Moments

The Road to Eldora

On a cool, cloudy Colorado morning, I drove to the mountain town of Nederland for a run. Only a few cars passed me as I ran down the soft gravel shoulder of the road, headed toward the mountains and the Indian Peaks Wilderness. Quiet surrounded me and my thudding footfalls; the only other sounds were a light, fresh wind and the rush of a white stream that accompanied the road.

As I ran through the tiny settlement of Eldora, a collection of small log cabins set among the aspens, drivers of a couple more cars waved at me, as did a man who walked out onto his front porch with the morning newspaper. A short, muscular beige dog jogged over to greet me, then ran along ahead of me, looking back and panting, until the whining of another dog behind a wooden fence drew him away.

Slowly passing through this hushed scene on foot was something that the act of running often isn’t--relaxing.

Yet as I neared the car, the breeze on my face suddenly grew stronger. The road sloped downhill, and I picked up speed. My hair burst out of its holder, and I felt a surge of energy. Suddenly, it was no longer my body slogging along. Someone else’s legs reached out with long, strong strides. Someone else’s lungs deeply sucked the oxygen out of the thin air at 9,000’. For several powerful moments, this stranger’s body carried me through the final mile—smiling widely and saying “Ahh!”

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Did a moment make you smile today?  Please tell us about it!

Road Trip

My good buddy Phil, raised in Colorado, today explored with me what he’d heard was one of Colorado’s best-kept secrets, the Pawnee National Grasslands.

Several chunky, chalky buttes grouped together were the tallest features in these miles of freeing open prairie east of Fort Collins. We also drove past a submerged feature, a missile silo encircled by a chain link fence.

Around sunset, I hopped on I-25 to drive back to Boulder.

To my left, above the trailer sales lots, chain motels, and other miscellany of the interstate, a full moon peeked out between lavender clouds.

To my right, the Rockies and the cottony clouds above them were various shades of slate blue, with white and pale pink glowing between the clouds and the silhouette of the sawtoothed mountains. Then for a few quick minutes, the highway commercialism between the mountains and me disappeared, and the only foreground was a field thick with amber grasses.

My breath caught in my throat, and I thought of how in the past three weeks, almost every day has yielded glimpses—sometimes one or two, sometimes hundreds—of stunning natural beauty.

What moments have caught your breath lately?  Please share them with us!

• More Pawnee National Grasslands pics

Earning Elbert

Today’s moment was a happy one—reaching the summit of Colorado’s highest peak, Mt. Elbert, at 14,433’! This one had been on my list for a while.

While on most summer days in Colorado, thunderstorms begin building around noon, today was crystal clear. But as is often the case, the weather still had a trick up its sleeve—wind. Gusts in the valley 4,000’ below were clocked at 20 mph. High on the mountain, they were strong enough to knock me off balance, push me a few feet to the side, or grab my pack and swing it to one side of my back. Climbing switchbacks that faced directly into the wind was an exercise in patience.

Near the summit, the trail lies slightly lower than the ridgeline; a sheer drop is on the other side. While that short portion of the trail was sheltered, I could hear the wind thrashing against the rocks below, and when the trail rose at the pass, the wind tried to push me left once again. Luckily, temperatures were fairly warm, though I loaded up on the windpants and extra fleece to descend, without the heat of climbing.

The view was spectacular. Not a cloud floated in aptly named Summit County. Peaks rose in all directions. Mountains more than 100 miles away were clearly visible. And today’s wind-whipped climbers earned every bit of that summit view!

• See more Mt. Elbert pics

Robber on 6th Street

After several days in Washington, I returned to Boulder today to find a bit of disarray at the house. The extra-full bowl of cat chow I had left in the kitchen for the resident kitty Enzo was empty; the two water dishes were full of dirty, foul-smelling water. On the kitchen counter, a bag of cookies was ripped open, as was a bag of cat chow. Down the front of the stainless steel dishwasher were telltale hand-shaped tracks; apparently a raccoon entered the house and plundered the loot.

The innocent-looking house I’ve rented is three blocks from open space that stretches up into the mountains. Living here is a bit like living in a Walt Disney movie--foxes trot through the streets and alleys in the mornings, and I looked at the window one afternoon to see a deer on the other side, gazing in at me from four feet away.

Yet not all of the forest creatures are sweet. Two weeks ago, I lay awake wondering when the infestation of wolf spiders in the bathroom would spread and drive me from the house--while their numbers have dwindled, my days of walking through the house barefoot are over for good. Other nights, I have heard the cat yowling angrily in the yard at demons I cannot see. I have awakened in the wee hours to a strong scent of skunk fuming in through the open windows and worried that Pepe Le Pew would bounce through the kitty door cut into the far corner of the bedroom wall.

Tonight, I will add a new item to my bedtime list of chores—barricade the kitty door with a heavy object, and hope that Enzo wakes me if she wants to come in for a midnight snack. While I’m up for most Colorado adventures, I do hope that tangling with a masked bandit while decked out in my PJs will not be one of them.

Rainbows

Yesterday, I drove out to the airport in the early evening to pick up a friend who is visiting for the next few days. 

We had bad storms yesterday afternoon; I had thought to myself that this year’s thunderstorms were much less violent than in the past, and immediately a loud crack broke above the house. Rain poured down, rushing in streams two feet wide and several inches deep on either side of the street.

Then the storms moved east, and as I left for the drive, a vividly dark blue cloud colored the sky to my right and contrasted with the beige prairie grasses. In my rearview mirror, the lowering sun skimmed the jagged silhouette of the Rockies, its rays visible in the mist the storm had left behind.

In a moment of elation and soul satisfaction, I suddenly realized that although I was driving to the airport, usually my portal back to Washington, this time I would be returning immediately to sleep against the base of my beloved mountains.

Shortly thereafter, I noticed a small slice of rainbow off to the left of the car. As I continued to drive, it slowly grew bigger. Then, to my right, a mirror rainbow piece appeared. The closer I got to the airport, the brighter and more complete the rainbow became. As I reached the airport grounds, the rainbow was in full effect just to the right of the airport itself, centered above the car. The sun shone brightly against the wet pavement. Where the rainbow met the ground, its colors became blindingly bright. Then the faint stripe of a second, outer rainbow appeared. Pictures taken from inside the car don't begin to do it justice.

In all my life, I have never seen anything like the brilliance of that rainbow. While I have no idea what it meant, if anything, I know for sure that I will never forget it.

• Other pics from yesterday's rainy hike--See Beaver Creek photos

Drinking in the Day

Moments of discovery are always a thrill, and so I sought out a new area to hike, the James Peak Wilderness, under which runs a railroad tunnel. Even the area’s name seems mysterious—East Portal.

Driving up, I turned onto a dirt road that led west and slow danced around, under, and over the solid, symmetrical train tracks. Signs warned of “heavy truck traffic,” and early on, I waited for one long truck to thread under the train tracks. Another one zoomed past a few miles farther on, taking up more than its fair share of the road.

Other moments abounded. On the border of the forest and a horse-studded meadow, the roof of a log cabin steamed as the morning’s first sun warmed it. An old yellow schoolhouse stood alone in the meadow, with bald peaks in the distance.

At the parking area near Moffat Tunnel, a single green boxcar sat abandoned on a side track. The tunnel, built in 1927, was coated black with diesel smoke and dirty streaks of rain.

Suddenly I heard a swooshing sound, then a bell ringing, and the tunnel produced a Union Pacific train. Three yellow-and-smoke-smudged locomotives emerged, leading cars full of coal--formed in mountain darkness, the small black nuggets were extracted once again into light. Another engine strained in the middle of the train, and two pushed at the rear. After the train whined down the track, a whirring began at the tunnel, as fans blew the engines’ spent breath out of the mountain’s depths.

Past the tunnel, the trail rose through fir trees draped with coarse, wooly moss. After climbing steeply to treeline, I saw the lakes cupped beneath the peaks.

An ill-mannered, unleashed, and very large dog belonging to people fishing at the lake tried to take my sandwich right out of my hand. I moved to a quieter spot to escape hearing the three of them fuss at the dog, and each other.

Above the quiet meadow, afternoon clouds began building and drifting behind the ridge. A white stream sashayed out of the lake. And bees sucked from pink fireweed blossoms—likewise drinking in the day.

• More tunnel and lakes pics

Being Here

Saturday’s moments involved running the Georgetown to Idaho Springs half marathon at altitude on a day of hot, strong sun. That I finished with a halfway decent time was due only to the fact that the run went downhill from 8,500’ to 7,500’; it was quite the challenge.

Sunday marked my return to the peaks, at long, long last. Pawnee Peak, at just under 13,000’, was on the agenda. The hike first passes Isabelle Lake, set among wildflowers, small glaciers, and rocky peaks. The weather that day was what it almost always is in Colorado on summer mornings—cool, cloud-free, with yellow sun and bright blue skies.

As I neared the lake and pulled out my camera, so did two college students who were speaking what seemed to be Italian. As they passed, one of the boys turned to me and said in a thick accent, “Here is beautiful, eh?”

“Here” was beautiful, indeed—and to be here on that exquisite Sunday morning was nothing short of divine.

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When were you in the moment last?  Share with us!

• More Pawnee Peak pics

Seeing Lights

One of the many ways in which Colorado’s landscape varies from the East Coast’s is the ability to see for miles. The foothills above Boulder are front-row seats for watching the weather on the plains.

Friday night, clouds pink with sunset rolled off the foothills.

Then, a storm so far away its thunder was out of hearing range flashed hot pink strobes and startled white x-rays. One yellow lighting bolt undulated sideways like a serpent sliding from cloud to cloud.

For many moments, I watched my own personal light show.

 

Boing, Boing

Each morning last week, I strapped into a harness, climbed a ladder or scaffolding, clipped in to webbing and bungee cords, and hung from the ceiling. This five-day class in bungee dancing was part of an Aerial Dance Festival--and taught me to fly. 

The best moments? Hanging upside down, hanging parallel to the floor and looking up at the ceiling, pushing off the floor and springing into mid-air jumping jacks, and looking back over one shoulder and soaring backwards. Ah, to have wings!

Wide-Eyed

The mission of my blog—to share all kinds of moments—is being tested already.

My intent today was to share simply a moment from a trail run—the joy of bouncing from rock to rock along a red dirt path, the freedom of my hair slipping out of its clip and flying in the wind as I ran, the beauty of a cloud that changed from fiery melon to pale blue to muted fuchsia as the sunset’s rays stroked it.

But I returned home after dark to another “moment,” to be sure.

I am phobic of spiders. There were three in the bathroom—one medium, the other two huge. After smashing them in a cold sweat, I picked my makeup bag off the floor so that none could get in it—and another big one was hiding beneath the bag, its long spindly legs stretched above and below its body in sheaves. Trembling, I killed it, too, plus the small one circling under the scales. I feel remorse for their deaths, but my terror far outweighs it.

The weather turned hot today; they have come inside, likely from under the wooden porch, to lie against the bathroom’s cool stone tiles. One is still on the loose; I last saw it scuttling under the kitchen table. So far, I’ve not seen any in the bedroom. Still, I fear it will be a night of wide-eyed moments, and a fearful trip to the loo come dawn.

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• New pics