A late summer stillness settles in at Brainard Lake. The cool evening air pours into the valley. Everyone moves slowly, without urgency. There is a kindness that permeates the air. Smiles on faces, soft conversations, laughter. For the past few days, a parched static has pervaded the air—and with it a desperation for rain. Smoke from fires on the Western Slope seeped over the Divide on the highest wind currents and stained the clouds like spilt tea. But today the winds shifted, the skies cleared.

Families relax on the shore. They sit in camp chairs, share dinners from coolers, eat sandwiches and salads piled high on paper plates. Children in plump life jackets steer paddle boards in wide circles in the shallow water. Small flocks of juncos tumble from one bush to the next, chasing each other and chattering softly. Chipmunks inspect the perimeter for dropped goods: potato chips, bits of bread, clusters of sweet granola.

Brainard Lake was once home to the Ute and Arapaho Native American tribes. Later settled by Europeans in the late 1800s. With them came logging, mining, ranching. The area was part of the Louisiana Purchase in 1803. Roosevelt’s New Deal of the 1930s brought the Civilian Conservation Corps to the area. They built recreational facilities, trails, picnic areas, campgrounds.

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The midwestern summer air is muggy and sweltry. There’s a sense that everything on the prairie stings, bites, cuts, begets rash. Hikers flinch and swat at real and imagined attackers alike: mosquitos, spiders, biting flies, nettles, poison ivy. But there is beauty too, and you can see it in the tall, proud Purple Coneflowers and the joyful Annual Sunflowers. The prairie plant list is extensive and animated with peculiar names: Rattlesnake Master, Joe Pie Weed, Junegrass, Milkweed, White Snakeroot.

Bull Creek overflows its banks in early summer, then runs dry by late July. During the wettest times, it leaks wide across flat ground, creating more swamp than waterway. The prairie transforms into rich wetlands that support a grand diversity of birds, both resident and migratory species.

I jot down my own inventory of birds spotted during my prairie walks. The easy ones are the songbirds, Blue-gray Gnatcatchers, Gray Catbirds, Baltimore Orioles. But the prize sighting of the season is a Sora. This secretive rail, though rarely seen, is unmistakable. A stout yellow bill, a sooty black face, yellow-green legs, long toes, and an cringeworthy clumsiness on land.

It’s early March, and I’m heading over La Veta Pass in the Sangre De Cristo Mountains towards Monte Vista, a small town in the San Luis Valley of south-central Colorado. The weather’s iffy and temperamental—typical for March. I keep my eye on a swirl of dark clouds up ahead. As the road climbs and bends, sleet whips across the windshield. The pavement is wet, though not yet slick. Snow covers the rising, rolling terrain ahead.

Cranes of the San Luis Valley by Laura K

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As mountain passes go, La Veta is relatively mild. But in March, I take nothing for granted and steer carefully, hoping the weather holds. The highway crests the ridge at 9,220 feet, and I relax as it winds down the western slope. The terrain opens to an expansive vista and the sun breaks through the clouds.

The road circles around the south shoulder of Blanca Peak. At its base lies a barley field gilded in evening sunlight. In the field, something catches my eye, and I realize that I’m seeing for the first time the very reason for my journey. There in the field, a group of about a dozen greater sandhill cranes stands with their long necks bowed to the ground, foraging leftover barley amongst the clipped stalks.

It’s been over a decade since I set out to witness a sandhill crane migration up close. I was living in northern Illinois when, on a whim, I attended a lecture about cranes, not knowing the fascinating world I was about to enter. I don’t recall every detail of the talk, but I do remember its effect on me. I was captivated by what I was told about cranes and alarmed to hear of their vulnerability. When I asked the lecturer what I could do to help, he told me to seek out the International Crane Foundation.

Founded in 1973 by ornithologists Ron Sauey and George Archibald, the International Crane Foundation (ICF) works to protect crane species around the world. Crane conservation is an extraordinarily complex undertaking. There are 15 species of cranes alive today, ten of which face a considerable risk of extinction. Although themselves hardy birds, cranes rely on fragile, declining ecosystems. To complicate matters, cranes are migratory, and their survival depends on conservation efforts that cross borders and connect cultures.

In the summer of 2010, not long after I attended the crane lecture, I visited the ICF headquarters in Baraboo, Wisconsin. The facility included over 250 acres of prairie habitats and sheltered a flock of 100 cranes. All 15 species of cranes were present at the facility, housed in large enclosures that brimmed with natural vegetation. But the facility was more than just a sanctuary. It was—and is—a place for advanced research in captive breeding and species reintroduction.

I explored the live crane exhibits and marveled at their beauty and variety. There were blue cranes from South Africa with long sooty wing feathers that draped behind them as they walked. There were hooded cranes, among the smallest of the crane species—though still demonstrably large birds—who winter in the boreal forests of Siberia and breed in the wetlands of China. There were red-crowned cranes, the largest of the world’s crane species, with body feathers so white they glowed like new snow. And there were others—whooping cranes, white-naped cranes, demoiselle cranes, sandhill cranes—all magnificent in their ways.

I took a guided tour and learned of the ICF’s tireless efforts to save the whooping crane—North America’s most endangered bird, whose population dwindled to fewer than 20 individuals in 1941. I discovered, too, that another North American crane, the sandhill crane, once threatened, was now on good footing in the wild. I decided then to try and see the sandhill cranes myself along one of their migratory routes.

Today, more than 800,000 sandhill cranes travel along multiple flyways across North America. Each spring and fall, the cranes gather to recharge at stopover points along their journey—places such as the marshy Sandhills of Nebraska and the wet meadows of Colorado’s San Luis Valley.

There are six subspecies of sandhills, distinguished roughly by their separate ranges. The greater sandhill crane, Antigone canadensis tabida, the subspecies I plan to see, winters in New Mexico, migrates through the San Luis Valley of Colorado, and breeds in Wyoming.

I’m groggy from the long drive, but the sandhill cranes I spot south of Blanca Peak revive me. I think of the time it’s taken me to get here—the many years I’ve tried to wrangle my schedule and budget to allow me this trip. Only now have I managed it. I arrive at my hotel after dark, unpack, eat a quick dinner and go to bed. It will be an early start tomorrow, and I don’t want to miss a moment.

The next day, I arrive at Monte Vista National Wildlife Refuge at dawn, hoping to spot the cranes in their roosting habitat before they fly over to the feeding grounds. When I enter the refuge, the road disappears into dense fog.

I drive slowly for two miles, then pull over and turn off the car. I roll down the window to listen. And there it is—a thick chatter of a greater sandhill crane flock roosting nearby. Their calm vocalizations consist of trills, peeps, and rattling purrs. The cranes use these soothing sounds to reinforce community and reassure each other that all is safe.

The sun climbs in the sky and begins to desiccate the brume. Gradually, I make out the contours of nearby trees. The cranes’ chatter crescendoes now. Slowly, the birds take flight, heading to the fields to forage. Some fly nearby, and although I don’t see them in the mist, I know they’re close when their trumpet calls crack the air around me.

The air finally clears, and the birds decamp in noisy gangs. They fly low and straight over the landscape to the fields on the western side of the refuge.

Each spring, the town of Monte Vista holds a festival to celebrate the stopover of the cranes. The festival is a mix of fundraising activities for crane conservation—an art show, nature exhibits, and vendor booths chock-full of bric-a-brac. I set aside a few hours one afternoon to explore the festival and am pleased to unearth a few science-minded events that interest me. I sign up for a bus tour of the wildlife refuge and the keynote presentation in the evening.

On the bus tour, a refuge naturalist tells us about the habits of cranes—how they shelter together each night in shallow water where predators dare not approach. During the day, they gather in meadows and fields to socialize and feed. We also learn that with cranes, the gravest concern isn’t climate change; it’s the destruction of their habitat.

The bus stops at a viewing area in the southwest corner of the reserve. There, the guides mount spotting scopes on tripods for us to observe the greater sandhills as they graze, trumpet, and perform courtship dances. When the sun sinks low over the mountains, the cranes take to the air and return to their roosting sites in the nearby wetlands.

That evening, I attend the keynote presentation. I’m thrilled to discover that the presenter is George Archibald, co-founder of the International Crane Foundation. Dr. Archibald’s talk reflects on the achievements of the ICF, now in its 50th year. In that time, the ICF has led numerous international, community-based conservation programs. It has preserved vast areas of critical crane habitat. And it has brought the whooping crane back from the brink of extinction, with wild individuals now numbering 800 individuals.

All are stunning achievements, but today’s volatile human-dominated world demands sustained conservation efforts. So that evening, I go online, make a donation, and renew my membership to the International Crane Foundation. It’s a small gesture when measured against the incredible achievements of conservationists like Dr. Archibald. But I am glad to be able to provide some support.

The time comes for me to head home, and I decide to take the mountainous route. The drive is both scenic and formidable, but I’ll arrive in time for dinner. The cranes will leave soon too. But their journey will be more daunting—and more spectacular—than mine.

When preparing to leave the valley, the cranes test the upper-level winds that will power their journey. They fly in a skyward spiral on thermals that lift them high enough to touch the heavenly winds. These powerful air currents can ferry the cranes 300 to 500 miles a day at impressive altitudes—as high as 13,000 feet over some mountain passes. But the cranes are cautious at first, and retreat to the ground if conditions are sketchy.

They’ll try again the next day. And the next.

When, at last, the cranes deem the winds reliable, instead of descending as they did on previous attempts, they plunge forward into the wild river of air. One after another, a precious thread of birds sets off, bound for their summer home.

Photographs

Photographs were taken by the author at Monte Vista National Wildlife Refuge in March, 2023.

Notes

1. Alamosa and Monte Vista National Wildlife Refuge Complex. Audubon. Retrieved March 18, 2023, from https://www.audubon.org/important-bird-areas/alamosa-and-monte-vista-national-wildlife-refuge-complex

2. Blue Crane. Smithsonian’s National Zoo & Conservation Biology Institute. Retrieved March 18, 2023, from https://nationalzoo.si.edu/animals/blue-crane

3. Crane FAQs and Facts. Colorado Crane Conservation Coalition. Retrieved March 19, 2023, from https://coloradocranes.org/crane-faqs-and-facts/

4. History & Mission. The International Crane Foundation. Retrieved March 18, 2023, from https://savingcranes.org/about/history-mission/

5. Leopold, Aldo. A Sand County Almanac and Sketches Here and There. Oxford University Press, 1949.

6. Red-Crowned Crane. Smithsonian’s National Zoo & Conservation Biology Institute. Retrieved March 18, 2023, from https://nationalzoo.si.edu/animals/red-crowned-crane

7. Sandhill Crane. The International Crane Foundation. Retrieved March 18, 2023, from https://savingcranes.org/learn/species-field-guide/sandhill-crane/

8. Sandhill Crane Antigone canadensis. Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Retrieved March 19, 2023, from https://birdsoftheworld.org/bow/species/sancra/cur/introduction

9. Species Field Guide. The International Crane Foundation. Retrieved March 18, 2023, from https://savingcranes.org/learn/species-field-guide/

10. Whooping Crane. Smithsonian’s National Zoo & Conservation Biology Institute. Retrieved March 18, 2023, from https://nationalzoo.si.edu/animals/whooping-crane

It’s early Sunday morning, and I’m driving north along US Highway 287. It’s been raining almost every day for three weeks now, and the landscape’s raging like green wildfire.

Just south of Livermore, Colorado, I pull the car to the side of the road. The sun breaks through the clouds, and the morning light washes over the landscape in front of me. The prairie glows like a slice of fresh avocado against a dark ridge in the distance. That’s where I’m heading—up and over that moody ridge along a highway that bisects an ancient swathe of Colorado’s geological history.

I’ve stopped here to check my book, Roadside Geology of Colorado, a field guide to the rock formations along Colorado’s highways. Geology has long bewildered me, and despite my handy reference, I remain stubbornly confused. I inspect numerous maps, diagrams, and descriptions. Finally, I determine that the dark ridge in the distance is most likely part of the Lyons Sandstone hogback, a spine of rock that parallels the eastern foothills of the Front Range. I snap a quick photo before the clouds close in. The morning sunshine fades. I drive on.

When I next stop, it’s at a point where the road cuts into the crest of the hogback. I get out of the car to inspect the exposed rock, which resembles a tilted layer cake of pink and red stone. I rub my hand across the surface, it feels warm and chalky. I consult my guide. This particular sandstone formed from quartz sand that was deposited and compressed some 250 million years ago.

Back in the car, I drive for a few miles to the crossroads town of Livermore. I’m delighted to find the Fork Merchantile & Saloon open. It’s the only restaurant for the next fifty miles, so I pause my journey for an egg & sausage muffin and a cup of coffee.

When I leave Livermore, the landscape changes. Hogbacks give way to distant rolling hills and wide vistas. I turn down a dirt road and drive west, hoping to get a closer look at the landscape. I continue for twenty minutes, but the mountains don’t seem to get any closer.

My map provides little guidance. The Red Feather Lakes—a popular camping area—are somewhere out there to the southwest, but this road bends to the north. When I turn the car around to head back, I’m treated to an extraordinary view. Driving west, the road seemed dull and flat. But I’ve ascended a thousand feet or so, and the added elevation offers me a scenic vantage.

I stop again to try to understand what I’m seeing. The rocks here match the description of Sherman Granite. My guidebook tells me that this beautiful pink stone—made of grains of mica, pink feldspar, and quartz—is 1.4 billion years old. I touch the surface of an outcrop. It’s covered in gray lichens and feels smoother and denser than the Lyons Sandstone.

Back on the highway, I continue north across the Wyoming state line. The landscape has transformed again. I’m in Big Sky country now—the Laramie Valley. The clouds are loose and puffy. The Medicine Bow Mountains wrinkle the western horizon. It’s tempting to keep driving and exploring—north to Casper, west through the Wind River Reservation, all the way to the Tetons and Yellowstone.

Tempting but not possible. I come to my senses. In Laramie, I top up the tank before turning back home along US 287.

Notes from an hour spent observing nature at Alluvial Fan Trailhead, Endovalley, Rocky Mountain National Park.

8:03 a.m. Sheltering in my car. A heavy rain teems down. My mountain-girl grit eludes me. I’m eager to get out, squeamish about getting soaked through. I eye the picnic table where I intend to sit and write. Not tempted. The wet concrete bench exudes a hardship I’m reluctant to endure. And so I set up a temporary writer’s camp in the passenger seat. Roll down the window a few inches. Record the birdsong. Sudden silence. The birds toy with me.

8:12 a.m. The rain doesn’t let up. That’s all right. I don’t recall the last time I saw the landscape so lush. I’m reminded of the generosity of a proper spring. We’ve recently emerged from a years-long drought. A rampike stands tall, dead, and dripping—a stark reminder of a faltering climate.

8:18 a.m. Black scars on the Quaking Aspen trunks mark where lower branches once grew, self-pruned long ago, as an adaptation to wildfires. A park service truck pulls up next to me. A woman steps out to change the bin bag. She replaces the cover carefully, it must be bear-proof. We exchange a nod and a smile.

8:25 a.m. The sky darkens, and the deluge intensifies. It’s carwash rain—what a bargain. Another car pulls up. Two men get out and start gearing up, unfazed by the weather. They don pack vests, waders, and sling packs. After assembling their fly rods, they hike southward towards Fall River, seeking yet more water.

8:32 a.m. Logistical problems. The pen’s leaking. It’s the altitude. I always forget. I wipe the ink drops and carry on. Am still confined to the car, trying to record birdsong. At last, I snag the warbles of a House Wren hiding somewhere amongst the Ponderosa Pine. A Black-billed Magpie swoops down, lands atop the aspen in front of me, and flicks his tail. A tiny bird darts past the windshield. Too fast and too small to identify. Perhaps the House Wren.

8:40 a.m. I inspect the south-facing flank of Bighorn Mountain, which rises to the north of my little encampment. A mix of Ponderosa Pine, Quaking Aspen, and Douglas fir blankets the slope. The light changes, and a sunny glow emerges through thinning clouds. Small yellow flowers beam in the undergrowth. The rain slows. I grab my camera and abandon the car. On close inspection, the flowers turn out to be Mountain Parsley.

8:48 a.m. The sun retreats, and the sky darkens. But I’m untethered now, determined not to retreat to the car. I breathe in the wet alpine air and evergreen scent. I chat with a man who has just arrived. He assembles a spotting scope and fixes it on the ridge above. Would I like to have a look? I accept. A dozen Bighorn Sheep graze in a small meadow. The image is clear and crisp. So easy to miss such detail with the naked eye. I fight the absurd urge to race home and price up spotting scopes. I can’t even operate a fountain pen properly.

8:54 a.m. A family in matching ponchos the color of Mountain Parsley follows a trail onto the Alluvial Fan. One of the children dawdles behind, twirling a bubble umbrella. The others splash through puddles and skip ahead down the path. The parents stop for photos and to inspect the vast pile of rocks that were swept down from Lawn Lake in 1982 after an earthen dam gave way in a storm.

8:59 a.m. Back in the car, toweling off the camera. The peaks of the Mummy Range are visible now. The fresh snow shines against the black granite rock. A gentle wind pushes cotton fog into the valley. Wrapping things up now, readying to leave. I can’t resist another quick birdsong recording and am thrilled to detect a Broad-tailed Hummingbird maneuvering nearby. I shouldn’t have needed an app for that one. My hopes to hear Mountain Chickadees and White-crowned Sparrows dashed. Maybe another day. It’s time to head home.

I arrive at the Denver Audubon Nature Center in Chatfield State Park shortly after dawn and join a small group of birdwatchers gathering at the entrance. We're here to visit a bird banding station and catch a glimpse of conservation research up-close. After checking in, an Audubon Society guide leads us to the banding station inside the park.

The station is tucked away, barely visible at the edge of a wooded area. It's a simple field lab with a shelter, picnic table, banding equipment, and a semi-circle of chairs where visitors can sit and watch wildlife biologists as they work. It's a lively place too, where young research assistants dash back and forth, picking up equipment and disappearing in different directions into the vegetation.

I take a seat near the end of the picnic table. Beyond the table hangs a metal grid with numbered pegs, and from some of the pegs, dangle small cotton bags. Periodically, the bags wiggle and rustle.

Meredith, a bander from the Bird Conservancy of the Rockies, welcomes us and explains the banding process. First, researchers hang mist nets around the station and check them regularly to collect any netted birds. Then, they place the birds in cotton bags and hang them on the pegs, where they await their turn to be banded, measured, weighed, and released.

Meredith removes one of the cotton bags from the grid. She slips her hand inside the bag, and it flutters and scuffles. After a moment, she pulls out a small sooty-plumed bird with a dark charcoal crown.

"We've got a Gray Catbird," she says. The research assistant makes a note in the spreadsheet. Meredith explains that birds have personalities that align with their species. It's clear from the catbird's raspy mews that this breed has a rebellious streak.

Meredith handles the bird skillfully as she places a tiny band on its leg. She measures its wing and tail, weighs it, and asks for a volunteer. A boy steps forward from our group, and Meredith gently slides the bird into his cupped hands. The bird sits momentarily, shakes its feathers, and then disappears into the trees with two quick wing beats.

The whole process is repeated for each bagged bird. There's a House Wren, a second Gray Catbird, and an American Redstart. Each is dazzling to see up close, with their gleaming feathers and distinct charms. Every bird has an individual spark, a spirit that you might miss from a distance.

The last two birds that Meredith unbags are Bullock's Orioles—a male and a female. They're a dapper pair with an impressive blend of colors that includes yellow, orange, olive-gray, white, and black. She bands the birds, takes their measurements, and asks me if I want to release the female.

I cup my hands before me, and Meredith places the bird in my palms. The oriole’s feathers are silky, and her body is almost weightless. Then, in a flash, she flies over my shoulder and back into the woods. And for the rest of the day, I think of my bird and wonder where she is and how she's faring.

I started visiting the shortgrass prairie in the spring of 2019 when I began having problems at work. My company had adopted an aggressive management system that left me depleted. A job that had long been challenging became unbearable. My schedule overflowed with meetings and endless deadlines. Work not completed within business hours had to be done on personal time—evenings, weekends, and holidays.

The exhaustion mounted for many months until something inside me finally gave way. One morning, I declined my meetings, shut off my computer, and got in my car. I drove north until paved roads narrowed and gave way to dirt tracks. Four miles shy of the Wyoming border, I arrived at Soapstone Prairie Natural Area.

Soapstone Prairie Natural Area was established in 2004 when the City of Fort Collins purchased a 28-square-mile parcel of land in the northeastern corner of Larimer County, Colorado. With the establishment of Soapstone Prairie, conservationists hoped to protect a pristine remnant of the shortgrass prairie ecosystem that had once covered the entire eastern half of Colorado.

On my first visit to Soapstone, I hiked along a narrow trail, stopping frequently to admire the views. In the distance, I could see the mountains of the Mummy Range, their snow-covered peaks still hibernating. At my feet, a tiny greater short-horned lizard scampered across the trail and disappeared behind a pile of rocks. A gentle wind picked up, bending the blue grama and buffalograss in waves across the rolling terrain. There were no sounds of traffic or human activities. Instead, gentler sounds emerged—the rustle of rabbitbrush, the twinkle of birdsong, the purr of bees.

Since its inception, Soapstone Prairie has matured into a place of refuge for numerous imperiled species. After my first visit, I returned to the prairie frequently, each time thinking less about my troubles and more about the prairie and its inhabitants. Between visits, I researched the area’s wildlife and ecology. I collected lists of plants and tips for spotting rare birds. I became enthralled.

I learned of a bison herd released into the park in 2015, that consisted of individuals chosen for their wild lineage and resistance to disease. I read about the endangered black-footed ferrets that biologists recently reintroduced—nocturnal hunters once thought extinct, now slumbering in prairie dog burrows beneath my feet. I discovered that many vulnerable grassland birds, such as loggerhead shrikes, thick-billed longspurs, and burrowing owls, thrive in Soapstone as they decline elsewhere.

While unprotected shortgrass prairie habitats succumb to the destructive forces of agriculture and urbanization, Soapstone offers fragile creatures much needed refuge. For me too, Soapstone is a place of sustenance.

Although it took me several years to leave that troublesome job, I consider my first visit to Soapstone Prairie a turning point. From then on, I knew that for me, there is only one real world that exists, and it is not governed by any corporation. The real world is outside in a landscape where natural balance prevails, biodiversity thrives, and hope rebounds.

Sources

Bone, E. (2012). Introduction to the Bison Books Edition. In At Mesa’s Edge: Cooking and Ranching in Colorado’s North Fork Valley (p. vii). University of Nebraska Press.

Shortgrass Prairie Ecosystem | Natural Areas. Shortgrass Prairie Ecosystem - City of Fort Collins. (n.d.). Retrieved February 20, 2023, from https://www.fcgov.com/naturalareas/shortgrass-prairie-ecosystem

Soapstone Prairie Natural Area Resource Lists | Natural Areas. Soapstone Prairie Natural Area Resource Lists - City of Fort Collins. (n.d.). Retrieved February 20, 2023, from https://www.fcgov.com/naturalareas/soapstone-resources

In early July, I spent an evening at Brainard Lake Recreation Area recording the natural sounds I encountered. I stopped first at Mitchell Creek to record the gush of meltwater flowing into Brainard Lake. After being chased away by mosquitos, I hiked deeper into the valley, stopping in meadows and along trails to capture the evening chatter of birds.

The acoustics in the Brainard Lake area are enchanting. Sounds ring clearly through the cool, thin air and bounce back and forth off the surrounding mountain slopes. It’s a vast wild place, and yet you can hear soft echoes in such fine detail it feels cozy.

That evening, though, all went quiet early on. Maybe it was the heat, my poor timing, or that fledgling season had exhausted the birds and they were early to bed. Not to be deterred, I recorded several clips hoping to capture something of interest before giving up when dusk gave way to darkness.

Back at home, I quickly spot-checked my recordings and found them to be either dull or dominated by American Robins. As lovely as the American Robin song is, it’s not the unique alpine evening chorus I had hoped to capture. Disappointed, I shelved my recordings and moved on.

I went back to my recordings and listened to them more closely. I decided to upload the best clips to BirdNET for analysis and was surprised to discover there were bird species singing in the background that I had previously overlooked.

I trimmed the clips, verified them against eBird recordings, and ran them through BirdNET one more time to generate matching spectrograms. The results are below. I’m an amateur when it comes to birdsong ID, so please leave a comment if you would like to suggest alternative identifications.

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American Robin and Ruby-crowned Kinglet

The familiar, strident song of the American Robin (Turdus migratorius) is front and center in this clip. But if you listen carefully, you might hear the song of the Ruby-crowned Kinglet (Corthylio calendula) at 0:08 min.

Mountain Chickadee

The distant rush of Mitchell Creek is not mighty enough to dampen the piercing, melancholy Chicka-dee-dee-dee call of the Mountain Chickadee (Poecile gambeli) in this recording. By the way, the low-pitched sounds at 0:30 min are not birds but instead the voices of hikers echoing across the lake.

American Robin, Ruby-crowned Kinglet, and Red-breasted Nuthatch

In this audio clip, you’ll again hear the American Robin (Turdus migratorius) taking the lead, but if you listen carefully, you might also the following backup singers:

• Ruby-crowned Kinglet (Corthylio calendula) at 0:09, 0:36, and 0:47 min

• Red-breasted Nuthatch (Sitta canadensis) at 0:30 min

Before signing off, I thought I’d share with you a lovely video by Leslie the Bird Nerd that profiles the Ruby-crowned Kinglet. If you want to skip ahead to hear information about the Kinglet’s amazing song, go to the 3:25 min mark. But if you have the time, the entire video is a worthwhile watch.

Chaos Canyon, Rocky Mountain National Park - On June 28, 2022, a massive section of Hallett Peak dislodged, disintegrated, and shape-shifted its way down into Upper Chaos Canyon. The rockfall was captured on video by two people recreating in the area at the time. Ryan Albert recorded this remarkable clip while fly fishing at Lake Haiyaha. Meanwhile, William Mondragon witnessed the event while bouldering below the rockslide with some friends. Remarkably, no one was injured by the landslide. In a news interview, Mondragon described the experience of seeing a mountain slope sliding toward him as so intense that it reminded him of taking psychedelics.

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For me, not being there meant the event was far less memorable. I recall reading a handful of articles about the rockfall shortly after it occurred. But I missed Albert's and Mondragon's jaw-dropping videos, and I didn't fully grasp the magnitude of the rockslide until weeks later when some incredible images and accounts of a transformed Lake Haiyaha started popping up on social media.

Lake Haiyaha is one of my favorite destinations in Rocky Mountain National Park. You can reach the lake by various routes, but the Lake Haiyaha Trail is the most scenic (which might be why the trail is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.)

The trail begins at Bear Lake, climbs up past Nymph Lake, and then on to Dream Lake. Next, it enters Tyndall Gorge and turns south into Chaos Canyon. From there, it ascends to the tree line and arrives at the eastern edge of Lake Haiyaha.

Most day hikers (including myself) venture no further than the lake. To the west, Upper Chaos Canyon looms large—a vast jumble of boulders and scree. It's terrain that makes hikers cringe and retreat—and rock climbers drool and carry on.

Navigating the bulky rocks that border the eastern edge of Lake Haiyaha is challenging enough for me. When I finally arrive at the water's edge, I traditionally snap a few photos, have a snack, and relax before heading homeward.

It's been several years since I last visited Lake Haiyaha. I'd been planning a return hike in August when I stumbled across images showing the now-transformed (post-rockfall) Lake Haiyaha. Instead of its usual dark blue-green, the lake was a milky emerald. The images were surreal and stunning. I was anxious to see it for myself.

The following afternoon I hopped in the car, headed for the Bear Lake Area, and set out along the Lake Haiyaha Trail.

Just before arriving at Lake Haiyaha, I came to Chaos Creek, where it was immediately apparent that something unusual was underway. The shallow creek was a shimmering turquoise color, a preview of coming attractions. I snapped a few photos as I crossed over the bridge and then continued towards the lake.

I arrived at Lake Haiyaha at about 6 p.m. The sky was overcast, and dusk was setting in. And yet, despite the dwindling light, the lake gleamed a rich jade color.

I lingered and took pictures for as long as possible before I started my hike back to the trailhead.

After my hike, one nagging question remained: why did a rockfall high above Lake Haiyaha so drastically change the color of the waters below? To answer this question, I read up on rockslides, glacial deposits, and alpine lakes. I even pulled out my Essentials of Geology textbook.

Chaos Canyon, like all of Rocky Mountain National Park, is a terrain shaped by glaciation. As such, the canyon contains pockets of glacial till—heterogeneous mixtures of rocky sediments of various sizes. 

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The rockfall exposed some of this glacial till, and subsequent rains washed the finest sediments (called glacial flour) into the lake below. Glacial flour is so fine that it doesn't sink to the bottom of the lake. Instead, it becomes suspended in the water, causing it to change color and take on a milky appearance.

And so, to turn Lake Haiyaha turquoise, all you need is a rockfall up-valley, some glacial flour, a spot of rain, and a bit of time. Then hey presto! You've got yourself a mesmerizing, photogenic, glowing jade-colored lake!

References

• Witness the New Color at Lake Haiyaha by Dawn Wilson (Estes Park Trail-Gazette)

• Glacial Till and Glacial Flour (National Park Service)

• Essentials of Geology by Frederick K. Lutgens and Edward J. Tarbuck. 2015. Pearson Education Inc.

Dawn

Cool air from the sparse alpine land above fills the valley. The sky glows dimly at first, then brightens to violet, powder blue, and pink. Three mule deer tiptoe on delicate, silent hooves through campsites and between the black huckleberry and mountain ash. The doe stops to inspect the new day, her fawns pause at her side.

Busier creatures begin to stir. Juncos, chickadees, and nuthatches scratch and nibble. A thin chatter of birds warms up, a tiny orchestra tuning for their concert. As the sun crests the ridge to the east, the chorus begins.

Morning

The warming light wakes the landscape and casts a fresh contrast throughout the campground. Campers rustle and yawn as they unzip sleeping bags and tent flaps. The smell of campfire smoke and freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air.

Breakfast is grand, indulgent, and necessary—fuel for hiking. Eggs, hash-browns, sausage, beans, and toast cook fast over open flames. A golden-mantled ground squirrel scampers up a tree and sits on a low branch, watching, waiting, hoping for a handful of granola to hit the ground. A quartet of elk amble through the tent sites and disappear into the cool forest.

Afternoon

A piercing, deflating heat now forces campers, magpies, and cottontails into the cool shady patches of ponderosa. It’s time to sit, snooze, and pine for the relief of sunset.

The thick clatter of bandwing grasshoppers fills the air—crepitation, I think it’s called. It’s a sleepy, hot summertime sound. Up and down, they jump and click, males snapping their wings together again and again, hoping to impress the females who shelter amongst yarrow and dogbane leaves below.

Dusk

Campfires crackle, and children run free. The clatter of pots and pans crescendos as families prepare their evening meals. The sky darkens, but the air remains comfortably warm. Campers clip headlamps to their hats and walk the trails around the campground.

Mule deer rustle as they bed down in the shrubs. A bull elk bugles, and his cry echoes along the valley. An ancient sound that declares the arrival of the new night.

Nightfall

The campfire hisses and pops and burns itself out. At last, a cold bucket of water poured over top extinguishes what remains. Quiet voices mumble nearby, campers up late, immersed in some wild conversation. A gentle breeze touches the tent, the nylon puffs and deflates with the moving air. Toasty warm under a blanket, in a sleeping bag zipped tight.

Finally, the primitive sounds of the night. The quiet crunch of some large creature pawing through the campsite. A hollow thump at the food storage locker. A black bear checks the lock. Defeated, he wanders off to test the next.

A gentle air current washes through the treetops. Cool air descends once again. A calm, brushing, soothing sound. Now I sleep.

On August 21, 2017, a total eclipse of the sun cast a shady path 70 miles wide across the United States. It stenciled a line from the Pacific to the Atlantic, progressing west to east over Oregon, Idaho, Wyoming, Nebraska, Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky, Tennessee, Georgia, and South Carolina. Four short hours after the celestial show had started, it was over.

I had never witnessed a total solar eclipse, so in preparation for the event, I inspected my map and selected the closest, most interesting viewing spot I could find within the path of totality. And that’s how I found myself staring skyward outside the Cavalry Barracks at Fort Laramie National Historic Site in Wyoming on the morning of August 21, 2017.

I waited as the moon edged in front of the sun. The cottonwood leaves filtered sunlight like pinhole cameras, casting crescents onto the lawn, the sidewalk, and the canvas of a covered wagon. As the eclipse progressed, the light dimmed as if clouds were gathering. I peered through my solar glasses and studied the sun’s changing silhouette.

Then finally, totality arrived. A chilly wind kicked up, and the temperature dropped degrees in seconds.

I took off my solar glasses to see the solar corona, visible only during totality. Great wisps of solar plasma rippled outward—a living halo, moving, reaching, and flowing across a wide western sky. The sun felt suddenly close, the moon alive, the earth fragile, the universe complete. It was one of the most astonishing things I had ever experienced. In that moment, in those four minutes of totality, I realized how very little I knew of the universe.

As a graduate student in the early 1990s, I attended the School of Public and Environmental Affairs at Indiana University. My area of study was Applied Ecology—a flexible curriculum that allowed me to learn from some superb scientists who cared deeply about the natural environment. I worked part-time as a research assistant in a wetlands biology lab and spent the rest of my time taking courses such as aquatic chemistry, landscape ecology, earth science, and wetlands biology. I loved all the classes I took, but one course stood out as my favorite: ornithology.

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The ornithology course was a blend of lectures and field outings. The lectures introduced me and my fellow students to avian biology, behavior, anatomy, and evolution. The field outings taught us how to identify birds by appearance, behavior, flight patterns, and vocalizations.

Unfortunately, I didn’t keep up with my birdwatching hobby after leaving university, but I do remember the fun and challenge of identifying birds by their songs and calls.

That’s why this past spring I signed up for the Birdsong Essentials: Enjoying Songbirds This Spring webinar when it was hosted by the American Bird Conservancy.

Watching this webinar reminded me of my fascination with birdsong identification, and rekindled my desire to develop this wonderful skill.

I hope you get as much out of this webinar I did. I also encourage you to contribute the American Bird Conservancy to support bird conservation and enable seminars like this to continue.

INDIAN PEAKS WILDERNESS, COLORADO — The hiking season is in full swing, and trailheads throughout the Front Range are teaming with summertime holiday-makers. To avoid the crush, I schedule my hikes at odd hours and seek out less-congested areas. This evening, I am in the mountains above Ward, Colorado, for the first hike I’ve taken since March.

It’s a light hike—I have no intention of trekking the steep miles up to the alpine lakes dotted above. Instead, I wander a network of paths linking the parking lots, campsites, and trailheads scattered throughout the area. There are spectacular views along the route. I pause to take a few photographs and to record the evening chorus of birds that echos down the long glacial valley.

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At one point, I come to a clearing where a boardwalk crosses a long, boggy meadow. I’m halfway across the boardwalk when I hear something to my left. A gruff baritone grunt, the rustling of shrubbery, crunching, chewing. I freeze. Take a deep breath.

Slowly, cautiously, I turn my head to find a bull moose less than fifty feet from me. He’s not as close as I feared, but he’s still too close for comfort. I’m exposed and don’t know whether to go forward or back. It doesn’t matter; it’s the same distance to reach cover in either direction.

I try to calm myself. The moose appears to have no interest in me. And I’m quite sure he heard me stomping along the boardwalk, so I’ve not surprised him. That’s good. I mull over my options. The boardwalk stands on modest stilts above a dense mat of aquatic vegetation. I can’t step down off either side—too high and too boggy. I can only go forward or back. What to do?

While I ponder my options, I watch the moose. His calmness is catching. He’s a magnificent animal—massive, muscular, regal, aloof. Not at all the dull-witted hulk that moose are so often made out to be. He tugs clumps of greenery from the bushes and trees in front of him, shaking evergreens ten feet tall like spindly saplings.

It’s summer now, so the moose’s diet is a generous buffet of leaves and shoots from evergreens, aspen, and willow. Aquatic plants like horsetail, water lilies, and pondweed are also on the menu. During colder months, his diet becomes meager—mostly bark, roots, and twigs.

I would never intentionally approach a moose this closely for any reason, but chance has placed me in this spot, camera in hand. What the heck? I raise the camera, adjust the frame, and press the shutter release.

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After a few minutes, the moose begins to retreat down the valley, farther from the boardwalk. I step softly forward, moving slowly and watching the moose for any signs of irritation or aggression. There are none. I continue my cautious steps until I’m at a safe distance. I turn around for one last look and to capture a few more photographs of this majestic creature.

References

• Bartalucci, A. and B. Weinstein. Alces americanus (Moose). Animal Diversity Web. Accessed Jul 9, 2022.

• Rocky Mountain Mammals by David M. Amstrong. University Press of Colorado. 2008.

• Geist, Valerius. Moose. Encyclopedia Britannica, 26 Feb. 2021. Accessed 9 July 2022.

In this post, I share a handful of photographs and a few brief field notes from a recent excursion I made to the shortgrass prairies of northern Colorado, where I basked in wide-open spaces and gawked at pronghorn.

BUCKEYE, COLORADO — Daylight savings time catches me off-guard, and so I’m an hour behind from the outset. But, undeterred, I gather my gear and toss it in the car. My drive takes me north and then west until suburbia yields to shortgrass prairie, paved roads give way to gravel. Here the golden landscape opens up before me and stretches to the foothills of the Front Range.

I drive slowly, watching out for wildlife. Fortunately, my vigilance pays off—a herd of pronghorn catches my eye. I pull to the side of the road and get out of the car slowly, quietly. But the pronghorn are alert and wary. They stop grazing, lift their heads, and stare.

I look back at them through my telephoto lens, transfixed by their huge black eyes and long elegant eyelashes. Their gaze is mesmerizing. They inspect me for a moment and then form a single-file line and saunter away. They seem unimpressed.

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Pronghorn have large, prominent eyes positioned at the edge of their face such that they have a 300-degree arc of vision. Their impressive peepers can spy motion up to 4 miles away, which explains why my clumsy movements so easily commanded their attention a mere quarter-mile away.

During the winter, pronghorn feed on shrubs such as sagebrush and rabbitbrush. I scan the barren grassland before me and see no such shrubs for them to eat. I imagine how hungry the herd must be. Fortunately, spring is around the corner, so they will soon graze on a new buffet of succulent forbs and tender grass shoots (pronghorn typically do not dine on grasses at any other time of the year).

Blue skies have now turned chalky and overcast. A crisp, wintry breeze gushes down out of the mountains. The pronghorn turn their backs to the wind and head for the rolling terrain to the east. It’s time for me to leave too. I pack up my camera, return to my car, and drive on. Although I hope to see some more wildlife this afternoon, I doubt I’ll top the pronghorn herd.

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Sources

Pronghorn (Antilocapra americana) Fact Sheet. San Diego (CA): San Diego Zoo Wildlife Alliance. Accessed Mar 14, 2022. http://ielc.libguides.com/sdzg/factsheets/pronghorn

Pronghorn. National Park Service. Accessed Mar 14, 2022. https://www.nps.gov/yell/learn/nature/pronghorn.htm

Lindstedt, S., Hokanson, J., Wells, D. et al. Running energetics in the pronghorn antelope. Nature 353, 748–750 (1991). https://doi.org/10.1038/353748a0

I’d like to share Making Earth-Like Planets, a lecture presented by Dr. Linda (Lindy) Elkins-Tanton, managing director and co-chair of the Arizona State University Interplanetary Initiative. I first learned about Dr. Elkins-Tanton’s work when listening to this episode of the University of Oxford Earth Science Podcast:

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I’ve since discovered there’s also a video of Dr. Elkins-Tanton presenting this lecture on another occasion, which is a bonus because you can listen to her talk as well as see the slides:

So have a listen or a watch if you’re interested in the topic—and enjoy learning about the making of Earth-like planets!

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The birds vanish. I wait. A red glass feeder brimming with fresh syrup hangs from the porch roof. Beyond it, the Colorado state flag flaps in the breeze. The American flag droops next to it, twisted around its pole. After a few minutes, having determined that I pose no threat, the hummingbirds zip back into sight. They pause at the feeder and guzzle the sugary liquid. They will need every drop.

Despite the summery weather, a cold snap lurks in the forecast. The night-time temperatures will plunge below freezing. Soon, these little live wires will wing their way south for the winter.

Their journey will take them down the spine of the Rocky Mountains, through New Mexico, and into Mexico. They’ll continue southwards until they reach the peaks of the Sierra Madre del Sur. They will likely shelter in the forests around Volcán de Colima, a 12,533-foot volcanic peak south of Guadalajara.

As I sit and watch them in the late August heat, I miss them already. I think of the long journey ahead and I worry; they are so very small. But the sun is setting, and I must go. I must prepare for my own departure. I stand up slowly. The hummingbirds are used to me now. As they chase one another, they circle my head. I smile and whisper safe passage and see you in the spring.

Sources

Listen to the trill of broad-tailed hummingbird wingbeats here.

View an animation of the migratory path of broad-tailed hummingbirds here.

Broad-tailed Hummingbird, All About Birds. Cornell Lab of Ornithology. (n.d.). Retrieved February 26, 2023, from https://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Broad-tailed_Hummingbird/overview.

It has taken me a month to write this entry—this clumsy, stilted account of what happened one grey, wintry day in January. Here goes.

Monday afternoon, Martin Luther King Jr. Day. The morning hours drift over me like a thick fog. Then, finally, I realize I need to get out of the house to avoid wasting the day doing mundane chores and lounging on the couch. And so I decide to visit a place I’ve wanted to explore for a while now, Alderfer Three Sisters Park in Evergreen, Colorado.

My drive begins in clear weather, but by the time I reach the small town of Morrison, a fickle wind has kicked up. Frantic swirls of snowflakes spiral through the air and scatter across the windshield. I contemplate turning homeward, fearing the weather will degenerate as I gain elevation. But my intention for this excursion is purely reconnaissance—locate the parking lot, assess the trail conditions, pick up a park map at the trailhead—all simple tasks in preparation for future hikes.

And so, I drive on.

From Morrison, a closed road forces me to follow a slight detour that shunts me along Highway 8, Highway 285, and Parmalee Gulch Road. I enjoy the diversion, especially the winding, gentle, old-Colorado vibe of Parmalee Gulch Road. Eventually, I make my way back to Bear Creek Road and to the town of Evergreen. I arrive at Alderfer Three Sisters Park on the west side of Evergreen shortly after two o’clock.

Layers of clouds churn overhead, and icy snow spits down, stinging my face as I get out of the car. Yet, despite the wintry weather, I find the atmosphere cozy, beautiful, and quiet. I realize that the past seven years in Colorado have restored my love of winter, a season I had grown to loathe while living in northern Illinois, where the winters felt to me dark, harsh, and long.

I’m swept up by the beauty of the landscape, so I decide to take a short hike.

I pass Alderfer Barn not far along the trail—a lovely barn with a red metal roof, a raised ridge line, and four dormer windows that gaze out over an open field. I take a few photos and drop a GPS pin to mark the beginning of my walk. I decide to hike a mile to get some exercise before driving home. So I pick up my pace.

I notice a layer of ice beneath the snow. I slip slightly in places but manage to catch my balance. I realize I’ve left my microspikes at home and consider turning back, calling it a day. But, I look over my shoulder and am oddly comforted by the fact I can still see the parking lot. Reassured, I continue on.

When I get to a fork in the trail, I turn down a quiet side path to maintain a safe distance from a cluster of hikers I see coming toward me. The splinter trail winds through a sparse grove of ponderosa pines towards an open pasture. I’m soon alone again, walking at a cautious pace, aware that there may be more ice lurking beneath the snow.

Then all of a sudden, it happens—my right foot flies out from under me. For a moment, I float suspended in midair. I clutch my camera close to my body with my left hand and reach out with my right to break the fall. I hit the ice hard with the heel of my palm, which takes the full brunt of my downward momentum.

The impact is so sudden it knocks the wind from me. On the ground, I shift into autopilot. I curl myself around my right arm, then pull the glove from my hand. This sends darts of nervy pain up my forearm into my elbow. My wrist is swelling already and looks misshapen. I’m afraid to move my hand so I let it hang limply at the end of my arm. I feel queasy.

I hug my battered limb close to my body and clamor to my feet. I scan the ground for anything I might have dropped and then glance behind me, embarrassed and hoping that no one has witnessed my careless tumble.

Standing now, I’m clumsy. I take erratic steps, lunging and sliding along the trail back to the trailhead. There is suddenly ice everywhere now, but my awkward movements are governed by an odd equilibrium—a peculiar grace that I cannot explain. My hand throbs, I feel faint.

I see two hikers coming toward me. I step several yards off the trail. They pass by, unaware of the struggle I’m hiding. After they disappear around a bend, I slump down to the ground. I realize I might have asked them for help, but soon shake that notion—I’ll take care of myself I think. From where I sit, I can see the parking lot; I can even see my car. I gather my gumption, get back to my feet and somehow manage to walk the quarter of a mile back to my car.

The rest of the saga progresses in a series of necessary tasks and adjustments to my predicament. I drive home, change, and take myself to the emergency room. I leave the hospital after x-rays and a splint fitting. My radius is fractured but fortunately, it’s not displaced.

I’m referred to a wrist specialist with whom I make an appointment to see the following day. At that appointment, the doctor replaces my splint with a fiberglass cast. I leave with a leaflet that describes my recovery and a series of appointments for check-ups and x-rays.

I’m lucky, by the fourth week after my injury, I’m out of the cast and in a removable brace for a month.

So far so good.

In the days that follow my wrist fracture, I replay the events in my head many times. I scold myself for my various miscalculations—neglecting to check the weather before my excursion, getting a late start, deciding to take an unplanned hike, failing to pack the right gear (especially microspikes), and continuing that hike when trails proved treacherous.

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When I eventually grow tired of regret, I imagine all kinds of simple activities I could have undertaken (instead of breaking my wrist) on that day. One of them is to spend time quietly contemplating the life and achievements of Martin Luther King Jr. by listening to the podcast It Was Said - Episode 1: MLK Jr., The Last Speech‬:

And while I can’t go back in time and change what I did on that grey, wintry day in January when I broke my wrist, I can slow down now, give my fractured bone time to heal, and listen to the podcast.

I have been thinking about my writing habits lately, mostly because I don’t seem to know any that work well for me. My shelves (real and virtual) are full of books about how to write. Therefore, I’m embarrassed that I’ve not wrangled a better command of my craft. But setting this writer shame aside, I remain confident that plenty of good guidance lies within the many writing manuals I have for so long hoarded. And so that is where I start.

I select two books to launch my renewed studies—Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg and Process: The Writing Lives of Great Authors by Sarah Stodola. These will guide me for the next several weeks to develop better writing habits and momentum. I choose Natalie Goldberg’s classic guide because I need to get the words flowing and quiet the critic in my head. I choose Sarah Stodola’s fine work as inspiration, as a glimpse of how successful writers have approached their work.

I often struggle to hone in on a particular subject for my writing projects. My interests are wide-ranging, unfocused, patchy. I frequently jump from one topic to another, making little progress in any one direction. This is more than a writing problem; it’s also an attention problem. To improve my writing habits, I must also improve my ability to focus.

I also battle with an overactive “internal censor,” as Natalie Goldberg puts it. When I’m writing, I’m not just writing. I’m also thinking about what I’m writing, annoyed that I’m thinking about what I’m writing, and ashamed that I’m annoyed that I’m thinking about what I’m writing. It’s absurd. I’m lost in an imaginary house of mirrors—a vast, layered matrix of increasingly critical thoughts about thoughts.

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So what to do about all of this? Here’s my plan:

• Write every day (2000 words or 2 hours)

• Read about how to improve my writing skills (one book per week)

• Meditate to better my attention skills (every day)

• Walk (daily) for exercise and mental clarity

• Take the time (each week) to research topics of interest (ecology, evolutionary biology, zoology, natural history)

• Read the works of writers who inspire me (50 pages a day)

There it is, a starting point from which I hope to progress. Well, that’s all from me for now; I’m off to my study to read, research, and write.

A late start this morning after a restless night’s sleep. I set about my morning routine. I empty the dishwasher, brew a pot of coffee, and make myself a bowl of oatmeal with a drizzle of maple syrup. After breakfast, I layer up and set out on my daily walk.

A fresh blanket of snow covers the landscape and renders the air crisp, thin, and still. I make my way to a nearby field, where a network of crushed granite trails offers solitude and miles of open-space wandering. The snow is light and yet still deep enough to slow my pace. I don’t mind; the views are a frozen treat.

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Two days ago, the landscape looked bare, scruffy, and dull. But now, blanketed in cottony whiteness, it’s luminous. I stop to photograph the snow-capped flower heads and brittle grasses that line the path.

As I walk, my thoughts linger on recent upsetting events. I try to pull my attention back into the moment—to the rhythm of my footsteps and the crunch of the snow, but I remain unshakably glum. Walking usually helps me clear my head, but it’s not doing the trick yet. I need to occupy my attention with something hopeful.

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I pull out my phone and select a podcast: Open Country by BBC Radio 4. The episode I play is Gilbert White’s Selborne which turns out to be the perfect remedy for an uneasy mind:

By the time I finish my walk, the podcast episode is ending too, and I feel renewed, content, and clear-minded. I am reminded of how powerful nature is in grounding me in times of turbulence, and I am suddenly, surprisingly optimistic for the future.

The autumn colors are peaking in various places around Colorado, and I am eager to get out and enjoy the season before it’s over. Fortunately, my car is back from the repair shop, and with a new thermostat in place, I’m as free as a bird—or at least as free as a person with a reliable car. Having been tethered to my home for so long, such mobility is a delightful luxury.

And so, for my first autumnal leaf-viewing excursion, I select the Guanella Pass Scenic Byway. I start my day at a cheerful 3 a.m. with the hope that a departure in the wee hours will give me a leg-up on the traffic. Thus, under inky black skies, I find myself heading out of Denver along U.S. Route 285.

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The roads are quiet and relaxing to drive, and I make quick progress on routes usually clogged with traffic. By the time I reach the small town of Grant, the sun begins to brighten the sky, and yet in the dim dawn light, I almost miss the turn onto Guanella Pass Road (County Road 62). Fortunately, the small Colorado Scenic Byways signpost catches my eye just in time.

And what a road it is! It winds gently upward, through a quiet valley aglow with fall colors. I pull over to take a few photos and then am treated again—a flock of 11 bighorn sheep trots softly from behind me, their hooves pattering lightly over the pavement. They move quickly past me and my car, uninterested in either of us. I spot a couple of lambs in the group, but the adults keep them hidden deep within the huddle.

I’m intrigued by the history of Guanella Pass Road. I read how it was a burro trail used during the Colorado Silver Boom of the late 1800s. Today, it’s wider and smoother—a far more streamlined thoroughfare—having been paved over in 2015. Despite the many downsides that paved roads inflict upon wild places, I am pleased for it as I can experience this scenic drive.

I arrive at the top of the pass and pull off to have a look-see. Leaving the car at the Guanella Pass parking lot, I don my mask and set off to hike to Lower Square Top Lake along the South Park Trail.

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I trek up to the lake, and the gorgeous colors and views convince me to continue on for another quarter mile, ascending a gentle ridge where I take a photo of the lake below. A sign indicates the trail continues, but I don’t have a map, and the weather is turning cold and cloudy. I decide to turn back.

I return to the car and begin my drive back: through Georgetown, down I-70, and finally home. A lovely day, but an exhausting one.