Wandering and Wondering

“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.

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.