The Wind In The Pines
My neighbor cut his pine tree down today, one of three large evergreens that cluster on the north end of my yard, the south side of his. These pines provided a screen hiding my drive and a portion of his house from the road. I kind of like that idea; the fact that I can wander down my driveway on a Sunday morning to collect the newspaper from wherever the paper-slinger has tossed it, and not worry about what I'm wearing because the possibility of being seen is slight. The trees also obscure the view from across the street onto my porch affording privacy that can be rare in a subdivision.
The second tree of the trio I had thought might be on his lot also. It too is dying. I went out to examine its location not long ago, platt survey in hand, to decide once and for all to whom it belonged. Not to my neighbor, I found out. It's toes are curling ever so slightly onto my side of the lot line. Cutting down trees is not my thing. I really love them. One of the features that sold me on the house I now own was the ten mature trees on the property. They cast a cool green shade over the house on hot summer days and provide a home for any number of birds and assorted critters. I had to take down one of the ancient ash trees that frames my yard earlier this year. It had rotted through. I hated to see it go, and now I have a second one to deal with.
The third tree is relatively young in tree years. There is no question to whom it belongs, me. When we moved into this house seventeen years ago, the little blue spruce was only about five feet tall. That first Christmas we were here we decked it out in red bows. It's grown a lot in seventeen years and now towers above the power lines, too tall to celebrate the holidays with store bought finery. It's still in decent health, though looking decidedly shabbier than it did when it was young. (As I suppose do I.) So unless decreed a hazard by the electric company it will remain in place.
The scent of pine is heavy this evening, emanating from the freshly cut logs still stacked next door. It is also windy. If I close my eyes the rustle of the wind through the leaves and the odor of pine takes me back to my childhood summers in Colorado. We owned a summer place deep in the mountains of southwestern Colorado just outside Telluride. Those days were pre-Hollywood ski resort Telluride, when the town was a dying hamlet, its gold and silver mines tapped out. It had become a picturesque relic of the 19th century. No movie stars had discovered the incredible natural beauty yet, and summer homes could be purchased for a song. My aunt owned an 1880's miner's shotgun style home in town. A home that sold for millions not too long ago. She bought it for $7000 with all the furniture in 1960.
My family lived in a valley between fourteen thousand foot peaks. We occupied the old one room Ophir school house on the other side of the pass from Ourey. It was a remote spot in a simpler time. Or maybe the time just seemed simpler because at the age of eight nothing much is complex. Summers in Colorado represented freedom. My siblings and I were free to roam the mountainside, wading in ice cold mountain streams until our lips turned blue, seeking out hidden mountain glades, and doing what kids do. Once a week we hit town, Telluride being the closest place to shop for groceries, and wandered Main Street, a picturesque western style road that terminated in a box canyon. The little city had a working saloon, my brother and I getting shagged off when we peeked under the doors to see what was going on in there. It also had an opera house that doubled as a movie theater, a city park and a drug store that served old fashioned soda fountain milk shakes. Shakes so thick that I managed to get sick if my grandfather was buying. He found out the hard way my limit was one.
We'd arrive in early June. Patches of snow still hung around in shady spots. The peaks that surrounded our valley were covered in snow. The tip tops remained snow covered for the entire summer, but we would watch the snow recede as the season wore on. Our heat came from a pot belly stove and a wood burning stove in the kitchen so the first few days were spent gathering and cutting dead wood to feed the fires to fend off the cool night air. Not long after arrival the mountains would be in bloom, columbine, mountain lupine, mountain iris and a blanket of the biggest dandelions I had ever seen covered the meadows.
Native American sheep herders would drive their flocks across our yard heading to higher pastures. Their woolly charges covered the valley like bleating cotton. The animals protesting their annual climb to pastures above the treeline. It was always interesting to watch the herd dogs work the sheep, nipping at a heel here, biting a leg there, keeping them moving, and the rebelling strays in line.
The Fouth of July in Telluride was a big deal day. There was a parade complete with fire trucks, paint horses,cowboys and Indians, and whatever else this town of 500 souls could throw in. Everyone attended the barbeque at the park, baseball game, greased pig chases, and the evening was topped off my one of the most amazing fireworks displays I have witnessed before or since. Exploding stars against a snow capped mountain backdrop is hard to top.
By the first week or two of August it was evident the mountain summer was coming to an end. The elk would come down from the highest pastures to graze at lower altitudes. Tinges of yellow could be seen around the edges of the leaves on the quaken' aspen. The nights, never warm, would have a crispness that hadn't been present earlier. When we exhaled our breath would vaporize upon hitting the cold, a promise of snow soon to come. By mid-August it was time to head to lower ground and return to home and school.
I've been back to Colorado any number of times since we sold our place. My dad heard the Hollywood types were moving in and decided it was time to abandon ship.Since then I have found that Rocky Mountain National Park is a pretty good fix when I am jonesing for a Rocky Mountain high. Long's Peak rivals the peaks that I lived and played among as a child. But last night as I sat on the front porch inhaling my neighbors dismantled pine tree, a west wind blowing, I imagined I could hear the quaken' aspen and pretend for a few minutes that I am no longer a flatlander. I am back where my soul resides, in the high country on a remote mountain side alone with the universe.
The scent of pine is heavy this evening, emanating from the freshly cut logs still stacked next door. It is also windy. If I close my eyes the rustle of the wind through the leaves and the odor of pine takes me back to my childhood summers in Colorado. We owned a summer place deep in the mountains of southwestern Colorado just outside Telluride. Those days were pre-Hollywood ski resort Telluride, when the town was a dying hamlet, its gold and silver mines tapped out. It had become a picturesque relic of the 19th century. No movie stars had discovered the incredible natural beauty yet, and summer homes could be purchased for a song. My aunt owned an 1880's miner's shotgun style home in town. A home that sold for millions not too long ago. She bought it for $7000 with all the furniture in 1960.
My family lived in a valley between fourteen thousand foot peaks. We occupied the old one room Ophir school house on the other side of the pass from Ourey. It was a remote spot in a simpler time. Or maybe the time just seemed simpler because at the age of eight nothing much is complex. Summers in Colorado represented freedom. My siblings and I were free to roam the mountainside, wading in ice cold mountain streams until our lips turned blue, seeking out hidden mountain glades, and doing what kids do. Once a week we hit town, Telluride being the closest place to shop for groceries, and wandered Main Street, a picturesque western style road that terminated in a box canyon. The little city had a working saloon, my brother and I getting shagged off when we peeked under the doors to see what was going on in there. It also had an opera house that doubled as a movie theater, a city park and a drug store that served old fashioned soda fountain milk shakes. Shakes so thick that I managed to get sick if my grandfather was buying. He found out the hard way my limit was one.
We'd arrive in early June. Patches of snow still hung around in shady spots. The peaks that surrounded our valley were covered in snow. The tip tops remained snow covered for the entire summer, but we would watch the snow recede as the season wore on. Our heat came from a pot belly stove and a wood burning stove in the kitchen so the first few days were spent gathering and cutting dead wood to feed the fires to fend off the cool night air. Not long after arrival the mountains would be in bloom, columbine, mountain lupine, mountain iris and a blanket of the biggest dandelions I had ever seen covered the meadows.
Native American sheep herders would drive their flocks across our yard heading to higher pastures. Their woolly charges covered the valley like bleating cotton. The animals protesting their annual climb to pastures above the treeline. It was always interesting to watch the herd dogs work the sheep, nipping at a heel here, biting a leg there, keeping them moving, and the rebelling strays in line.
The Fouth of July in Telluride was a big deal day. There was a parade complete with fire trucks, paint horses,cowboys and Indians, and whatever else this town of 500 souls could throw in. Everyone attended the barbeque at the park, baseball game, greased pig chases, and the evening was topped off my one of the most amazing fireworks displays I have witnessed before or since. Exploding stars against a snow capped mountain backdrop is hard to top.
By the first week or two of August it was evident the mountain summer was coming to an end. The elk would come down from the highest pastures to graze at lower altitudes. Tinges of yellow could be seen around the edges of the leaves on the quaken' aspen. The nights, never warm, would have a crispness that hadn't been present earlier. When we exhaled our breath would vaporize upon hitting the cold, a promise of snow soon to come. By mid-August it was time to head to lower ground and return to home and school.
I've been back to Colorado any number of times since we sold our place. My dad heard the Hollywood types were moving in and decided it was time to abandon ship.Since then I have found that Rocky Mountain National Park is a pretty good fix when I am jonesing for a Rocky Mountain high. Long's Peak rivals the peaks that I lived and played among as a child. But last night as I sat on the front porch inhaling my neighbors dismantled pine tree, a west wind blowing, I imagined I could hear the quaken' aspen and pretend for a few minutes that I am no longer a flatlander. I am back where my soul resides, in the high country on a remote mountain side alone with the universe.
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