Mountain Beginnings
The wildfires were fed by winds up to 115 miles/hour and were 57 miles from my home. And yet. And yet. I had no wish to be anywhere else. The first real snow of the winter was starting. The high mountains glistened peacefully in the late afternoon sunlight and would soon be made mysterious with white mist. My dog and I had just made a two-hour hike at 9300’ in the cold, and the wood stove was popping with warmth. I had no plans to go anywhere for New Year’s Eve. The drunks could have the highways. Colorado has worse drivers than Boston, even when they are sober. I rarely go on a two-lane highway without seeing a driver pass on a blind curve, usually with a drop-off. I always marvel at their optimism. But despite their confidence, semis come regularly around the bend, and the roads are closed more often for wrecks than any place I have ever lived. Most of the roads here in the mountains have numerous curves with drop-offs of 300’ or more. Guard rails are as rare as wolves in Colorado. The state motto seems to be, “Pay attention, you idiot.”
It was not always so. I have not always thrown apples to deer in the backyard, stopped in the twilight on the way back from a hike to watch two bobcats play in the shrub bush. Not always raced up a hill in the falling darkness to get a shot of big horned owl, who greeted my approach and my German Shepard’s as though we were as significant and as threatening as rabbits. I have seen the face of arrogance. Apex predators act like, well, apex predators.
In the spring of 2019, at age 73, I had looked out the window of my home in Madison, WI at the giant garage my neighbor had built where once there had been wildflowers and birds. I had a wonderful view of the back wall. I decided on the spot that I was leaving for the long-dreamed-for cabin in the Colorado mountains. My children were grown. I lived alone. My work could mostly be done remotely. If not then, when? When I could no longer hike? When my brain got woozy from old age? When I had some chronic condition that I did not have now? If I did not go soon, would I get to go at all?
I sold the house, packed up four cats, and with a friend to help, drove to the cabin in the Colorado mountains, the small cabin I had bought, the one with high ceilings and an entire wall of windows facing the mountains, the cabin with the sweet wood stove. At 9300’, it was as remote as I could find and still have electricity and internet and cell phone service. (The electricity line ended half a mile from my house.) I didn’t like crowds, thought most people were iffy, and loved solitude and silence, but I still backed the Packers, downloaded books regularly, talked to friends I’d had for decades, and kept in touch with family. I wanted to be around Big Nature, but I was a hybrid, not pure isolate but definitely not a city girl. I had grown up in a small town and never habituated to the noise and confusion of the cities I had lived in for most of my adult life.
A year after I came, I met Rey. I had thought about a dog. I had gone camping by myself and found a bear in my campsite the next morning when I walked back to my tent holding the bear vault, of all things. Hiking alone daily had me a tad paranoid. I carried bear spray and a foghorn and kept my neck on a swivel. The black bears, mountain lions, and coyotes that are plentiful up here rarely attack humans but there are exceptions. I didn’t want to be an exception. I knew they were in the neighborhood. The mating call from a mountain lion on the ridge right behind my house had jumped me, and all my animals a foot in the air one night. As for bears, two had shown up on the deck at different times when I was late taking in my suet bird feeder in the spring. A different and larger bear showed up one day, got on his hind legs and shook the cat catio. The catio has an indoor/outdoor that lets them back in the house. All four cats hit the door at the same time in a screeching clamor. I had come back from a camping trip to find a smashed hummingbird feeder and a bunch of sticky bear tracks on the deck. One night, I heard a noise below my bedroom window and looked down to see a strange shadow, a line about 45 degrees. Then she turned her head. Black bears have sloping foreheads and what I thought was a shadow was her face. She was out there teaching my bear-proof trash cans a thing or two about bear proofing. Don’t get me wrong. These are black bears and not grizzlies. My lifestyle wouldn’t be possible if there were grizzlies about. But still . . . Black bears are occasionally grumpy too.
So, when the local neighborhood listserv had a note in it about a rescued 18-month female German Shepard who was available for adoption, I decided to take a look. Dogs aren’t just decorative up here, nor are they just companions. They are working dogs who add a great degree of safety. Bears don’t like to mess with dogs. This dog had been starved by her first owner. She looked so terrible when surrendered that the foster mom told me she cried all the way back from picking her up. Rey had gained weight in the time the foster mom had her but was still thin and barked at everybody and everything. She didn’t trust people except for the foster mom with whom she had built a bond. She brought Rey over, and I was standing on my deck. The foster mom got out the car and walked up the stairs with Rey. Rey never made a sound. She looked at me, walked up, and put her head in my hands. Well, that was it. I was a goner.
That’s how I came to be here, living with three cats and a fantastically beautiful German Shepard. Yes, people stop us on the street to comment on her looks. One cat died of a sudden and unexpected heart attack but the other three have thrived. All have smelled the critters on the outdoor air and decided they were indoor cats.
The snow has stopped for now. I hear the fire is out. A thousand homes are said to have been lost. It’s dicey up here with the winds and the fires, the droughts, and the wildlife. That said, I’m home.
