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.
