited potentially interested friends to meet me for the first time at Sprague Lake for a ¾-mile stroll around the lake at dusk. I had no idea if anyone would show up. Thirteen people came. I had experienced the enchantment of the first moonlight edging over the horizon, but some folks had not recently had that experience.

We eagerly awaited the illumination on the horizon on that first cold November night. When the Beaver Moon appeared eerily through the clouds and shown down, a new world opened for us. The reflection of the moon across the partially frozen lake provided radiance to the area. Eventually the moon shadows from our bodies emerged as we made our way around the lake. We stopped frequently to absorb the moonlight, dance with the moon shadows, and take photos. Words were not needed to describe our experience.

Throughout the rest of the winter and into April, I led the full moon rising strolls at various places in the park. Each one was different. The moon appeared from behind the clouds almost every time. We experienced the Cold (December), Wolf (January), Snow (February), Worm (March), and Pink (April) moons aptly named by indigenous peoples over the centuries.

I am continuing the monthly walks this year. Social distancing and masks are no longer necessary as long as everyone is vaccinated and boosted. I love sharing these monthly strolls to collectively experience the brilliance and heritage of the moon. To rewrite Fogerty’s song, “Full moon rising, I see beauty on the way, I see good times this day.”

Although some people complain about the supply chain issues in stores and increasing inflation, I remind myself that I am blessed with abundance. From Earth’s Population Statistics in Perspective, Dr. Scout Cloud Lee shared statistics about the world’s population that caused me to wonder and think.

The population of Earth is around 7.8 billion. If this figure is condensed into 100 persons, the statistics are easier to comprehend.

Out of 100:
11 are in Europe
5 in North America
9 in South America
15 in Africa
60 in Asia.

49 live in the countryside
51 live in cities.

12 speak Chinese
5 speak Spanish
5 speak English
3 speak Arabic
3 speak Hindi
3 speak Bengali
3 speak Portuguese
2 speak Russian
2 speak Japanese
62 speak their own language.

Out of 100:
77 have their own dwellings
23 have no place to live.

21 are over-nourished
63 can eat full
15 are under-nourished
1 ate the last meal but did not make it to the next meal.

The daily cost of living for 48 is less than 2 US Dollars.

87 have clean drinking water
13 either lack clean drinking water or have a polluted water source.

75 have mobile phones
25 do not.

Out of 100:
30 have internet access
70 do not have the availability to go online.

7 received university education
93 did not attend college.

83 can read
17 are illiterate.

33 are Christians
22 are Muslims
14 are Hindus
7 are Buddhists
12 are other religions
12 have no religious beliefs.

26 live less than 14 years
66 died between 15 – 64 years of age
8 are over 65 years old.

Lee concluded that if you have your own home, eat full meals and drink clean water, have a mobile phone, can surf the internet, and have gone to college, and I would add have lived to Medicare age, you are in a small, privileged group (in the less than 7% category).

A privilege is an entitlement granted to a group or person, either by birth or on a conditional basis, and can change. By contrast, a right is irrevocable and inherently held by all human beings. Many privileges I enjoy such as education, healthy food, and leisure ought to be fundamentally available to all as their rights. As these statistics indicate, this social justice does not currently exist.

My status allows me to live a comfortable life, despite daily inconveniences. During this time of the year, I am deeply aware of the gratitude I feel for my earned and unearned privilege.