Home on the range

Wednesday was a gorgeous day, so when I found myself with some unexpectedly free time, I decided to take a walk somewhere other than my usual out-the-front-door routes. I picked an area of open space near Boulder where the mountain views are lovely and the “open space” is genuinely open. As I walked along in the windy, sunny chill, my thoughts drifted almost immediately to how much I love Colorado.

I know that some folks think that the plains side of Colorado, the part east of the mountains, where Denver and Boulder lie, is dry and empty. And I get that. Whenever I return from traveling, especially to someplace lush like New England, I'm struck by how empty and barren and brown it is here—especially during the winter. I can easily imagine how the first "settlers," coming as they did from the heavily forested east coast, saw the plains as foreign, ugly, foreboding. But knowing this place intimately, having spent most of my life in the embrace of the front range of the Rockies, I find it alive, fascinating, singularly beautiful. Even in winter. When I'm here, especially when I'm outside, away from towns and crowds, I know the meaning of a sense of place.

For me, that feeling is evoked by really simple things. The soft gold of last year's grasses,  a spot of snow beneath a pine tree,  a lone yucca plant standing out against the snow, or the much larger yuccas with last year's pods giving a hint of what this meadow looks like when the yucca are in bloom. (For a hint, check out the picture of a yucca in full bloom that follows)

Now, in truth, this is a really bad time of year for me to try to convey the deep beauty of this land with pictures. You probably have to love the semi-arid landscape of the high plains to appreciate these photos. But if you're not persuaded that this walk and this day were marvelous, come join me some time for a slightly windy, brisk, sunny winter walk with your eyes and ears open for all there is to enjoy. Maybe it will change your mind.

And if these simple things don't do it, there are the more dramatic moments. For starters, the mountains to the west were just breath taking. The high peaks were brilliant white against the blue, blue Colorado sky. This was one of those moments when a telephoto lens (vs. a telephone lens) would have been good. You'll just have to trust me when I say that the peaks looked much higher, much larger, and much closer through my eyes than through my camera.

A telephoto would have also been fun for this next shot. This little bluebird was so blue, it looked like it was hatched in a pot of cerulean paint. Too tiny and too flighty for a very close approach, but stunning even at 30 feet or so.

And then there are these markers of the changing season: spots of snow on the hills just above Boulder’s iconic flatirons, the residue of the last storm plastered against the shady northern side of the fence posts, a plant sending tentative shoots through the dormant grass ground cover, and the red of willows whose color announces the approach of spring buds along the irrigation ditch – which has surely seen many such transitions.

And then, to top off the day,  I spotted this frog from some distance, sitting near the trail. I was trying to puzzle out how a frog—much less a black one— got in the middle of this very dry meadow when I realized that it was surrounded by cow pies. You can guess the rest. Still, too cute not to document.

The next morning, I happened by a local in-town open space park, where a small (artificial) lake provides a mirror to reflect the mountains, with morning clouds flying along the tops of the peaks. Again, too far away for a phone camera to capture, but beautiful. Trust me.

Still, I have to admit to a preference for the other pictures, the other scenes. I'm a wilderness buff at heart, and a foothills trail feels a lot more like home than a city lake, however beautiful the view.