While we have been here in Lyons at Bohn Park we have been working pretty darn hard during our work days. The Park, as I mentioned earlier, is wonderfully envisioned and maintained by the summer seasonal crew who cut the grass and weed whack around the trees and such. A top-notch irrigation system waters the grounds at specifically timed intervals and throughout the Summer the grass and many flower beds have remained deeply green. Even in late August they’ve retained the look and feel of an early June lawn. No fertilizers or insecticides or systemic weed killers are used here. Dandelions and clover flourish along with the wide-bladed grass. The townsfolk wouldn’t stand for any chemicals on the property. For our part, we stay very busy cleaning the restrooms, cleaning grills, and hauling trash from the many trash cans throughout the Park to the 6 massive dumpsters on the parking lot. I shudder to think of how many tons of trash we’ve hauled. Yet very little of it comes off the ground. The locals and visitors to the Park put trash in its place and for the most part try to recycle their refuse the best they can.
We spend considerable time weeding the picnic sites by hand and have plenty of extra things to do as we get done with our normal activities. Weekends are crazy busy and engaging with the visitor/guests is one of our primary jobs. There are some hard and fast rules that at times we have to enforce, but we’ve found that by greeting folks as they arrive casually and warmly we can set the tone positively from the get-go and problems with folks who misbehave are then minimal. Only once throughout the entire Summer have we had to ask a guest to leave. A skateboarder, I'd guess between 18 and 24 years old was hurling cuss words and swearing up a storm at me when I politely asked him to turn off his amplified music, something that the park and the town are sticklers about. He ended up his tirade by punching me in the ribs and I had to call the police…but that incident is it…all Summer long no serious problems with guests.
During the weekdays we see mostly locals who love to walk their dogs or lounge in the shade of the giant Cottonwoods. Softball games go on during the evenings. With such great amenities for kids we see a lot of moms with youngsters in tow as well. Skateboarders keep the professional skate track busy and generally speaking if we had the time we could sit and watch their tricks and antics for hours. Most of them are that good. On weekends the Park transforms itself into a full-blown circus of a multi-family picnic party. Starting around 7:00 AM on Saturdays families will begin arriving to claim the top picnic sites as all but two areas here are on a first come, first served basis. Extended families of 20 to 30 or more folks will occupy each site. Typically, they will set up the ubiquitous tent canopies for shade and haul in enough groceries and coolers to feed an army. Badminton sets, nets for volleyball, footballs, inner tubes to float the river, blankets...they’re brought in by pick up trucks and carried to the chosen sites for the day.
Throughout the day more and more family members will arrive all the way up to 4 or 5 o’clock in the afternoon. The designated chefs for each family will fire up the stationary grills the Park provides early in the morning and they will stay hot all the live long day. Most often festivities start with a charcoal fired breakfast of some sort. The chefs mostly stay put and cook throughout the day and into the early evening while the kids and everyone else frolic. A chef might have two or three helpers who lend their opinions on matters of fire readiness and the like. No one gives the chef advice on the actual cooking or sauce application, though. That is verboten...no bueno. Don’t even think about it!
A few of the ladies will create the vision of the picnic site and spread out the necessary elements such as table cloths, coolers, chairs..whatever they happen to bring along as picnic support items. Grandma and Grandpa will inevitably sit in the shade beneath a leafy tree and now and then throw out nuggets of wisdom on this and that. From time to time the small children will come sit in their laps and rest from their delirious, free form play. These large families with two to three generations in attendance... aunties, uncles, and too many cousins to count, are most often of Mexican descent. Sometimes very little English is spoken. Afghan families make up another large percentage of our guests as well. Despite the ample picnic tables provided, these Afghan folks eat their meals on the ground seated on elaborate blankets. Men sit separately from the women and discuss various topics all day long while the women sit on chairs (except at meal time) and cheerfully talk among themselves while keeping a watchful eye on the kids.
Diane and I like to approach all the families almost as soon as they begin to arrive and engage them warmly. We empty the trash bins often and talk to the matriarchs and patriarchs about how we try to keep the Park clean for them. We set the tone that it is a safe, family place for them. This has worked well for us in keeping litter to a minimum and getting the families to pick up after themselves as they leave at dusk. Almost every weekend day one of the families will offer us lunch or dinner as a genuine gesture of hospitality. Not only is the food delightful and authentic, but the warmth of the offer touches our hearts. We admire this aspect of these recent immigrants to our country. Hospitality is important to offer and receive to them. It is a cultural tradition. We, in turn, do our level best to make everyone feel welcome and appreciated and that the Park, the restrooms, and the grounds are clean and inviting. It is so gratifying to see extended families outside on the picnic grounds in the fresh air celebrating life together on a Saturday or a Sunday afternoon over deliciously prepared food. Our service in our roles as camp hosts, no matter how many trash bags we sling or restroom floors we mop, becomes an honor. We feel worthwhile and part of something larger than ourselves. Such is the extending power of family and community.
Rising each morning here in Lyons, in the foothills of the magnificent Rocky Mountains, you are continually reminded in no unsubtle terms that you are in a place as geographically grand as any on the planet. Peering to the west at sunset on a warm summer evening towards massive Long’s Peak and the surrounding citadel of the Rockies one inherently senses the infinitesimal nature of one’s existence. Yet, we know that a single cell in your body can wreak havoc if it replicates itself improperly. Likewise, little ol’ human being man can and does move mountains...literally.
As often as we can on our days off we love to retreat to the mountains and explore. Sometimes we have a destination in mind, such as Rocky Mountain National Park. Some days we trundle off in Tank, the Jeep, just to see what we can discover for ourselves. These sojourns never disappoint. They always inspire and recharge our personal batteries.
On one bright Tuesday morning when the forecast for Lyons called for 95+degrees and unusual humidity to boot we picked up Heidi, our intrepid canine traveler, and headed up into the mountains seeking cooler climes. Our exigency to find the semi hidden higher altitudes and the roads that lead there was highly evident as we packed up the Jeep for parts unknown yet sought. This Summer has reportedly been the hottest Summer ever recorded on Planet Earth and back in Pflugerville, Texas and St Louis where our kids and grandkids live we’ve watched as temperatures and humidity have combined to make the simplest movements outside almost unbearable. Wildfires, especially this year in Hawaii, have been hellish. At this writing 1000+ souls are still reported missing in Maui due to the raging inferno there brought on by climate change. Considering the rest of the country’s heat plight we feel spoiled trying to find relief from a mere 95+ degree day. Nonetheless, off we went.
There are two roads leading out of Lyons into the mountains, 36 and 7 highways, both two-laners. 36 highway leads initially to Estes Park. We chose 7 highway on this day. Up through the St Vrain River Canyon we drove. This drive is one of the most dramatic roads around these parts. Canyon walls rise straight up on either side of the road as you travel along the rock and boulder strewn South Fork of the St Vrain River. Every now and again you find a small turnout where you can stop and enjoy the River up close and personal. Many times we will drive a short 15 minutes up the canyon to a favorite spot along the river that we found and park ourselves for several hours. Heidi will dabble in the small cold pools of the river and lay stretched out on a blanket in the Sun. Diane will busy herself with pottery creations in between long stretches of contemplation and simple relaxation. I, for my part, will play my guitar and compose bits and pieces of new songs, starting new ones...finishing prior efforts. Over the last 5 years this kind of day has been among our favorite ways to spend time. Hiking and kayaking are thrilling, no doubt, and we love do those things, but there’s a lot to be said for sitting still in a beautiful surrounding for hours with clay and guitar. However, on this day we drove on.
As we continued to add altitude driving along this thrilling ribbon of a road the perspectives began to change from being walled in by sheer bluffs and jagged crags jutting ever upward to uncompromising vistas of peaks and broad valleys of Ponderosa Pine and clusters of Aspens. We imagined the already gorgeous views turning brilliant in the Fall when the Aspens put on their cloaks of golden leaves fluttering in the cool breezes. We passed Pleasant Valley and Camp Dick, the US Forest Service campground where we stayed a few days several years ago while passing through the area. Camp Dick is a splendiferous place laced with creeks and willows in a smallish pocket valley among the mountains of Rocky Mountain National Park. It is there that while searching for firewood one morning I came literally face to face with two moose on a tight and winding trail, separated by not more than 10 or 12 feet. Camp Dick is not within the boundary of the Park per se, but adjoins it. Thus, the wildlife that is protected and regulated in the National Park spills over into the area naturally. I believe that is one solid reason why so many National Forest lands abut National Parks. They allow more natural land for the fauna to prosper. They’re a buffer to civilization so to speak.
At once we saw a road sign pointing out a turn for Brainard Lakes. We are not familiar with Brainard Lakes but decided to take the turn off and check it out. For several miles we drove, now at a steeper incline than before. The vegetation began to have that stunted look that you see when you reach altitudes that have a very short summer season. The air cooled considerably and instantly added a spark to our emotions. Reaching the gatehouse for Brainard Lakes Recreation Area we were informed that as in the National Park we would need reservations to go inside. Well, so much for that destination. However, just off to the side of the gatehouse there was a dirt road...actually a rather challenging looking rocky road. The forest was so thick that it created a tunnel over the trace. Off we drove exploring, now in full 4-wheel drive. We’ve driven more challenging roads...but not many, let me tell ya. A standard two-wheel drive vehicle with normal clearance has no business on this goat path.
A weatherbeaten old wooden sign told us it would be 7 miles to Left Hand Lake. That sounded plenty good for us, no turning back now as curiosity led us on. Sure enough, the sign did not lie and we reached Left Hand Lake and we parked in a small gravel field, a natural parking lot. Left Hand Lake lies in the literal shadow of Niwot Mountain, a bald escarpment, due to the fact that its ridges and summit are above the natural tree line. Off to the northwest the panoramas of the mountains of Indian Peaks Wilderness were stunningly bold and beautiful. Snow still clung to the tight valleys of the peaks in glaciers. All around were mountains as Left Hand Lake is yet another of the many pocket lakes up in these parts. This is surely why we go exploring in Tank, the Jeep. We felt as if we had “discovered” the Lake, as if we were Native Americans or fur trappers from the early 1800’s. Heidi was hyped up as well and wanted out of the Jeep as fast as possible.
Left Hand and Niwot are one and the same, a Southern Arapahoe chief, diplomat, and interpreter who negotiated peace between the white settlers and the Arapahoe and Cheyenne tribes during the gold rush of the 1860’s. Niwot wintered each year near where Boulder is located today. Left Hand Canyon is also named for the magnanimous chieftain and it is near Boulder. And, there is a town close to Boulder called...Niwot. Folks from around here thought highly of this influential man. The respect people had for him was near universal from both whites and tribals.
There was one couple there when we arrived at the Lake who were settled in on lawn chairs and were throwing large sticks out into the lake for their German Shepard to fetch and retrieve. We decided to take off down a path that ran along the bank of the Lake just to see what we might see. Weaving in and out of Aspen, Ponderosa Pine, and various Fir tree species we traced the shoreline. The vegetation was hemmed in around the path and our field of view was tight. I felt we might stumble across a bear or a moose in the thicket, but we didn’t. Moose scat was evident, but no Moose, no Bear. It was quiet out there save for the light breeze that rustled and whistled through the trees in hushed tones. The path was strewn with small boulders and large rocks and now and again I helped Diane navigate and walk over the rougher parts as her equilibrium is not the greatest. Fortunately, we had walking sticks for balance. As we moved along it became quieter and quieter even our footfalls were muffled by the moss on the ground in between the large stones scattered about.
At about the half way point around the Lake, perhaps ½ mile from the Jeep, I happened to look up. I saw a very large bird sailing in circles above the Lake, perhaps 100 feet up. I pointed out the bird to Diane. At first we thought it to be an Eagle but it was an Osprey. All at once she dove headlong towards the water, adjusting her flight once with the extension of her left wing, apparently to compensate for the movement of a fish, her target. She splashed into the water head first and after a quick flurry of splashing and flapping she emerged with a fish in her talons that she held ever so tightly as she rose from the Lake. Now she flew directly overhead as if to show off her catch and her skills to us and eventually landed in a dead tree, still standing, by the water’s edge and feasted on her lunch. What a sight! How fortunate for us to witness this. It all happened so fast that I couldn’t get my phone out to take a picture or video of the event, though I was able to snap a few photos fairly close up of her eating her catch. Amazing! Diane felt that she was showing off to us. Truth be told, if I could pull off such a feat I’d be showing it off, too.
A few hours later as we drove back down the mountain with the Sun beginning to dip below the jagged peaks we passed by an area that appeared to be a large meadow with a meandering creek running through the center. It was a fairly swampy field and I noticed willows growing along the boundary. Ah, Moose habitat if I’ve ever seen it before. Sure enough, laying down on the far end of the meadow from us right next to each other were two enormous Bull Moose. I would guess them to be 70 to 80 yards distant. Diane quickly grabbed her binoculars for to get a really good look at these guys. They were magnificent creatures. There they lay, facing the road, perhaps so they could be on guard against intruders. One was asleep while the other lay completely still but eyes clearly open. I wondered to myself, “ Are they consciously taking turns being on guard duty for each other?” Such a treat for a couple of Midwesterners to see. Every time we come across Moose I have the same reaction. I am in awe of the magnitude of their presence, their stature and their grace of movement for so large an animal with such ungainly long legs. Over the past several years and particularly this season in Colorado, we’ve seen more Moose than Black Bear. I would have thought we’d see more Bear than we have but its been Moose that keep popping up and delighting us with unexpected sightings.
On another day off early on in our stay we took a hike to a spot called, “Lost Lake”. The hike begins outside of the little town of Nederland that is nestled into a crook in the high mountains along 72 Highway. Boulder Canyon lies just to the south of town and that beautimous chasm with a ribbon of road tracing its course down the eastern front of the Rockies is very popular due to its proximity to Boulder. The hike we took that day lay just west of Nederland and the trailhead starts along a dusty, dirt road. It felt to me that we were somewheres near 8000 feet altitude, perhaps a tad bit higher. The hike is about 5 to 5 ½ miles round trip and I would class it as moderate difficulty. As we lit out with Heidi in tow we came across a group of 6 early 20 something year olds who were doing some trail maintenance. It didn’t appear they had a lot of experience at the work as they were all standing around talking about what they were supposed to do. There didn’t appear to be a leader per se giving instructions. I think they were attempting to figure that part out as they carefully made suggestions, each in turn.
“Well, we should for sure pile more rocks along the edge of the trail to define it better,” a bullish young man offered. He appeared to be a rock stacking kind of guy.
“Why don’t we remove the sticks and loose rock from the trail?” a young lady proffered.
“God bless ‘em for being here and volunteering. Good spirit...Love to see youngsters out on the trail working to make things better,” I thought to myself. Later, when we returned after a few hours, I couldn’t find where they actually did any work save move one very large boulder a few feet. I guess no one stepped up to be the leader. They probably adjourned early for a couple of beers back in Nederland. Oh well…
Lost Lake trail is a wonderful hike. At several points there are broad vistas of the surrounding mountains and narrow valleys that you can feast on while you catch your breath. Several stretches are very steep and despite the clean path we got winded and felt the altitude in our lungs. During other long stretches of the hike we found ourselves walking upwards along the shaded banks of a rip- roaring stream, tumbling and falling at every opportunity across and through massive granite boulders. Spray filled the air at several stops we made as we huffed and puffed the thinning air. Exhilaration filled our souls. The deep sense of being alive, of being a part of planet, and being grateful fills your being on such a classic Colorado hike. We stopped often to snap dozens of photos on our phones and though as we reviewed them at day’s end we once again remarked to each other that you simply cannot capture the essence of what you see with your own eyes in pictures. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but it’s still in the end, a picture...a representation...a two-dimensional reminder of a three or four-dimensional experience.
Upon reaching Lost Lake we were rewarded with time to stop and take in the Alpine views of the water and the shoreline. You can easily see how the name, “Lost”, was given it. It’s out there, waaay up in the mountain in a little catch basin. Huge boulders that caromed down the mountain southward during a snow melt or an earthquake perhaps lie still along the shoreline. We clambered up and on top of a few of them triumphantly viewing the treasure we obtained by making the trek up here. As is often the case though, and as serene and beholding as the Lake is, the journey as they say is where it’s at on this hike. Each and every turn gives your senses new thrills. We were ever so grateful that on this day we had food, shelter awaiting us down the mountain, and were healthy. As opposed to so many on the planet both today and down through the millenia who don’t even have the essential life-supporting sustenance on a daily basis, Diane and I can afford to be here in the wilderness and experience the world without just trying to get by, looking for a place to sleep, stay warm or cool, or find our next meal. Though that may indeed be our plight one day, today we thrive and today we strive to experience this great planet. Gratitude fills our souls.
As summer is wont to do, the month of August crawled along like a tortoise on a beach. Life seems slower in Summer. That could just be my perspective on it, but it has always seemed to be that month in the year when you’re on the last turn of the yearly race. Everyone and everything is biding their time, holding their place to set up the final burst and sprint down the home stretch to the finish line where the photo finish of the holidays flashes in brilliant greens and reds and high hopes for the New Year.
The hot midday Sun seems stuck in place in the sky and the deep green colors of summer foliage begin to fade to lighter shades of tan. The grass doesn’t need mowing very often. The euphonious songs of the Katydids and evening bugs grows louder each evening as they seem to sense their time is short. The Hornets and Yellow Jackets become frantic, too. Open a can of Coke or sit down with an ice tea long about the end of August and see how long it takes for a Yellow Jacket to land on the lip of your container. Bears go into their Hyperphagia stage where they try to eat as much as they possibly can fit into their stomachs so as to make it through their long winter slumber. Our Town Bear, who migrates between LaVerne Johnson Park and Bohn Park, always (so far) staying comfortably distant yet visible, showed up right on the edge of the busiest part of Bohn Park snoozing through the hottest part of a Sunday afternoon in a tree. She feasts on the bushels of apples that the numerous abandoned orchards are producing this year. We found one of her scat piles right next to the skate park and it was not hard to figure out what she had been eating lately. Families try to cram in their accumulated days off and take vacations in a different type of Hyperphagia as the last hurrah of Summer, Labor Day, looms large.
When I was young and living at home in Webster Groves my dad always took his annual vacation during the two weeks prior to Labor Day. Of course, in that bygone era we didn’t start school until at least the day after Labor Day. My dad tried valiantly to take us someplace, any place, on vacation. We didn’t have much money and most often we would visit a family friend, Father John Baker, at one of his posts in rural Missouri. He was stationed in Portageville, MO for a time, a sleepy, dog-eared Mississippi River town in the Bootheel of Missouri. It was there at his dinner table that I first tasted moonshine when I was all of 12 or 13 years old. Yahoo, Mountain Dew... the real thing! Caruthersville was another of those Bootheel posts where we vacationed at his home. Fredricktown, MO, though, was the bees knees of a post as far as I was concerned and we visited Father Baker there most often during our Summer forays into the cotton-growing hinterlands of Missouri.
In those days the Catholic Diocese in that region built large rectories, houses, for its priests, with many bedrooms. At one time the diocese must have had priests to spare and so they built these houses with several bedrooms. There were convents in these small burghs, too. Fredricktown had a large rectory, a convent with enough nuns to staff the grade school right next to the church, St Michael. Since the drop-off in priestly vocations had already begun in the Catholic Church writ large to some degree, there was always room for us Jumps to come and visit, spend our vacations there. Father Baker was the only priest there by that time and there were at least 4 bedrooms in the house. Every month or so then, Father Baker would come and stay at our house in St Louis for a few days when he would come for visits to the Big City. It seemed to me to be a reciprocal kind of visitation schedule. Down in Fredricktown on those hot dog days of August we would often get to go to a local beach called, of all things, Slime Pond. Slime Pond was a small lake formed by slag tailings from lead mines, thus it was sort of sandy-bottomed. They called the slag tailings slime in the local parlance. To get access to the cool waters of Slime Pond you had to join a club of sorts and get a key to open the gate. Father Baker was in the club and I recall him telling us it costs $30.00 a year to have membership. I imagine with what we know now of lead poisoning Slime Pond is no longer a swimming hole except in the memory of those few from that era and area still living. I doubt it exists any longer.
Back in those days those towns that were built around lead mines had huge mountains of lead slag on their borders two to three hundred feet high. Now, they’ve been reduced and contained with a covering of non-hazardous material to keep the lead dust from blowing through the hills and valleys and making everyone sick. The government saw to that once they figured out the stuff had long-term cancerous effects. But, at the time, we thought the place was marvelous. You can still, to this day, go down into one of the former lead mines in Bonne Terre, MO on guided tours. It has half-filled with water now and divers head there regularly to view the ruins under the deep crystal-clear water. Even Jacque Cousteau took a dive there and filmed it for a TV special. In fact, some divers actually died down in those mysterious caverns when they became lost in one of the many tunnels, ran out of oxygen, and perished.
And so now, in 2023, during these latent dog days of the hottest Summer ever in recorded history throughout the world, we slowly drift down the seasonal river of August, a lazy river. During our days off from Camp Hosting we take to the mountains and search out spots in the Rockies to explore and wonder at the grandeur of the place. Down below in Lyons at our gorgeous Bohn Park we stay very busy cleaning, weeding, and taking care of the expansive grounds during the weekdays putting in most of our time focused on the care and nurturing of the Park. During the weekends it is all about the visitors and guests who flock to the Park in large, extended families. Diane and I personally greet them all and engage with them and extend as much warm hospitality as we can. Most typically, these extended family picnics are made up of families who are Mexican Americans, Chicanos, and increasingly Afghans. Not a weekend goes by when we are not invited in for lunch or dinner with one or more of the families. So, amidst the turmoil of this insane world that we humans mismanage, it still somehow remains for now in this Park...Family, community, freedom, spiritual renewal, in a tenuous balance with the land on a lazy, late summer afternoon where time and care vanish for at least a little while within a cocoon of resilient renewal and community.