Tag: mountains

A day at our cabin in the Boulder Ridge, near Laramie, Wyoming. Back when summertime meant all the kids were home with us.

In the early morning, it’s cool and quiet on the deck. The kids sleep late. Steve gets up first and  hikes up to the promontory overlooking the beaver pond, hoping to see some wildlife. The elk, moose and deer are active in the cover of darkness, but before the sun is up for long, the noise of our family scares them back into hiding. Soon he’s back, whistling a tune and getting the day started.

I sleep in, at least until the coffee is ready, then go out to my favorite chair, barefoot and still in my nightgown. Sometimes I sit facing the hummingbird feeder, the big pine tree, and the distant ridge, but usually I sit facing the other way, looking toward the aspen grove. This is the view I dream of, the one I call to mind when I need a serene image to dwell on–when I’m having dental work done or when I’m trying to distract an upset child from a nightmare. I don’t need a book or anything to do; I am content to sit and soak up the air and the sky and the trees. The air smells like warm pine and loamy dirt as the sun heats up the earth. The sky is clear, bright blue before the afternoon thunder clouds billow up. The aspen leaves shimmer and jump at the slightest breath of breeze, whispering ancient forest words.

It’s not long before the kids start to trickle out of the cabin, across the deck to the outhouse. Some join us on the deck with a cup of coffee, but the stillness of the morning keeps us quiet, enjoying the slow, easy start to the day. The youngest boy is impatient for breakfast and for his brother to get up, so they can start of the business of finding secret forts and having air-soft wars. Oliver, our golden retriever, is restless too, ready for the woods, the animal smells, his all-day running and exploring. There’s a vole or a mouse teasing him in the wood pile, but as soon as anyone stands up and heads for the gate, he leaves his post there and scampers down the driveway, ears perked up, stopping only to look back to make sure we are coming before bounding ahead again.

Once breakfast is eaten and cleaned up, I go back out on the deck again, this time under the umbrella’s shade. The hummingbirds are busy by mid-morning, quarreling and chasing each other in dive-bombing acrobatics that have us squealing and ducking. There’s room for four tiny birds on the feeder, but each one wants it to himself. These green-brown birds, with the iridescent red spot on their throats, migrate by the deck in the summer, stopping for some sugar water when we are here. The boys take turns standing completely still by the feeder, hands resting on the red top, until the little birds forget that they are there and land on their fingers, lighting first with wings still humming, then coming to a rest on the human perch. Sometimes a larger, metallic-gold colored hummingbird arrives and chases all the others away, a beautiful bossy bird we wish would leave our friends alone.

Late morning, it’s time for another cup of coffee, chatting, maybe thinking about a trip into town later, or starting the new book I picked out for these perfectly, gloriously open days at the cabin. There’s no clock on the deck, and I don’t wear my watch or compulsively check my phone like I do at home. The sun, forcing me to move to find fresh shade, and hunger pangs–usually the kids’–are the only time keepers. Lunch soon comes and goes, and then I may take a hike down to the meadow where the giant Aspen tree stands and the spring gurgles up through the grass.  Before long, I end up back on the deck, maybe with a beer this time.

The morning’s stillness has given way to the flurry of a big family, with conversations starting and trailing off as people come and go, playing, arguing, laughing, teasing–busy about the work of the cabin, whether that’s simply relaxing or working on a project. The afternoons often bring clouds, immense thunderheads pushing higher and higher, the tops brilliant white against the blue sky and the undersides dark, threatening rain. If it doesn’t rain hard or hail, I’ll stay out under the big umbrella and watch the storm race through. After it’s passed, the sun is back, the woods smell clean and mossy, and the deck dries quickly.

As the afternoon wanes, it’s time to think about dinner, and after that, a campfire is on the kids’ minds. They are ready for roasting marshmallows and making s’mores. By the time we’ve made and eaten our fill, sang the old favorites, and told the scary stories about Big Foot and the deadly blue mist, the last of the sunset has left the sky. The moon is rising, and the stars appear in the darkening sky. The fire has died down to embers, finally perfect for marshmallows, but we’ve had enough. The fire is still perfect, though, for staring into while talking in low voices in the moonlight.  One by one, people leave, picking  their way back over the rocks and logs to the cabin.

We go in partly because it’s chilly, and partly because the mosquitoes are on the hunt once the smokiness of the campfire dies down. For me, though, it’s mostly because it’s too dark. This part of the Rocky Mountains is home to abundant wildlife–not just moose, elk and deer, but predators like black bear, coyote and mountain lion. During the day, this doesn’t bother me. While I haven’t actually seen them, there’s Boulder Ridge lore about these hunters, and it’s not unusual to see bear or cat scat on a hike, or to hear coyotes  yipping and barking at night. When I can’t see into the layers of black-outlined trees, I’m afraid. The night is thick. I can hear the leaves rustling, their words menacing now in the wind. I imagine something right there, seeing me, haunches rocking, ready to pounce.

My stomach feels tight and jumpy, my muscles ache from clenching. I wish my insides would settle down so I could stay out on the deck, especially on moonless nights, the darkest nights, when the stars–so many, many more than I can see at home in a city night sky–pop out, and the Milky Way is a bright swoosh across the black, star-sparkling sky. I want to sit and soak it up like I do the day-time scene, but I end up scurrying into the safety of the cabin walls and light after only a few minutes, teeth chattering. Our domain, so welcoming during the day, reverts to it’s wild inhabitants at nightfall.

If it’s chilly, we light the cozy wood stove, and bring our reading and games and conversations inside until we are ready to go to bed. We are safe in our snug little home, and another day–my favorite kind of day, in a place I love–is done.