Wandering and Wondering

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.  

When I was in junior high, I read that prisoners on death row got to choose their last meal. I never wanted to be in that situation, but I knew pizza was my meal choice. Many years later, I still think I would choose pizza. I enjoy pizza but am hard pressed to pick a favorite food. I savor many cuisines.

I am adventurous with food and have encountered few victuals that I don’t like, or that I cannot tolerate. I am not a fan of stewed tomatoes but otherwise I am always willing to sample different foods. I especially enjoy ethnic possibilities.

The highlights of my travel ventures have been sampling local foods. Some tourist destinations tend to cater to what tourists normally eat, but I am always interested in what the native people eat and in trying their traditional foods. Many dishes such as those one might get in China or Mexico have much different interpretations in the US and I prefer the foods from their countries of origin.

My explorations with food are tied to my mother’s interest in food. I grew up on an Iowa farm where the staple was meat and potatoes. That was what my dad wanted. However, my mom was eager to try new food experiences. As a 6^th grade teacher, she always had one day a year for a “food tasting party.” I think she knew back then that rural kids rarely were exposed to ethnic foods or anything out of the ordinary. I remember the foodstuffs at the party such as hominy, tacos, black-eyed peas, lamb chops, and grits.

In our farm vegetable garden, mom encouraged me to grow something new and different each year. I remember growing brussels sprouts, kale, and okra for the first time. The challenge after growing these items, however, was to figure out how to cook them!

We seldom went to restaurants when I was young since we had plenty of good food that was grown in the garden and on the farm. Whenever we did go out to eat, I always ordered shrimp because we obviously did not have those fish on the farm. Even today I find myself partial to fish when I go out to eat.

I used to cook and experiment with preparing different foods. In the past 10 years, however, my relationship with food has changed. I have a disability called anosmia, the inability to smell. I had a severe cold several years ago and evidently the virus attacked my olfactory nerve. I have had tests and tried therapies, but that nerve is yet to regenerate. I can taste on my tongue whether foods are sweet, sour, and salty but I cannot discern the flavors. I wish I did not have this problem, but it also has taught me to eat with my eyes and enjoy the textures of food in ways that I had not experienced before. I am hopeful that eventually I will be able to taste the subtleties of food again and feel confident cooking for others. If not, I have many great memories of food and still enjoy trying new gastronomies.

“Food Glorious Food” means something a little different to me than in the movie Oliver. Nevertheless, I am thankful to have abundant food in my life, to consume it with much gratitude, and to hope I have many more years before my last meal.

Elk Peacefully Grazing

I have a cat, Gitch, who is a talker. When I come home, he greets me at the door and begins. I imagine the conversation might be something like this:

“Mom. Mom. It was hekkin scary. I was peacefully sleeping and heard a roar outside. I investigated. It was a brown truck. I tried to rouse Mog to help me defend our house. She just snoozed. And then, and then, I heard footsteps. I peered out and saw a man in a brown uniform. I ducked down and then heard a thud. Mog kept sleeping. I hid and the truck went away.  I crept back to my bed and waited. I was worried, mom, but now you’re home.”

I talk to, with, about, and for animals every day. I anthropomorphize animals on a regular basis. Anthropomorphism is the attribution of human characteristics to animals as well as non-living things and phenomena. I imagine animals talk to me.

For example, as I wander and see birds and animals, I make up stories about what they are saying. As two geese flew overhead and honked at Lake Estes, I imagined perhaps the female is saying to her lifelong mate: “If we had gotten an earlier start, Harold, we wouldn’t have to be flying so fast. I thought we were going to stop back in the marsh. Where are we going?”

What I admire most about many animals, however, and the attribute I wish I had is the ability to stay in the moment. When I see deer or elk placidly grazing in a meadow, I wish I were them. They seem not to have a care in the world unless something startles them. They look patient and peaceful. Unlike me, I doubt they are thinking about regrets they have in their lives. I doubt they are worrying about what is going to happen tomorrow. They are not anxious about impending danger until it is obviously upon them.

I wish I could better live in the moment. I would like to be able to react when there is a present problem but not worry about a future that has yet to unfold. Nevertheless, Charles Darwin suggested that “There is no fundamental difference between man [people] and animals in their ability to feel pleasure and pain, happiness and misery.” People can learn from the shared similarities.

Nicole Brownfield (https://www.society19.com/uk/qualities-of-animals-that-humans-should-consider; July 27, 2018) wrote a short article giving examples of what humans could learn from animals. For example, elephants show empathy by caressing distressed members gently with their trunks. Lions appear to be fearless animals and the most relentless of fighters in the face of life challenges. Many animals are playful and fun-loving creatures such as otters and penguins. I also love the generosity of penguins when they offer rock gifts as part of their courting ritual. I admire wolves who are both loyal to their mates and packs. Each wolf has a duty to protect every member of the pack.

I believe that animals can see into human souls. When I look into my cats’ eyes, I believe they are entering into my core. They are assessing the person I am. I hope they see my goodwill for them. Animals, both domestic and wild, teach me lessons about living every day and I make no apologies for anthropomorphizing them.

“What’s your favorite hike?” I am frequently asked this question when volunteering at Rocky Mountain National Park. I have come up with a response that initially works:

“It’s the hike I’m on that day.”

People seem to chuckle at that response. However, I am often pressed a bit more. I respond with questions like, “What do you want to see (lakes, wooded trails, being on top of a mountain?” “How far do you want to go?” “How fit would you say you and your companions are?” And in the wintertime, “What kind of footwear do you have (good hiking boots, traction devices like microspikes, snowshoes)?” Sometimes I ask if they have been in the mountains for a day or two or are coming from sea level.

Although hiking is an easy activity to do, making decisions about what trails to use is not that simple if one is to have a good experience and not disrupt the ecology of the park.

I am passionate about hiking. I have the privilege of getting out into the natural world almost every day. At the least, I take a walk around Lake Estes. I differentiate between hiking and walking based on whether I am on unpaved or paved trail, respectively.

As much as I love my own hiking experiences and want others to have safe and awe-inspiring opportunities, I am becoming increasingly troubled by the degradation that is occurring on my favorite trails, which is most of them. Many outdoor spaces and parks (and especially trails) are being loved to death. The increased numbers of people visiting outdoor areas as well as the quantity of trail apps available have contributed to hiking popularity and the concomitant overuse of trails. It does not have to be a problem, however, if we all appreciated that with the right to hike comes a commitment to recreate responsibly.

Native American Chief Seattle is credited with the notion frequently expressed, “Take only photos, leave only footprints.” Some people have substituted memories for photos and I like that idea. However, I am concerned about the suggestion to leave footprints. On some of the trails in the park people have disregarded staying on the trails and have widened them by walking off trail to avoid a little mud. Getting your boots dirty is part of the experience!

I am especially angered by those people who feel it is no problem to shortcut the trails. Many of the trails in Rocky that go up steeply have been constructed purposely with switchbacks to make it easier to walk, albeit a bit longer. It breaks my heart to see people coming straight down (the trails on Deer Mountain are a classic example) leaving all kinds of footprints and impending erosion of the mountainside.

I like to wander off trail in some parts of the park. But going off-trail does not mean creating a new trail or following directly behind someone else’s footsteps. Minimum impact involves leaving as little evidence, including any footprints, as possible. Tread lightly and responsibly. It results in leaving no trace.

I do not want to deny anyone from enjoying the outdoors, but more awareness and education can occur so that with the right and privilege to hike, people will recreate responsibly on trails or anywhere else they go in the outdoors.  

I went to Junior 4-H camp for the first time when I was 10 years old. The camp happened to be two miles from my home, but it opened a world that influences me every day.

Organized camps have been a part of American society for over 150 years. Millions of children and adults in the US as well as around the world have participated in camps run by religiously affiliated groups, not-for-profit organizations, governments, and private individuals. “Camp gives kids a world of good” has been a catch phrase for marketing camps for decades.

My first experience at camp was not extraordinary but I loved it. My counselors were “cool,” and I knew that I wanted to be one when I “grew up.” I went to several 4-H camps throughout my school days and got to be a camp counselor. I spent summers while in college at the Iowa 4-H Camping Center, a Presbyterian church camp, a private camp in Colorado, and a girl scout day camp. Professionally, I had the chance to teach camp management, write a book on camp counseling, and author numerous research articles and thought pieces about the value of camp.

The first research about the character-building benefits of camp was published a hundred years ago (not by me!). Since then, many studies have documented the value of camp such as developing self-esteem and social skills. Most camp staff are intentional in helping campers develop social-emotional skills, and that is key to nurturing human development.

I think, however, there is nothing wrong with acknowledging that camp is good fun and that recreational activities (e.g., hiking, swimming, canoeing, crafts) can become lifelong skills. Learning often occurs the best in fun experiences. Recreation offers enjoyable ways to learn. Camp gives people a chance to be themselves and opportunities to play in safe environments.

One of the research studies that I always wanted to conduct was to ascertain how camp contributes to an enduring love of outdoor activities in particular. This possibility was true for me as the summer I was a camp counselor in Colorado solidified my ongoing love for the mountains and mountain activities.

Another aspect of camp that intrigues me is HOW certain outcomes occur at camp. Heath and Heath wrote a book called The Power of Moments that explores why certain experiences have an extraordinary impact on people. I had such an experience at a state-wide 4-H Leadership camp. Camp did not turn my life around as I was headed in a good direction. I had a counselor, however, who challenged and enriched me. At the end of the camp, she wrote in my autograph book, “Love, love, love, and share, share, share.” Those words have inspired me for over 50 years—loving people, loving nature, loving myself, and sharing my blessings, camp research, and experiences with others most recently through this blog.

Camps are not inherently good. The value depends on the people who direct and facilitate those experiences. Positive human development for kids and adults can occur in many places. Nevertheless, camp can be an affirmative experience that connects young and old to others as well as to nature. It can change lives and it can enrich people’s lives. Being connected to camp and camp people has given my world a whole lot of good.

On a zoom call with friends several weeks ago we discussed where we would like to live for a year outside of the US if we had a chance. In thinking about that fantasy, I realized that all the places I wanted to reside had sheep—New Zealand, Scotland, Wales, Ireland. I have a storied relationship with sheep.

My dad was a farmer with diversified crops and livestock. Not many farmers had sheep, but my dad did. My affinity for sheep came from him. After he retired from farming and moved to an acreage, he still kept a few sheep in a nearby pasture.

Dad liked to tell the story of how as a 3-year-old, I followed him all over the farm “helping” do chores. One time I was in the sheep yard and a ewe came and butted me down. As he tells it, I got up and she knocked me down again. I think my father watching this happen bordered a bit on child abuse, but unknowingly that ewe perhaps taught me a valuable lesson about getting up every time you get pushed down.

I saw a similar situation when I was hiking in Wales. Sheep were wandering around a parking lot near a trailhead and one of them pushed a little girl who was holding an ice cream cone. The parents quickly grabbed the child, but the sheep seized the ice cream cone.

Most sheep, however, are mild mannered and not always the brightest of animals. If you can get one sheep to go the direction you want, they all follow generally without exception.

Spring brings the lambing season. We almost always had an orphan lamb or two to feed when I was growing up. They could be orphaned because their mom died or had no milk, or mom refused to own them, or sometimes if triplets were born, one was just too small to survive with the others. The baby lambs came into the house and were put in a large box with a heat lamp. Feedings were with warm milk in a nipple topped pop bottle every few hours until the lambs could be put back in the barn with the others and fed twice a day with the bottle.

My first 4-H lambs were named Mercury, Venus, Neptune, and Pluto. I showed Mercury and Pluto at the County 4-H Fair and got one blue ribbon and one red ribbon. After the fair, we took them to Wilson’s meat packing plant in Cedar Rapids. I cried when I had to let them go. Dad made it clear that we raised livestock to sell, and I would have more lambs in the future. The money I got from them went to buying my first used 3-speed bike, and I did feel less sad.

I learned about sheep management over the years and had almost 30 of my own ewes by the time I graduated from high school. I sold them back to my dad and was able to finance my first two years of college tuition.

Although I struggle with the ethics of eating animal protein, lamb is my favorite meat. A friend who had grown up in Washington DC came with me to visit my parents many years ago. She said to me, “Now I am not going to meet an animal on your farm and then eat it for dinner that night, am I?” I assured her that it did not work that way. Mom fixed lamb when I came home because she knew I enjoyed it. After blessing our food at the dinner table, mom said, “Do you remember that little crippled lamb we bottle fed last spring?” My friend was horrified. It is what it is on the farm.

Volunteering with a Stuffed Sheep at Sheep Lakes

I do not see many domestic sheep these days. My favorite volunteer activity, however, is with the Bighorn Brigade at Sheep Lakes in Rocky Mountain National Park. The Bighorn Sheep come from high in the Mummy Range to Sheep Lakes periodically to eat the minerals in the mud that they crave in the late spring and summer. The Brigade interprets the area for visitors and assists with traffic control when the sheep cross the busy road. I am thrilled when the sheep arrive, and even happier when they safely head home to high in the mountains.

Regardless of where and what kind, sheep make me smile.