Taming the Savage Rodent, Or Not

Not to beat a dead horse, but I guess I'm gonna!  I've returned with my promised post about the animals I encountered on the ol' hike up the big Colorado hill of two weeks ago.  Just HOW many entries does that make about the monumental trip to Long's Peak?

I'm rather prone to friend-making of both the human and animal kind.  (Let's not split hairs on the science of humans belonging to the animal kingdom . . . or the fact that there are those humans who more resemble the beasts of the field than mannered socially-contributing folks.  That's another story.)  And ever since my camera -- or whatever lovely borrowed DSLR I might be toting around and hate to one day part with -- became an extension of myself, it seems that my new friend count began to up.

Though we never laid eyes on predators of any kind, the four-legged variety, there were hawks and carrion-eaters, I know with absolute surety that they lurked behind or beneath a boulder somewhere not far off.   They simply had to because the sheer numbers of instant dinners in the form of mini-mammals galore was staggering!  Never have I seen so-o many low-to-the-ground scurrying critters, and such nifty varieties, in the space of one wilderness sojourn.

Of course, the forest harbored squirrels aplenty.  Though they remained silent during the dark of a pre-dawn morning as we trudged along at the beginning of our journey, said squirrels scolded us at every knee-jarring turn in the path upon our return through their wooded neighborhood.  I tried to squeeze off a few shots of them but the results were not satisfying nor worthy of a picture post here.  

Now, the smooth balls of fluff which seemed to permeate the ground all around us during the tundra portion of our hike, the pica, or pika as many people choose to spell it, were a favorite of mine.  Little charmers of unending cuteness.  (There's even an 13,000 foot peak in the White River National Forest of Colorado called Pica Peak.)   And I DID try to take a portrait of several specimens along the way but they're too darned quick!  If there'd been energy and time to set up a mini-tripod and hang around for a bit, I know I would have reaped a satisfying reward.  However, I did scour the Internet and found a few borrowed images to share.  Interesting to note, the pica is NOT a rodent but is an actual cousin to rabbits.  Of which we saw several as they hopped into our path before realizing their folly and swiftly hightailing it outta there.  (There was this line of banter concerning Jody, the young woman and girlfriend to Shep, as a 'rabbit choker.'  I never really got it until over lunch the day after our adventures, when it was explained to me for historical reasons I won't get into here, that Shep is from Wyoming and Jody hails from South Dakota, and the citizens of Wyoming, feeling superior to their neighbors, referred to natives of South Dakota as 'rabbit chokers' in a derogatory sense.  Obviously, Shep and Jody had parlayed it into an ongoing relationship joke.) 

 "Peekaboo!"

Those ears.  That fur.  The wee paws.

Upon reaching the Boulder Field, we ran into our next wildlife friend.  Or, rather, he ambled into us!  One bold plump marmot, obviously an opportunistic feeder hanging out at the base camp at the foot of the keyhole entrance to the other side of Long's Peak, ingratiated himself with our party.  And as you'll see here, the waddling rascal was wholly unafraid of us homo sapiens.

I spot him and think, "Oh, come our way, little critter!"

As if attuned to my brain waves, he began to head in our general direction.

Maybe we were between him -- an instant assumption of his sex on my part -- and his family?  Or his den?  My knowledge of marmots was limited, I'll admit.

At this point, I'm excited and speaking aloud to the marmot while aiming my camera.
"Come on, come over here, come see us!"

 He perked right up, as if he'd been awaiting my verbal cue.

 About that time, we ALL realized he was making an intentional beeline in our direction.  My sister felt this development was less than desirable. 

However, both me and the marmot were pretty pleased with the way things were going.

 I think right about here is when he realizes that the nut-and-fruit bar in Rob's possession could very well soon be in HIS belly . . . 

You can see the purpose in his beady little eyes . . . 

And against Rebekah's wishes, and to my great pleasure, Rob fed the varmint.

For his second act, the marmot headed straight over to me, my camera and my Clif bar.  I fed him, clicking away the entire time, until the moment he swiped the nibble AND bit my finger in the process.  He drew no blood but it hurt.  This bothered me very little because I GOT THE PICTURE!!!

 He's rather a handsome fellow, methinks.  I wonder whether or not the white fur around his muzzle and face denotes his age as it does with dogs and cats.  (At this point, he is still sitting at my feet.  Not yards away, captured with a zoom lens.  That's my shadow falling over him.  Pretty darned cool.)

Further reading and research admonishes hikers and climbers from feeding the hungry furred friends of forest and tundra.  There's a particular flea carrying the bubonic plague that's making its way through certain rodent populations.  The marmot, a relative to the squirrel, also known as a woodchuck or groundhog, is a rodent.  Of this disease-vector fact I was blissfully unaware just two weeks ago.  Ahhh, sweet ignorance, eh?

Chipmunks ran amok at the stop near the clear sunken lake near which we rested on our way up.  On our way down, I had need of the open-air outhouse -- pack your used wiping products out, thanks so much -- so we plunked down at this same spot for a brief respite before entering the forest during our final endless leg of our 13 1/2 hour sojourn.  We met a family of campers who had spent their day fishing and were headed back with their catch and their poles tossed over their shoulders.  They appeared considerably fresher than anyone in our group.  And then there was that one singular chipmunk, so earnest, so curious, so bold and begging, who yearned to share my sister's bag of nuts, dried fruit and chocolate.  My sister, while willing to leave a sample for said chipmunk, was not of a mood to entice it from her hand.  I'm sure visions of the biting marmot were yet fresh in her mind.  Smart girl!  

 Here comes Alvin.  Not sure where Simon and Theodore are!

Blurry but evident.  I especially dig the rock!  Too big for my pack and my back.

Oops!  Guess he was a bit spooked.  He'll be back!

 This is how I know . . . 

A-huh!  See there.  I told you so.

Why is his face so dirty?

 One nut down, one to go.

He wasted NO time.  And both of those almonds ended up crammed into his cheeks!

Aside from the rodents and their ilk, birds ranked as the the second highest viewed member of the animal kingdom.  I've snapped many a hawk and sparrow and cardinal.  But I can't recall ever having seen a          , much less pointed a camera in it's direction and recorded its handsomeness for posterity . . . and my blog.

 Several ptarmigan snacked alongside the tundra trail on the way up.
Our presence caused them little to no distress.

 They ate and ate with little regard for the intense observation of their habits.

 Incredible how their plumage really does blend in with the environment.

 I'd love to return and see them in full winter-white splendor.

A final shot as I try to catch up with the human pack up ahead!

When you put it all together, the scenery, the challenge, the mountain itself, the company, the wildlife, this trip, this entire episode in my life, ranks right up there on the ol' bucket list.  One of those items you check off even though you didn't actually realize it had even made it onto your life list.  I'm quite satisfied with all of it.  Every element.  Even my burning shoulder can't detract from the accomplishment.  In fact, I'm hankering for a good fourteener hike on a monthly basis now.  It's in my blood.  

Until another summit opportunity presents itself, I'll soldier on with other blog topics.  But first, a few random shots that don't really fit into a specific category regarding this hike but still deserving of honorable mention.

Either a fish or a fisherman trailed blood for a good eighth of a mile.  I thought this splotch resembled an umbrella.

 Is it rock or is it wood?

Though not a cat person, Rob was smitten with Mooney.

I love how they both track the approaching dog here. 

Here comes the comfort and commiseration.

Spreading the love was ALL this young man did on this corner all afternoon!

 I'm forever grateful that THIS is not the backpack I toted up the big hill.

 A young man sporting an interesting gauge who agreed to allow me to take his picture.My sister APOLOGIZED for my behavior!  When did THAT happen?

 Jody registers pretty high on the cute scale, so she deserved another picture.

 This dreadlocked maiden served my sister an iced beverage at a quaint downtown Fort Collins coffee shop.  Again, I asked to snap a shot.  She agreed.  Quite amiably.

 Shep ducked into the neighboring pub rather than wander down the road with us.

 Oh!  And I did find one still squirrel -- albeit on my walk in Fort Collins.

The local wildlife ala Fort Collins.

Sacrifice, Suburban-Style

I hope my neighborhood appreciates the sacrifice of time and brain power that I pour into my Jamison Place HOA Architectural Committee duties. The work is daunting. Reviewing countless fence proposals outlined by thoughtful and intelligent homeowners. Meeting with my other ARC cohorts to painstakingly review clearly laid out plans and either approve or disapprove. Often within a few minutes worth of palavering and a several blinks of an eye. The forms state that the process will take at LEAST two weeks but we knock 'em out in often less than a week. Phone calls. E-mails. Meeting at each others' homes.

For example, just today I showered, shampooed and shined, donned my perky 'Target' red and white summer dress, and marched to the other end of my cul-de-sac, an entire long block in 85 degree weather, mind you, for one such powwow. I didn't return home for TWO hours. There was that exhaustive fifteen minutes spent reviewing and signing the proposal, we'd all cruised or strolled past the house in question earlier; that was followed by an hour and a half of conversation spent getting to know one another better after a few months of serving together on the committee. All that mutual admiration and smiling and sharing lives sure taxes a weary neighborhood volunteer! And then the return trip to my house! I even crossed a major street. Two cars sped by at 20 miles an hour. Sacrifice.

And then later in the evening, calling the new neighbors eagerly awaiting the go-ahead on their fence plans, hoping to deliver their copy of the signed forms as soon as possible. After leaving a succinct message and hanging up, I figured they'd call me the next day. Instead, a return call kept me on the phone for over an hour. We could have been enmeshed in a deep discussion of easements and fencing materials and projected timelines, you know? Sacrifice.

As it was, we clicked, and swapped life factoids. She was hungry for local company, only two weeks in our suburb, working full-time out of her home, her husband often traveling, all her three kids out of the house. It became evident that we shared a common affliction: diarrhea of the mouth (my mom coined this phrase to describe me in my toddlerhood). We both have Sarahs. Sons in the Army. Like gardening. Are quick to laugh. I invited her to Bunco; she accepted the invite with evident pleasure. I promised to drop off her paperwork tomorrow during my walk. We laughed at our inability to hang-up our phones. And then we did. Sacrifice.

I'll probably remain with the committee next year, despite the long hours and intense research and interpretation of official, well thought out, concise forms. It's in my nature to help. To assist. To aid. Sigh-h. I grow weary after such an exhausting day of looking out for the best interests of my neighborhood.

Sacrifice, I tell ya.

On Fritters and Faith

Donut Palace RAN OUT of donuts yesterday, thereby thwarting my apple fritter craving, or more to the point, denying me the satisfaction of fulfilling said craving.  To be fair, it was after noon when Jimmy, Ashley and I pulled up to the door and absorbed the absence of sweetness in the air, the darkened neon OPEN light and the neatly printed sign on the glass door alerting us late-rising customers to their non-problem.  I mean, what business doesn't want to completely sell out of product in a day?!
 
Fortunately, I'm not given to surrendering after only one attempt.  So, this morning I was up bright and early, after . . .

OHHHHHHH, ANOTHER DENVER TOUCHDOWN!!!  WE ARE PAST THE TWO-MINUTE WARNING.  PEYTON MANNING AND HIS MERRY MEN HAVE TROMPED ALL OVER THE PITTSBURGH STEELERS IN THE 2012 SUNDAY NIGHT FOOTBALL SEASON OPENER.  WE NOW RETURN TO OUR REGULAR PROGRAM IN PROGRESS.

. . . after four hours of sleep, for round two with Donut Palace.  Needless to say, the early customer gets the fritter!  In this case, two apple fritters, four jelly-filled, six glazed, a dozen holes and a sausage croissant.  We'll get back to that meat-filled pastry in a moment.


An older gentleman entered the store while I was paying for my wide-and-fried treasure.  He perused the product behind the glass and then stood to ask me, "Is that your dog out there in the truck?"  Of course, I answered in the affirmative.  "You got yourself a handsome hound," he declared.  I thanked him several times over, an inordinately wide grin practically splitting my face in two.  As if I had anything to do with Hank's good looks.  I mean, he wasn't even spawned from my gene pool like the three handsome human children I once toted around everywhere in my car.  But the sense of pleasure and pride I feel still resonates.  After all, his training and diet and exercise contribute to his overall health and that is reflected in his form, for sure.  And all that love and attention heaped upon him surely affects his carriage and demeanor.  Happy, well-cared-for pets do exude a certain confidence that is infectious.  But I'm really digressing now.

Though I didn't personally know that man, I admire his generation.  Somehow, his delivery, the feeling behind his words, the sparkle in his eyes, the culmination of these things, led me to believe he knew dogs.  That he probably had one or two in his past, maybe even in his boyhood, and they meant something to him.  Taught him life lessons.  Offered him companionship.  Maybe accompanied him hunting or fishing or farming or camping.  Stood by his side in the rain.  Or sat beside him in the cab of his truck.  Memories that trumped even "Old Yeller" or "Where The Red Fern Grows."  Because of all of this, this instant awareness in the space of seconds, his opinion meant a great deal to me.  Until he paid this compliment to both me and my overgrown, iPhone-eating, ball-chasing, white-haired pup, I didn't know I even needed, or wanted, this stranger's approval.  His words were every bit as rewarding as my fritter victory!

Now back to that sausage croissant.  Today was my pastor's birthday.  Rodney Edwards.  He also happens to be the husband of one of my Earth Diva gal-pals, Gayla.  I consider him a friend first and pastor second.  Overall, he's simply a regular good guy of extraordinary character.  (He would disagree.  That's part of his character.)  Now, friend or not, unless you are one of my children, I won't remember your birthday.  (Though after two years of forgetting, the fact that me and Val, another Earth Diva, share the same birthday is finally ingrained in my memory.)  My husband informed me that Facebook had informed him of Rodney's birthday.  Last night.  Well, more like midnight.  And to my way of thinking, such a day can NOT go unnoticed.

Most folks are unaware that Rodney actually sleeps.

I first set about proclaiming to the entire social network kingdom within my domain the news I had learned.  Then, I ran through my collection of cards, searching for THE ONE which said it all.  Such a one did not exist.  So, I picked two.  And then I proceeded to say it all as only I can.  Finally, the selection of a gift.  Something meaningful.  Memorable.  Unusual.  And already in the house.  Now, Rodney enjoys pork in his diet.  At one time, much more than was probably good for his arteries.  Gayla does not consume pork under any name.  I have a cute little green piggy bank which I thought I could gift with a clever label saying, "For the man who's saved our bacon more than once."  Because Rodney gives of his time, advice, energy, experience and wisdom to those who profess need.  And my family has had a few emotional and spiritual needs over the years since we've attended Church at Cross Point and known Rodney.  Not to mention how much has encouraged my friendship with his wife -- that's been a definite lifesaver to me, MANY a time.  But I settled upon one of the rocks I hauled back down that little hill I climbed last weekend.  A flat palm-sized stone.  Shimmery with minerals.  Black and white with shades of dark grey.  Distinctive.  A bit like my initial impressions of Rodney, minus the shimmer.  And the symbolism of such a memento would not be lost on him.  I think I made the right choice.  Since I couldn't bake, the sausage-stuffed treat sufficed as his birthday cake.  An unlit candle and birthday song ala Cross Pointers topped it all off.  Oh, and my daughter, Sarah, called from Germany via FaceTime to wish him a happy birthday.  A definite highlight.

At this point, while finding all of this touchy-feely stuff nice and all, you must be wondering how Hank fits into all of this.  Besides the fact that Hank is allowed three donut holes whenever I allow my fritter attacks to result in a trip to the Donut Palace.

Well, while Rodney and I enjoy a big brother-little sister . . . wait, scratch that . . . MUCH OLDER brother-younger sister relationship . . . yeah, that works . . . and enjoy antagonizing one another on Facebook and at church and while eating frozen yogurt, there was a time when he thoroughly intimidated me.  Not intentionally.  But because of my fear and perceptions.  My worry that as a founder and elder of  the small church we'd been attending for a year, he might see right through me and find my faith lacking.  My belief wanting.  My Christian legs were unsteady.  He might knock them right out from beneath me.  And my faith, while wounded, had been nursed for years in the hope of possible revival at some point down the road.

One day, I took a chance and joined a Bible study before church.  Yes, Rodney led the group.  For weeks, I sat on my hands and listened.  Read passages when asked.  And then the morning arrived when I spoke.  Such a simple thing.  So basic to my personality.  No one looked at me as if I had sprouted horns.  In fact, they listened much as I had.  Even responded.  This went on for a couple weeks more.  Finally, in true open-Gloria fashion, I gave voice to my fears about my faith and how 'real' and regular church-goers might see it.  I noted the way in which I arrived at a deep love and belief in Christ which seemed to dovetail with what I was hearing in the circle of people at the study though they had traversed a more traditional route to Calvary.  If I wasn't crying by that point, I know I was close.

By then, I'd observed enough about Rodney to understand his heart.  His humor.  His true passion for the truth as taught by Jesus.  At least in part.  So, when he replied to my outpouring of all that inner turmoil and debate, it knocked me for a good long loop.  "You know, Gloria," he has a habit of entering into deep territory by opening with those two words -- you know -- though it's also a handy segue way for zingers and one-liners, "I've learned something from you and your life about Christ and how He comes for us . . . "  There was more.  Much more.  More said in the space of a verbal paragraph than could ever be told here.  More than I am capable of remembering verbatim and therefore don't want to sully by encapsulating in written recollection-shorthand.

The point is I needed, I wanted, to know that my faith was real, visible to other believers, and Rodney somehow had been appointed the lightning rod (no pun intended, though he'd love it) for that necessity.  Much like my feeling about that older gentleman at the pastry counter, and his likely history with dogs, I perceived within Rodney an affinity for genuine openness before a Lord we both desire to worship and know and please regardless of our failings.  So when he uttered those words, they shot straight and true to that place where my wounded faith awaited resuscitation, and they breathed life.  Through him, my love for Christ had been validated.  Not BY him, but THROUGH him, through the learning he had allowed to take place in his heart, mind and spirit.

And that, folks, is as nice as I want to get concerning old man Rodney Edwards.  His birthday ended half an hour ago.  I'm sure the Aspen frozen yogurt to which I treated him is arriving at the end of the digestive process.  (Is there another pun there?)  Though I may consider him a spiritual giant in the realm of faith, he's a handsome but goofy older brother sporting glasses, a purple tie and a subdued white-man's afro on this earthly plain.  Outside of his transparency concerning himself and his faith, the fact that he married Gayla . . . way back before he even knew that he'd been so fortunate as to stumble into the good graces of a bonafide Earth Diva . . . speaks volumes about the man.  That and his kids.

  (A photo of Christmas presents from the Valdez Bunch, as I took none today!)

But that's an entry for another day.        

5x7 Folded Card

White Border 5x7 folded card

Create custom cards for Valentines Day and Easter at Shutterfly.

View the entire collection of cards.

Plateauing

Well, Mohammad has returned from the mountain.  Alive and in one piece, albeit pieces which made me highly aware of just home many pieces I have and how capable they are of screaming out in complete defiance to the paces through which I forced them.  Phew!  But we were gloriously triumphant.  13 hours of hiking, trekking, bending the knees at every conceivable angle, scrambling, jumping and leaping, trudging, climbing, reaching, balancing, thinking, concentrating, focusing, mind-gaming, burning, shaking and an entire host of other action verbs I'll leave to the imagination.  YOU give it a go and fill in the remaining '-ing' blanks.

 Much easier to ham it up secure in the knowledge that the mountain is BEHIND us and dinner is ahead . . . 

Reading a website, however thorough, simply could not adequately prepare me for what we faced yesterday.  My previous hiking experience entailed three or four hour outings which were safe, with a definite ending that didn't leave me guessing and not a challenge to my fitness, which is above average, that is to say good but not great, and certainly not world class.  (There were several runners of the lean and muscular variety who hopped rock to rock as if channeling the spirit of a nimble mountain goat; feats of jaw-dropping prowess to those of us slowly and carefully making our way cautiously and methodically.)

Whoops!  There's that fatigue poking through . . . 

Unaccustomed as I was to the altitude -- pretty darned flat where I live and walk -- my entire first third of the trip was spent focusing on my breathing.  Right out of the gate, in the cool pre-dawn hours we spent meandering through the forest, I feared my premature failure.  Within the first 50 yards, my lungs felt ready to burst.  Puzzlement led to disappointment which surrendered to a lightbulb moment when me and my sister realized my chest strap was too tight.  The air practically rushed to fill every oxygen-starved nook and cranny!  Still, each inhale and exhale was executed with attention to detail as I adjusted to the backpack and pace of the Colorado-dwellers with me.  Especially with two ex-Marines and a trim 26 year-old blond-haired blue-eyed veterinary student setting the pace.

WHY did I sign on for this . . . this . . . torture?

(Could be the views.   Just check out what's going on behind me!)

My little sister runs several miles most days and hikes very often in terrain which offers a variety of geographic and physical challenges.  But her sleep cycle has been off for awhile, as was mine, and I believe that factor sapped her of a higher level of endurance.  Her body told her just 1/2 mile from the summit that she'd better turn around if she had hopes of returning to the trail head of her own volition.  It just so happens that the final 1/2 mile is THE most difficult and dangerous section of the entire shebang.    With each passing section, moving from one 'bullseye' painted rock to the next, the elevation increased noticeably.  The knees strained; the breathing required catching.  We'd conquered almost 3/4 of the part of the hike referred to as The Trough.  Beyond that was The Narrows -- considered the queasy part for many, what with wall-hugging to the left and a dizzying long way down on the right.  And last, but certainly not easy, the summit climb: consisting of a nearly vertical ascent of hand-over-hand and foot-into-nook journey for the ultimate view and bragging rights.  Followed by a reverse repeat of the entire first 6 1/2 hours of the day!  Starting with a controlled slide down that summit climb.  Two in our party made it to the top: a 6' 5'' ex-Marine who wanted to turn around several times AND his determined young girlfriend who said she shook with fear while awaiting her turn on The Narrows.  Me and my sister turned back just short of the mark with her ex-Marine fiance as our escort.  Bummed as I was, I knew the folly in going at it alone, climbers are repeatedly warned via signs and website and pamphlet to avoid 'summit fever' at the cost of safety, not to mention the many cautionary tales about being stuck on the business side of the mountain if the distant clouds decided to rain down on us.  There was still plenty of which to be proud and self-assured.

And this mountain was mine to climb with my sister.

I'll leave you there for tonight.  I'm falling asleep.  This was started a few days ago.  Evidently, I'm progressing bullseye-to-bullseye with this blog subject much like we did on the mountainside.  Slow and steady and forward motion.

Whatever the reason, I'm thrilled with the accomplishment.
REALLY, I AM!