When Aspens Weep

The villain is out causing havoc again. The cold case is open once more. I'm never surprised, but always at odds when this happens.

Thinking back to January when the snows are fluffy and light and happy to be here, blowing in great burst of soft snow clouds. Pin pricks of tiny snowflakes tickle your face in playful teasing. Sometimes at night, in the halo of the street light, tiny silver strands of snow make the evening an amazing art show. It's a time of broom sweeping, sun shining, deep Colorado blue skies. The sun fights the cold air by warming your face. Satisfying!

So when does this magic become sinister and dark? It's a time when the light goes away. I'm not sure why, but it is certainly gone. Even at noon, there is no color. All color lies muted in shades of gray, blue gray, black gray. Rocks become a monotone. Gray paper skies. White mountain peaks disappear in heavy foreboding clouds. This — is Springtime in the Rockies.

Let's go back to the case of a very heavy wet snow this spring. Wet, drippy, bone chilling cold snow. Yesterday as I was struggling trying to lift the shovel full of snow, a plop of snow on my head caused me to look up at the huge aspen tree that dropped the wet snowball on me. I couldn't believe my eyes. Wiping my cold tearing eyes, I look again. Walking nearer, no it is not a scar on my aspens, it is indeed wet, watery tear drops running down the bark. Putting my finger on the trails of tears, I imagine a salty taste. Too quiet, not a hint of a breeze, only silence. Unbelievable. No road sounds, no dogs barking, nothing.

So I'm not alone, it is not just me that is sad this time of year. My trees are yearning for their pea green buds to appear, the sap to rise and warm their branches. Everything is waiting. We know it is coming. Just not soon enough. Tightly closed buds on the lilac bush, the flowering almond and the aspen remind me of a child closing their eyes tight not see what they don't want to see.  Me too. I want to close my eyes tightly to not see the upcoming "mud season" and this year especially, the heavy wet snow.

As much in denial of the horror outside, last night I glanced out my front window onto my deck that I light up with rope lights and a red uplight for my aspen. I stopped, frozen in utter amazement. It was so beautiful. All the gray was gone. Warm yellow, pink, red and all shadows of colors glorified the snow.

I'll never solve this Cold Case and I'll never close it either. Sometimes when all is dark and dreary, beauty lies just around the corner. I'm just glad to see it and to share it with you.

Yippie Ti Yi... A Shepherder's Wagon

My mind wanders back to a summer at Duck Lake, Colorado, near the top of Guanella Pass. The owner of Alpendorf Alpine cabins shows me her European style cabins and her honest-to-goodness wooden sheepherders wagon that she's restored and uses for her guests. Here at 11,000 or so feet, one can spend a romantic night and dream of days gone by.

In nearby Geneva Park, our government still issues permits to use the public land for cattle and sheep grazing. Today, Sheepherders can be found working in Montana, Idaho, New Mexico, California, Utah, Nevada and Colorado.

In the 1800s, the sheepherders were mostly boys from our South. Later, the Basques came over from Spain to tend the sheep. Today, Peruvians have taken over the job. They hire on for three years, sending every penny to their families back home. The sheep graze by the hundreds, sometimes by the thousands, watched by the sheepherder and their dogs. The early sheepherder’s wagon, its water barrel latched tight on the outside, pulled by a horse, had an oh so interesting interior. Equipped with a wood-burning stove for both cooking and warmth on those cold mountain nights; built-in cupboards, a fold down table, a kerosene lantern, and a wonderful bed tucked in the back made this small space comfy cozy. Think of it as the first ancient RV model.

The Alpendorf's wagon is just too wonderful. Perched between fragrant spruce and pine and swift running creek, you overlook the lake. So quiet, except for the winds murmuring soft songs. I want to stay.

I’m thinking back in time and how lonely the sheepherder's life would be. All alone in those high mountain valleys, surrounded by snow covered peaks. It's just you, hundreds of sheep, a dog or two and a close-up view of our amazing nature. Tons of white clouds racing against a deep blue sky, tiny wildflowers everywhere you look. At night, a million stars surround the different phases of the moon. And the quiet… except for a couple of bleats from the sheep now and then and the munching of a horse grazing nearby.

Was it here on a mountain top that one shepherd concocted the Shephard’s pie in the light of a beautiful golden pink sunset? He would use lamb, surely, not beef. Yes, he would have onions, canned vegetables and potatoes. Or … could it be that this dish was named after a man whose surname was Shepherd … from New York City?

But that's another story.