 |
| After the rain |
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| Sun dried |
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| Forester Moths on a Cone Flower |
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| Dusk at a lake |
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| Sunset over the Lizard Head |
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| This year - our R alone |
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| Last year - the Duo |
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| Life is like a winding trail, with unexpected twists and turns, but beauty all around us. |
Showing posts with label butterfly. Show all posts
Showing posts with label butterfly. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Wordless Wednesday: San Juan Mountains
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Musings
No doubt, autumn is overtaking our world. This morning, I had my first sunrise breakfast since springtime. It's not that my breakfast has inched earlier - rather, sunrise is getting late.
As I drank my coffee with the sky afire, the coyote pack started howling. K ran to the deck railing in alarm. Our coyote pack currently sounds like it has 20 members howling and yipping together. But, I know that their voices are deceptive - I've seen three coyotes singing but they've sounded like at least a dozen. I hope that I get to see the pack sometime soon to get an idea of how big it is!
Then, K and I headed out for a ride with K in a close heel to prevent any coyote tricksters from luring her into a dangerous chase. A dog owner recently told me that she thought that we needed to "cull" the coyote pack. They'd tried to take one of her small dogs by using their patented technique of having one playful-looking coyote lure the dog into the woods where the rest of the coyote pack is waiting. While I certainly understood how upset and fearful she felt after nearly losing one of her dogs, I didn't agree with her "solution". I think that I talked her down to a more reasonable stance... but I'm shocked by how quickly humans turn to killing wildlife as a solution rather than learning to keep their dogs safe. Yes, I know that means that you can't safely "let your dogs out" to roam without supervision. But, that's a small price to pay for the diversity of wildlife that we have here.
This morning, despite my screaming spine, we headed up high to play in the brief flashes of sunshine through the clouds jetting overhead. K gave me a sly look.
We posed together at the top. I finally realized that K has NO motivation to look at a camera propped on a rock. That's why she always looks at me in these photos! My mouth is always open as I smile because I'm telling her to look at the camera. Maybe looking at the camera is a trick that I could teach her.
K has recently resumed an old game - she hides so that I'll call her. Because recalls are SO fun, she tries to force me to call her by disappearing into the brush. Her hiding place in the photo below was not one of her most challenging!
I try to find other ways to draw her out to avoid encouraging her hiding game. If I do a recall, it's the biggest reward that I could possibly give her for hiding. However, as I stand in the forest alone trying to cajole K out of hiding, I get visions of the photographs that I've captured of our mighty predators near our trails and give into the urge to call!
As we rode, we spotted a weathered butterfly on his last wings. I think that he was a Black Swallowtail.
I lifted the aging beauty onto a fading blossom before leaving him in peace. Most butterflies live such brief lives, weeks at most. Whenever I see one fluttering next to me on my bike, I think that they're so courageous, living so beautifully but so briefly.
I think that there's a lesson in a butterfly's life for me.
As I drank my coffee with the sky afire, the coyote pack started howling. K ran to the deck railing in alarm. Our coyote pack currently sounds like it has 20 members howling and yipping together. But, I know that their voices are deceptive - I've seen three coyotes singing but they've sounded like at least a dozen. I hope that I get to see the pack sometime soon to get an idea of how big it is!
Then, K and I headed out for a ride with K in a close heel to prevent any coyote tricksters from luring her into a dangerous chase. A dog owner recently told me that she thought that we needed to "cull" the coyote pack. They'd tried to take one of her small dogs by using their patented technique of having one playful-looking coyote lure the dog into the woods where the rest of the coyote pack is waiting. While I certainly understood how upset and fearful she felt after nearly losing one of her dogs, I didn't agree with her "solution". I think that I talked her down to a more reasonable stance... but I'm shocked by how quickly humans turn to killing wildlife as a solution rather than learning to keep their dogs safe. Yes, I know that means that you can't safely "let your dogs out" to roam without supervision. But, that's a small price to pay for the diversity of wildlife that we have here.This morning, despite my screaming spine, we headed up high to play in the brief flashes of sunshine through the clouds jetting overhead. K gave me a sly look.
We posed together at the top. I finally realized that K has NO motivation to look at a camera propped on a rock. That's why she always looks at me in these photos! My mouth is always open as I smile because I'm telling her to look at the camera. Maybe looking at the camera is a trick that I could teach her.
K has recently resumed an old game - she hides so that I'll call her. Because recalls are SO fun, she tries to force me to call her by disappearing into the brush. Her hiding place in the photo below was not one of her most challenging!
I try to find other ways to draw her out to avoid encouraging her hiding game. If I do a recall, it's the biggest reward that I could possibly give her for hiding. However, as I stand in the forest alone trying to cajole K out of hiding, I get visions of the photographs that I've captured of our mighty predators near our trails and give into the urge to call!As we rode, we spotted a weathered butterfly on his last wings. I think that he was a Black Swallowtail.
I lifted the aging beauty onto a fading blossom before leaving him in peace. Most butterflies live such brief lives, weeks at most. Whenever I see one fluttering next to me on my bike, I think that they're so courageous, living so beautifully but so briefly.
I think that there's a lesson in a butterfly's life for me.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
A nearby mountain oasis - James Peak
Our fortnight of camping passed in the blink of an eye. But, we had adventures all over the state, from sleeping every night over 10,000 ft elevation to getting lost (literally) on the Continental Divide in southwest Colorado when my slightly outdated map led me astray.
Our trip started close to home in the James Peak Area. I'd tweaked my easily injured neck while packing for the trip so we decided to drive less than an hour before our first stop. We arrived at sunset.
As we ate dinner in the fading light of dusk, an imposing owl with an awesome wingspan swooped from the forest edge and skimmed over our heads. As we sat in awe, he swooped again and again before moving on to better hunting grounds.
James Peak towers over my home area, reaching more than 13,000 ft above sea level. I see this rocky mountain daily. On today's mountain bike ride, the thunderstorms that nipped at my heels originated from its general direction.
On that first day of our vacation, I rode my mountain bike with K, mostly on 4wd roads, while my husband and R ran on singletrack trails that are closed to bikes due to the Wilderness Act. As I climbed upward on tough roads, churned by motor-driven tires to such an extent that my back wheel spun uselessly even on gradual slopes, James Peak soared in the bluebird sky.
In my opinion, one of the mistakes in the Wilderness Act is that it lumps human-powered bikes with motorcycles and ATVs. I have no choice but to ride on motor-dominated trails that are so eroded and filled with loose gravel and rocks that I can barely make forward progress up a hill.
However, on that day, the pure crystal beauty of the mountains and our excitement about starting our adventure outweighed all complaints. Because it was a weekday, solitude was easy to find. K and I met the boys (my husband and R) at a trail intersection where they'd just run up from a lake.
K ran down to meet them and then popped over the rise.
Jet black turbo-charged R followed.
Since I planned to take K on a long adventurous ride the next day, I sent her back to camp to rest with the boys while I explored further.
To my surprise, as I rolled along an ATV trail, I saw gnarled and ancient-looking trees leaning crookedly but still standing next to the trail - Bristlecone Pine Trees! They stood in an immense plateau surrounded by towering mountains, an undoubtedly harsh, windswept, and frigid spot in the winter. These trees can live for thousands of years and grow incredibly slowly, less than 0.001" in diameter per year in difficult times. In a harsh environment, any Bristlecone Pine over 5 feet tall is probably more than 500 years old, according to my books. Imagine, the tree in the photo below might have stood in that spot back in the 1500's. I'm utterly amazed that they've endured the abuse of ATVs roaring past them in recent years.
The newly formed cones had needle-like bristles spiking outward from the purple scales.
As I rode further, I saw that the wildflowers, still in full cry, formed pastel paintings in front of the craggy and snowy mountains. Here, a Bistort, tinted pink by a long season of blooming, towers over carpets of yellow Alpine Avens with James Peak as a backdrop.
In a wet section of tundra, Queen's Crown (Clementsia rhodantha), slightly faded after a summer of song, hosted a bumblebee.
Glorious Harebell flowers tinted the tundra purple and snow banks persisted in late summer.
Clumps of yellow asters lined the trails and Rocky Mountain Parnassian butterflies flitted among them. A male drank nectar from a yellow gem.
After spotting the butterfly, to loop back to camp, I tried to take an adventurous 'shortcut' on a non-motorized (i.e., motorized travel not allowed). After strenuously climbing to a saddle between two peaks, I realized that my old map, created before this area became an official 'wilderness area', had led me astray. The trail I sought no longer existed. And, because my GPS sat safely locked in our van, I didn't have any guidance for a cross-country short-cut.
Eventually, I turned back, retracing my original route, and arriving back at camp later than anyone expected. This misguided meandering in the wilderness wasn't an isolated event, as you'll read when I post about later parts of the trip. I think that I need to get a 'real' GPS, rather than my outdated one that's designed for runners to log their mileage and pace.
But, sometimes while I was lost on this vacation, I saw things that I would've otherwise missed. In this case, my wandering let me gaze at faraway mountain oases that we'd be exploring later in the trip.
I also stumbled upon a harbinger of autumn, a member of the Gentian plant family. All the Colorado Gentian species bloom in the waning days of summer. The Arctic Gentians that I saw near James Peak bloom only in the grassy meadows of the alpine tundra. They're compact, standing only about 6" tall, but their large flashy blossoms bring one of the last floral outbursts to the thin air of the tundra.
All Gentian species, including the Arctic Gentian, deftly close their petals in rapid response to clouds and cooling. This undoubtedly protects their vital reproductive organs, tucked deep within the petals, from the cold. This ability probably helps them to flourish when other wildflowers wane due to the frosty late summer nights.
When I finally wound my way back to camp, we immediately set out toward our ultimate destination of the San Juan Mountains of southwest Colorado. However, due to my chronic spine pain, we always break our trips into short legs, with our favorite mountain spots as our layovers. Thus, on that first day of vacation, we headed toward Monarch Pass and its awe-inspiring alpine trails.
Our trip started close to home in the James Peak Area. I'd tweaked my easily injured neck while packing for the trip so we decided to drive less than an hour before our first stop. We arrived at sunset.
As we ate dinner in the fading light of dusk, an imposing owl with an awesome wingspan swooped from the forest edge and skimmed over our heads. As we sat in awe, he swooped again and again before moving on to better hunting grounds.James Peak towers over my home area, reaching more than 13,000 ft above sea level. I see this rocky mountain daily. On today's mountain bike ride, the thunderstorms that nipped at my heels originated from its general direction.
On that first day of our vacation, I rode my mountain bike with K, mostly on 4wd roads, while my husband and R ran on singletrack trails that are closed to bikes due to the Wilderness Act. As I climbed upward on tough roads, churned by motor-driven tires to such an extent that my back wheel spun uselessly even on gradual slopes, James Peak soared in the bluebird sky.
In my opinion, one of the mistakes in the Wilderness Act is that it lumps human-powered bikes with motorcycles and ATVs. I have no choice but to ride on motor-dominated trails that are so eroded and filled with loose gravel and rocks that I can barely make forward progress up a hill.However, on that day, the pure crystal beauty of the mountains and our excitement about starting our adventure outweighed all complaints. Because it was a weekday, solitude was easy to find. K and I met the boys (my husband and R) at a trail intersection where they'd just run up from a lake.
K ran down to meet them and then popped over the rise.
Jet black turbo-charged R followed.
Since I planned to take K on a long adventurous ride the next day, I sent her back to camp to rest with the boys while I explored further.To my surprise, as I rolled along an ATV trail, I saw gnarled and ancient-looking trees leaning crookedly but still standing next to the trail - Bristlecone Pine Trees! They stood in an immense plateau surrounded by towering mountains, an undoubtedly harsh, windswept, and frigid spot in the winter. These trees can live for thousands of years and grow incredibly slowly, less than 0.001" in diameter per year in difficult times. In a harsh environment, any Bristlecone Pine over 5 feet tall is probably more than 500 years old, according to my books. Imagine, the tree in the photo below might have stood in that spot back in the 1500's. I'm utterly amazed that they've endured the abuse of ATVs roaring past them in recent years.
The newly formed cones had needle-like bristles spiking outward from the purple scales.
As I rode further, I saw that the wildflowers, still in full cry, formed pastel paintings in front of the craggy and snowy mountains. Here, a Bistort, tinted pink by a long season of blooming, towers over carpets of yellow Alpine Avens with James Peak as a backdrop.
In a wet section of tundra, Queen's Crown (Clementsia rhodantha), slightly faded after a summer of song, hosted a bumblebee.
Glorious Harebell flowers tinted the tundra purple and snow banks persisted in late summer.
Clumps of yellow asters lined the trails and Rocky Mountain Parnassian butterflies flitted among them. A male drank nectar from a yellow gem.
After spotting the butterfly, to loop back to camp, I tried to take an adventurous 'shortcut' on a non-motorized (i.e., motorized travel not allowed). After strenuously climbing to a saddle between two peaks, I realized that my old map, created before this area became an official 'wilderness area', had led me astray. The trail I sought no longer existed. And, because my GPS sat safely locked in our van, I didn't have any guidance for a cross-country short-cut.Eventually, I turned back, retracing my original route, and arriving back at camp later than anyone expected. This misguided meandering in the wilderness wasn't an isolated event, as you'll read when I post about later parts of the trip. I think that I need to get a 'real' GPS, rather than my outdated one that's designed for runners to log their mileage and pace.
But, sometimes while I was lost on this vacation, I saw things that I would've otherwise missed. In this case, my wandering let me gaze at faraway mountain oases that we'd be exploring later in the trip.
I also stumbled upon a harbinger of autumn, a member of the Gentian plant family. All the Colorado Gentian species bloom in the waning days of summer. The Arctic Gentians that I saw near James Peak bloom only in the grassy meadows of the alpine tundra. They're compact, standing only about 6" tall, but their large flashy blossoms bring one of the last floral outbursts to the thin air of the tundra.
All Gentian species, including the Arctic Gentian, deftly close their petals in rapid response to clouds and cooling. This undoubtedly protects their vital reproductive organs, tucked deep within the petals, from the cold. This ability probably helps them to flourish when other wildflowers wane due to the frosty late summer nights.
When I finally wound my way back to camp, we immediately set out toward our ultimate destination of the San Juan Mountains of southwest Colorado. However, due to my chronic spine pain, we always break our trips into short legs, with our favorite mountain spots as our layovers. Thus, on that first day of vacation, we headed toward Monarch Pass and its awe-inspiring alpine trails.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Bears in our forests
Last night, mama flycatcher slept atop her squirming pile of nestlings yet again. She spread her wings and covered them like a blanket. The babies take up every inch of the cup nest so mom looked balanced precariously on top.
This morning, I had a plan to head up to the Divide for a hike but storm clouds menaced the mountains early. Feeling a bit depressed about it, I scrapped my plan and went for a mountain bike ride with K. Now, I'm glad that my plans changed because I had a magical encounter with a bear cub at the end of my ride.
At the beginning of the ride, K and I climbed up through a mixed aspen, shrub, and pine forest. For the second time in the past week, a massive bear scat sat, full of territorial meaning, blocking the sinuous path.
Always the scientist, I measured it (each segment >2" in diameter) and investigated what it contained (mushroom pieces, berry pits, seeds, - and notably, no human-related foods) with K watching over me. In the photo, the scat is in the extreme foreground.
As I examined it, K picked up a scent which soon monopolized her attention. She craned her neck, wiggled her nose, and gazed into the distance.
Finally, K fully immersed herself in the scent. I worried that wildlife roamed nearby so we moved along.
That photo highlights something that I'm ashamed of, a remote shock collar, that I've used to stop K in her tracks when she's chased coyotes, putting her own life in danger. I haven't used it in more than a year but I still fear that she might, yet again, fall for the luring and then attacking tactic of our local coyote pack. I've blogged in the past about my decision to use the collar. In retrospect, I'm glad that I did use it because her life was in danger, and I'd exhausted my arsenal of positive training methods to deal with the problem. In our last few coyote encounters, K has returned to me by her own decision and received a mountain of treats!
When we emerged from an aspen forest to an unobstructed view of the mountains, the clouds hanging so ominously over the mountains made my decision not to visit the alpine meadows seem smart.
Two deer, young males with budding velvet antlers, browsed to the west of the peak where we lingered. K kept a close eye on them but left them in peace. She sat in front of me to remind me of the treats that she'd earned with her good behavior.
We clattered down the hill and into the forest, traversing my favorite trail. This trail lulls me with deeply forested pine glades and soft pine-needle laden paths, punctuated by sudden bright views of the mountains. In the 20 minutes since we'd left the peak, the clouds had swelled upward although some blue sky still fought them off.
As we rounded a curve in one of the dark forest sections, K suddenly switched modes, to the high-alert bear mode that I've learned to recognize. For the rest of our ride together, I yelled 'Hey bear' as we approached blind curves. I love seeing bears when I'm by myself but I worry about whether K might get hurt in a close-up encounter.
Just before returning to a main trail, we gazed one more time at the Divide while stopping for a hug. Yesterday, I started organizing all of our photos of S, a journey that left me feeling sad and very protective of our dogs. The view of the Divide matched my inner angst.
After I dropped K at home, I packed a rain jacket, fully expecting a drenching, and headed out for some more riding. Although the surrounding peaks looked scary, I was in a moving pocket of sunlight for the first half of the ride. I spotted a Rocky Mountain Dotted-Blue Butterfly (Euphilotes ancilla), on a dry rocky ridge, drinking the nectar of a Sulphur flower, which my butterfly book says is its favorite food.
The wildflowers have transformed this exposed ridge, making it a magical place that I can't resist visiting. I don't remember ever seeing such a vast array of wildflowers that paints the entire ridge in shades of yellow, purple, and red.
Alas, as I climbed the last little peak on the ridge, the mountain view sent me into turbo mode to try to beat the lightning home. The peaks themselves now had no spots of sunshine on them and I heard rumbles from the west.
I put my head down and rode like a lion was swatting at my back wheel. It felt good to rev up the engines. A series of storms moved over me in rapid succession. A frenzy of raindrops would drench me but sunshine would reassert its power within 5 minutes. I never put on my rain jacket despite several downpours. Each time, the sun warmed me within minutes of being rain splattered.
As I got tantalizingly close to home, the lightning flashes seemed brighter and closer, scaring me. I found yet another turbo gear in my pedaling action. I rode as fast as I safely could, with my head down, watching for obstacles on the trail. Then, I heard a branch crack. It had my full attention but I hadn't stopped riding yet. Another loud crack. I halted, and looked up to see a tiny bear cub, within 15 yards of me, galavanting across the forest floor toward his mother and sibling who waited about 50 yards away. He was a jet black ball of fur, leaping, tumbling, and skittering toward the safety of his mom. He looked a bit smaller than our 55 lb Black Lab R. I'd guess he was 30-40 lbs. He was definitely a 'cub of the year', born during last winter's hibernation.
I lost myself in the wonder of watching the cub, with almost no fear, because I knew that I wasn't between him and his mom. As he lept one log, I actually saw the pinkish soles of his paws. Despite his irresistably cute demeanor, he moved fast. By the time I readied my camera, he was too far away for a good photo but I did capture his distant silhouette. He's the black form slightly to the left and below the center of the photo.
What a magical way to end the ride. I was drenched in rain with mud splatters decorating my legs but the warm sun lit our small slice of the forest. And, a family of wild animals graced me with a glimpse of their life.
This morning, I had a plan to head up to the Divide for a hike but storm clouds menaced the mountains early. Feeling a bit depressed about it, I scrapped my plan and went for a mountain bike ride with K. Now, I'm glad that my plans changed because I had a magical encounter with a bear cub at the end of my ride.At the beginning of the ride, K and I climbed up through a mixed aspen, shrub, and pine forest. For the second time in the past week, a massive bear scat sat, full of territorial meaning, blocking the sinuous path.
Always the scientist, I measured it (each segment >2" in diameter) and investigated what it contained (mushroom pieces, berry pits, seeds, - and notably, no human-related foods) with K watching over me. In the photo, the scat is in the extreme foreground.
As I examined it, K picked up a scent which soon monopolized her attention. She craned her neck, wiggled her nose, and gazed into the distance.
Finally, K fully immersed herself in the scent. I worried that wildlife roamed nearby so we moved along.
That photo highlights something that I'm ashamed of, a remote shock collar, that I've used to stop K in her tracks when she's chased coyotes, putting her own life in danger. I haven't used it in more than a year but I still fear that she might, yet again, fall for the luring and then attacking tactic of our local coyote pack. I've blogged in the past about my decision to use the collar. In retrospect, I'm glad that I did use it because her life was in danger, and I'd exhausted my arsenal of positive training methods to deal with the problem. In our last few coyote encounters, K has returned to me by her own decision and received a mountain of treats!When we emerged from an aspen forest to an unobstructed view of the mountains, the clouds hanging so ominously over the mountains made my decision not to visit the alpine meadows seem smart.
Two deer, young males with budding velvet antlers, browsed to the west of the peak where we lingered. K kept a close eye on them but left them in peace. She sat in front of me to remind me of the treats that she'd earned with her good behavior.
We clattered down the hill and into the forest, traversing my favorite trail. This trail lulls me with deeply forested pine glades and soft pine-needle laden paths, punctuated by sudden bright views of the mountains. In the 20 minutes since we'd left the peak, the clouds had swelled upward although some blue sky still fought them off.
As we rounded a curve in one of the dark forest sections, K suddenly switched modes, to the high-alert bear mode that I've learned to recognize. For the rest of our ride together, I yelled 'Hey bear' as we approached blind curves. I love seeing bears when I'm by myself but I worry about whether K might get hurt in a close-up encounter.Just before returning to a main trail, we gazed one more time at the Divide while stopping for a hug. Yesterday, I started organizing all of our photos of S, a journey that left me feeling sad and very protective of our dogs. The view of the Divide matched my inner angst.
After I dropped K at home, I packed a rain jacket, fully expecting a drenching, and headed out for some more riding. Although the surrounding peaks looked scary, I was in a moving pocket of sunlight for the first half of the ride. I spotted a Rocky Mountain Dotted-Blue Butterfly (Euphilotes ancilla), on a dry rocky ridge, drinking the nectar of a Sulphur flower, which my butterfly book says is its favorite food.
The wildflowers have transformed this exposed ridge, making it a magical place that I can't resist visiting. I don't remember ever seeing such a vast array of wildflowers that paints the entire ridge in shades of yellow, purple, and red.Alas, as I climbed the last little peak on the ridge, the mountain view sent me into turbo mode to try to beat the lightning home. The peaks themselves now had no spots of sunshine on them and I heard rumbles from the west.
I put my head down and rode like a lion was swatting at my back wheel. It felt good to rev up the engines. A series of storms moved over me in rapid succession. A frenzy of raindrops would drench me but sunshine would reassert its power within 5 minutes. I never put on my rain jacket despite several downpours. Each time, the sun warmed me within minutes of being rain splattered.As I got tantalizingly close to home, the lightning flashes seemed brighter and closer, scaring me. I found yet another turbo gear in my pedaling action. I rode as fast as I safely could, with my head down, watching for obstacles on the trail. Then, I heard a branch crack. It had my full attention but I hadn't stopped riding yet. Another loud crack. I halted, and looked up to see a tiny bear cub, within 15 yards of me, galavanting across the forest floor toward his mother and sibling who waited about 50 yards away. He was a jet black ball of fur, leaping, tumbling, and skittering toward the safety of his mom. He looked a bit smaller than our 55 lb Black Lab R. I'd guess he was 30-40 lbs. He was definitely a 'cub of the year', born during last winter's hibernation.
I lost myself in the wonder of watching the cub, with almost no fear, because I knew that I wasn't between him and his mom. As he lept one log, I actually saw the pinkish soles of his paws. Despite his irresistably cute demeanor, he moved fast. By the time I readied my camera, he was too far away for a good photo but I did capture his distant silhouette. He's the black form slightly to the left and below the center of the photo.
What a magical way to end the ride. I was drenched in rain with mud splatters decorating my legs but the warm sun lit our small slice of the forest. And, a family of wild animals graced me with a glimpse of their life.
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