Wandering and Wondering

Most places have names. Sometimes they are logical names based on a feature. Sometimes descriptive names were given by indigenous peoples. Other times name designations were convenient, honorary, or just distinctive.

I grew up in a town uniquely called Coggon, Iowa that brags as being the only Coggon in the world. The story goes that when white people settled the community over 150 years ago, they could not agree on the town’s name. The compromise was to name the town after the next person who got off the train at the railroad station. It happened to be Mr. Coggon.** In addition, Iowa got its name from the Ioway people, a tribe of Native Americans who occupied the area before the European settlers arrived.

Before Estes Park was named, the Arapaho Tribe called it heet-ko’einoo’ – or “The Circle.” Most Arapaho names given to lakes and mountains have more meaning than their current names. For example, indigenous people called Mt Meeker and Longs Peak “Two Guides” because they provided direction when travelling from the plains.

Other examples of Arapaho names in Rocky Mountain National Park that have significance include Lake Haiyaha, which few visitors pronounce correctly, meaning “Rocks.” If you have been to this lake, you know how exceptional it is with all the big rocks around and in the lake. The Kawuneeche Valley on the west side of the park means “Coyote.” Tonahutu is Arapaho for “Big Meadows”—an apt description. I love how these names are a way to acknowledge the natural landscapes and the indigenous civilizations that preceded us.

When I volunteer at Bear Lake, people ask if they will see bears. The naming of Bear Lake, according to High Country Names by Arps and Kingery that I frequently consult for information, says that early in the white settlement of the area, a rancher saw a bear at this lake. Bears were uncommon and he named it Bear Lake. Cub Lake is nearby but not named for a bear. Early settlers thought it was so small that they called it a “cub of a lake.”

I enjoy some more modern references to names in the park. For example, the Four Tops on the continental divide are Gabletop, Notchtop, Knobtop, and Flattop. Each of them is descriptive of their topography. Named lakes in the Glacier Gorge area include the “bruise” lakes—Black, Blue, and Green.

I think it helpful that sometimes lakes and mountains is an area share a generic theme. For example, Wild Basin has the “bird” lakes—Bluebird, Pipit, Lark, Junco, and Chickadee. The indigenous people named the Never Summer Range for that reason. Peaks in that area are named after cloud formations: Cumulus, Cirrus, and Nimbus. “Lake of the Clouds” is a nearby alpine lake.

Although perhaps “a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” places have meanings and I love exploring the origin of names wherever I wander.

**My cousin has advised me that I did not have the story quite right. Mr. Coggon did not physically visit Coggon. Two families were arguing on naming the town after themselves –the Greens and the Nugents. To find a solution to the squabble, Superintendent Spaulding of England, who was in town to  supervise construction of the railroad, recently received a letter from his cousin William Coggon of England. He suggested “Coggon” and everyone agreed.  Nevertheless, to our knowledge, Coggon is still the only place named Coggon in the world.

It is my birthday season. Birthdays are ubiquitous. We all have them—many if we are fortunate to live long enough. William Barclay noted, “There are two great days in a person’s life–the day we are born and the day we discover why.” I am grateful for each birthday. Each one leads me to a better understanding of why I was born.

When I was a child, birthdays were celebrated in my family by mom cooking a special meal with whatever the birthday kid wanted. A special cake was a treat on our birthdays. One sister always wanted red velvet cake. My favorite was carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. I chose grilled lamb chops for my meal, which wasn’t difficult since I grew up on a sheep farm. When we got older, we picked a local restaurant for birthdays. I always ordered shrimp as a birthday treat.

I have had a couple monumental birthdays. My first epic birthday was when I turned 16—eligible to drive a car. In rural Iowa I relished new freedom. My mother helped my friends throw a party for me on my 16^th. It was supposed to be a surprise, but one of my girlfriends nonchalantly said the day before, “I don’t know what I am going to wear to your party” and then gasped. I told her not to worry. I would act surprised.

People usually find the celebration of the “front number change” to be a special highlight. I have always thought that celebrating the “5” of a birthday was more historical. When a person turns 35, she is closer to 40 than 30, which I found sobering.

Birthdays overall had never been especially important to me largely because I didn’t enjoy being the center of attention. That attitude changed when I met someone who was battling breast cancer. Her prognosis was not good. She loved birthdays because she celebrated each like it might be her last. I was at her last party. Since then, I celebrate birthdays with unabashed gratitude.

As a recreational road runner for over four decades, birthdays were pragmatic as I moved into a new age category. For example, as a 45-year-old in the female 45-49 age range, I usually placed first, second, or third until the younger runners moved into the bracket. I looked forward to changing that bracket again in future years.

My most recent epic birthday was when I turned 62. I became eligible for a lifetime pass to federal recreation areas and especially National Parks—a great acknowledgement of getting older. I am about to add a decade to that coveted park pass.

With this birthday season, I aspire to be like Rachel Maddow who recognized that “life is better for each year of living it.” Each birth day celebration season is a recognition of discovering why I am alive. I am grateful.

I cannot imagine a life without reading. I appreciate the teachers who encouraged me to read and ways that reading enriches my life. I also subscribe to the wise words of Dr. Seuss: “The more you read the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you’ll go.”

I am somewhat of an eclectic reader although I do gravitate toward historical fiction, adventure stories, biographies and memoirs, and nature chronicles. I have never been a science fiction or mystery reader but from time to time I appreciate those reads. I also enjoy a no-mind romantic beach novel once in a while. Although I do like the feel of a book in my hands, I have used a Kindle for 15 years. It is convenient especially when I travel. The lighting means I can read anywhere. Words well crafted can exist in any form.

I experienced immense joy when I learned to read. The summer after second grade I drove my mother crazy because I wanted to go to our school library every other day to get more books to devour. I recall the excitement each fall with the book sale at school. My sisters and I got to pick out one book we wanted, and mom and dad wrapped it up as one of our Christmas presents. I loved owning books and building a personal library.

I also recollect the delight I saw in my mother as a reader. She finished her undergraduate degree in English while I was in high school. I envied her homework because she read classics that I hoped to read one day. I felt heart break for her when her eyes started failing a couple of years before she passed, and she couldn’t read like she had done all her life.

I enjoy reading the stories about other people’s lives and how they negotiate problems. Reading puts words on my feelings. As William Nicholson noted, “We read to know we’re not alone.” In addition, reading enables me to travel to places in the world without leaving home.

Reading has facilitated becoming a writer. Although I read quickly, I also savor slow reading and seeing how others put words together to enable mental pictures of their worlds. I appreciate how other writers construct and organize their works to keep me interested. I believe, as I have often told my students, being an observant reader instructs better ways to write.

Sometimes I can’t wait to turn the next page (or make the next click on the Kindle) when I’m reading a compelling book. When I near the end, however, I often don’t want the story to end. Reading the last page of a book sometimes feels like a forever farewell to people and things I came to love. Nevertheless, additional friends exist in books, and I look forward to meeting them in my next reads.

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.