travel – Susan J Tweit

Windshield Time: Hitting the Road Again

Posted on August 28, 2016 | by Susan Tweit | Leave a Comment

This Tuesday afternoon, Red and I will head west on US Highway 50, bound for Olympia, Washington, for a family gathering over Labor Day weekend. It’s a 1,450-mile-drive on the route I’m taking, and I don’t like to drive more than 6 hours in a day, so it’ll take me a few days.

Along the way, I’m stopping to visit a former writing student, Julie Weston, and her photographer husband Gerry Morrison in Hailey, Idaho. (If you’ve not read Julie’s absorbing new mystery series, here’s my review of the first book, Moonshadows. The second book, Basque Moon, was just published and got great pre-reviews.)

Saturday noon, I’ll pick Molly up after she flies into SeaTac airport from San Francisco and we’ll share the drive to Olympia together, always a treat. I’m fortunate: she likes to hang out with me, and I her; and like me, she loves a good road-trip.

Me and Molly on a road-trip in southern New Mexico in February

After the extended weekend with the extended Tweit clan, I’ll take Molly back to the airport and then set off to my next stop, The Nature Conservancy’s Carpenter Ranch in northwest Colorado, where I’ll spend time working in the interpretive garden Richard and I designed during our residency at Carpenter in 2010 and 2011.

(Carpenter Ranch was also our first stop on The Big Trip, our last real road-trip together, two months before Richard died.)

And then I’ll head home for three days, long enough to do my laundry, give Red a rest, and meet a couple of writing deadlines, before loading up and hitting the road for Chico Hot Springs, Montana, where I’m speaking with Lauren Springer Ogden in Rocky Mountain Gardening’s annual Live! event.

By the time Red and I make it home late on September 21st, I figure I’ll have driven about 4,700 miles in a bit over three weeks.

Why drive thousands of miles cris-crossing the West? I could fly to Washington, for instance, and still meet Molly. It would be a lot more efficient use of my time in one sense, and would keep me from being so crunched on writing deadlines, and on preparing my talk and digital presentation for the Rocky Mountain Gardening event. I could also fly to Montana, saving myself about 1,700 miles of driving on that leg.

Partly it’s the time versus money equation. Flying means spending a lot more cash than driving, because when I’m not staying with friends on the road, I’m sleeping in my cozy mini-camper in Red, often in some very discrete parking spot that costs nothing.

Partly it’s that the timing of these various events allows me to make a two-branched road-trip through some of my favorite parts of the West. And of course, visit friends along the way, which I couldn’t do if I flew. (Thanks to Julie and Gerry, and Jay and Connie Moody, who I’ll stay with when I pass through Cody on my way to Chico Hot Spring.)

I’ve always loved a good road trip. When I drive, I get to follow my own schedule (within certain constraints).

There’s the element of serendipity: I never know what I’ll discover. What junction might lure me off the main route; what wildflowers will be blooming, which hawks soaring in lazy circles overhead. Who I might meet, what cafe or vista or trail I might discover.

Heading west on US 50 between Gunnison and Montrose, Colorado. How could you not stop and take a hike among those pinnacles?

Road-trips through the West’s open spaces are great “windshield time” for me, time for my mind to wander, for connections to surface and ideas to grow out of the spaciousness around me.

I can happily drive for hours and miles in silence, watching the landscape go by, my imagniation wandering, or listen to my iPhone playlist, which ranges from Sting to Dar Williams, and from the haunting a capella of Anonymous 4 to Bonnie Raitt’s hard-rocking blues.

And partly it’s the time of year, which has me itchy and restless, wanting to hit the road. Richard’s 66th birthday would have been in mid-July. August 8th and 9th (yup, there’s a story there!) were our 33rd wedding anniversary. And my 60th birthday is coming up soon.

Just after Richard’s 60th birthday, when he was feeling great and we were hoping brain cancer was behind us, we learned his tumors had returned; he went under the knife for his second brain surgery that August. A year and three months later, he died.

Richard Cabe, swimming in the ice-cold, swift waters of the Arkansas River on his 60th birthday.

So as I head west on US 50 Tuesday afternoon, I’ll have all of those things in mind. And then I’ll let the rhythm of the road and the hum of Red’s tires carry me along. And see what the miles bring…

Re-learning My Limits (again)

Posted on March 30, 2015 | by Susan Tweit | Leave a Comment

There’s a Buddhist story about a frustrated student who asks the retreat leader how many times she has to learn a lesson before she can move on. The teacher pauses, thinks, and says, “As many times as you need.”

Sunrise from Yavapai Point, Grand Canyon National Park

I think of that story because I am learning (again) the limits of my energy. Meaning what I can actually do without hurting myself, as opposed to what I think I can do.

My recent 12-day, 3,300-mile drive to central California provided the latest iteration of that lesson. I planned my itinerary carefully to not exceed my daily energy budget, spacing the drive out over what I thought was a reasonable amount of time for a sustainable trip. I was wrong.

Not about my stamina. The drive was reasonable–if everything worked. I forgot that life rarely goes as planned.

Snowdrifts on the South Rim, not what I expected in late March.

Deep snow on the South Rim, not what I expected in late March.

Which I found out the second night out, when I arrived at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon to camp and found snow. A lot of it. I took a long walk on the rim trail anyway, and cooked my simple dinner with my little stove on Red’s tailgate as I watched the sun set over the canyon, purple shadows rising from the depths as the sky flared gold and orange and then faded to rose and violet. All good.

By the time I crawled into my cozy sleeping bag inside Red’s topper, stars littered the black heavens and the temperature was plummeting. I reassured myself I would be fine and went to sleep. When I woke before dawn, I was curled in a ball in my sleeping bag, frost sparkled on the inside of the topper and the thermometer read 18 degrees.

I headed for the Rim, boiled water for my oatmeal with my little stove, and ate my breakfast as the sun rose. After which I set off for southern California, knowing that by the end of the day I’d be in the Mojave Desert, my convulsive shivers a distant memory.

A carpet of golden wildflowers in the Mojave National Preserve, California.

As I drove south and west, I shed layers. By the day’s end, the cold was indeed a memory, but the ache in my lower jaw was not and I was exhausted, never a good sign.

Both the ache and the exhaustion got worse. By the time I reached San Francisco several days later, the lymph gland under my jaw had become a hard lump, and the left side of my face was swollen and tender. My immune system was clearly unhappy.

On Saturday, I participated in the Geography of Hope Conference in Point Reyes Station, throbbing jaw and all. During lunch break, I walked out to my truck, and stopped to talk to Inez, an herbalist/healer.

She looked at my swollen jaw. “May I give you a sound therapy treatment?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Please.”

Inez took a tuning fork out of a velvet bag (the fork tuned to middle C, if you’re curious), struck the fork and then touched it very gently to my left shoulder, where the clavicle meets the shoulder joint. She let the tuning fork rest there until it quit vibrating, then struck it again and touched it to my right shoulder.

By the time Inez finished, my headache had vanished and my jaw was no longer throbbing. A day later, the swelling was much reduced, and by several days later, almost all of the pain had vanished too.

I wish I could say the lesson ended there and well. But this is real life.

California poppies blooming just off Highway One.

The swelling, it turns out, stemmed from an infection in the root of one of my front teeth, an infection aggravated by the stress of a solo trip that was overly ambitious even though it was also incredibly rewarding.

Once again, my body reminds me that I’m not Superwoman. When I push myself too hard, there are consequences. In this case, those consequences include an appointment with an endodontist in the city this Thursday, and the prospect of very expensive dental work.

Perhaps those consequences will finally teach me the lesson about limits, so I won’t have to repeat it. Again and again….

Road Trip Lessons: Patience and Kindness

Posted on February 18, 2015 | by Susan Tweit | Leave a Comment

Yesterday I drove halfway across the state of Colorado, or so it seemed, from Fort Collins on the northern Front Range south to Golden, and then up through the foothills and into the high country, across the wide and windy bowl of South Park, and then down into the Upper Arkansas Valley and home.

Heading through Boulder, toward foothills white with new snow. (The building beyond the traffic is the National Bureau of Standards, where one of world’s atomic clocks is located.)

The trip is a smidge over 200 miles and usually takes about three and a half hours.

Unless there’s bad traffic in the urban parts, which wasn’t the case yesterday. I made good time all the way to where US 285 exits the interstate. I even made good time going up through the foothills. I was ahead of the evening rush hour traffic and the snow from Sunday and Monday had mostly melted off the road.

Until I drove over Kenosha Pass (10,000 feet elevation), and into South Park. Where the wind was howling in 40 to 50 mph gusts, the new snow was whipping through the air in white clouds, and the pavement was a slick of icy ruts for miles.

Ice and white-out conditions at Michigan Creek in South Park

That’s the other exception about the trip taking about three and a half hours: except when it’s winter in the mountains.

When I looked out at the sea of white snow in motion and felt the first gusts, I reminded myself that the important thing was getting home safely, not getting home quickly. That’s the first road-trip lesson: patience pays, especially in winter driving.

I sighed, and checked my rear-view mirror. The guy driving the jacked-up Dodge truck behind me with the huge tires and rumbling muffler saw the ice and blowing snow at the same time as I did, and moved back to a safe distance.

That was reassuring. On we went, slowing from 65 mph to 45, sometimes picking up to 50, sometimes slowing to 40 or 30, he keeping the same safe distance behind me, both of us okay.

Just another pleasant day in South Park….

Until the Lexus SUV came up behind him, pulled out to pass, skidded sideways, and just managed to stay on the road, got past him and tried to zoom past me because someone was coming in the opposite lane (some people don’t learn).

The Lexus driver goosed the accelerator and did a full 360 just off my left front. I slid right and out-of-the-way, and watched as the Lexus sailed off the road and into a drift in the ditch.

The Dodge behind me copied my evasive maneuver. We were both slowing to go back to see if the idiot in the Lexus was okay when we saw that the “someone coming” was a State Trooper, and she already had her lights flashing. So the Dodge driver and I looked at each other, shrugged, crept back on the road and headed on.

I don’t know what he was thinking, but I bet it was some version of “Poetic justice–and thank heavens I didn’t have to stop and rescue that idiot.” The Dodge driver and I stayed together, a little duo navigating the ice and the wind, until we got to Fairplay, where he tapped his horn, and when I looked back, he waved “good luck!” and turned off.

The ice and wind continued for another ten miles, and then the pavement was clear and I sped up, exhausted but relieved.

Much better, and almost home….

I made it home just after sunset, at five-thirty. A full hour later than I expected.

The other lesson? Be open to goodness. The guy in the jacked up pickup with the loud muffler and huge tires turned out to be good company for navigating through the white-outs, wind and icy roads. Thanks, buddy!

Road Trip: Going Away to Come Home

Posted on February 8, 2015 | by Susan Tweit | Leave a Comment

Today was road trip day: I drove to Colorado Springs to do city errands, including buying cartridges for my computer printer necessary to finishing my memoir. I’ve been putting this trip off for weeks; I didn’t want to spend a day and the energy required to make the four-hour, 230-mile round-trip drive.

Heading down the canyon on US 50 this morning, into the bend called "rincon" where the Arkansas River curves around an uptilted ridge of red Sangre de Cristo sandstone.

Heading down the canyon on US 50 this morning, into the bend called “rincon” (corner) where the Arkansas River makes a tight u-bend around a ridge of tilting red Sangre de Cristo sandstone.

That drive is one of the trade-offs of living in this spectacularly scenic part of rural Colorado, hours away from cities, malls, interstate highways, and crowds. Still, I’ll take being able to see Jupiter rise, bright as a headlight, over a horizon unpolluted by sky glow and living a short walk from the trail head and the local-food grocery store, over being nearer to Office Max, Whole Foods and Home Depot.

Jupiter rising over the black silhouette of the Arkansas Hills to the east. (When I turned around, Venus was almost opposite Jupiter in the western sky, and equally bright.)

The going-to-the-city decision was made for me Friday afternoon when my printer rejected the brand-new, genuine HP cartridge I installed. “Defective cartridge,” said the read-out, and the machine refused to print. I had no other cartridge, and I need to print the manuscript pages as I finish them.

I could have ordered new cartridges from that huge internet retailer I won’t name, but since the last two cartridges the printer rejected as defective came from that very retailer (two out of six in a package, a one-third failure rate), that option wasn’t appealing.

US 50 winding downhill toward the Plains alongside the Arkansas River. Not a bad commute to the city....

Winding downhill toward the Plains on US 50 alongside the Arkansas River this morning. Not a bad commute to the city….

So I looked at my “city list” and picked today for the trip, based on the weather (which has been so balmy and dry that our snow pack, our water savings-bank for summer, is looking poor indeed) and on the lack of rush-hour. I left at quarter past ten this morning and was home at quarter past five tonight.

Pikes Peak rising in the distance over city traffic.

Pikes Peak rising in the distance over Colorado Springs traffic. (By comparison, there are six traffic lights in my entire county and a dozen peaks as tall or taller than Pikes Peak. That’s the right ratio of 14,000-plus-foot-high peaks to traffic lights, to my way of thinking.)

Not bad, except that the four-hour drive, the city traffic and the shopping sucked me dry. I’m exhausted.

I’m also reminded of how fortunate I am to live in a quiet valley just east of the highest portion of the Rocky Mountains. A place where my “commute” to the nearest city takes me 60 miles down a wild and winding river canyon, and then another 55 miles across the very western edge of the ocean-like expanse of the Great Plains.

Heading home again. Those high peaks in the very far (and blurry--sorry!) distance are just downstream of where I live, about 50 miles by air, 80 by road.

Heading home across the high plains. Those high peaks in the very far distance are where I live.

It’s a spectacular drive, even when the weather and roads aren’t as favorable as they were today.

US 50 at a wide spot in Bighorn Sheep Canyon in the blue shadows of this February afternoon. Pure joy.

US 50 at a wide spot in Bighorn Sheep Canyon in the blue shadows of this afternoon with Lyle Lovett singing “Truck Song” as Red and I wind our way home. Pure joy.

So as exhausted and grumpy as I am, I’m grateful too. The trip to the city reminded me. Without the good fortune of knowing and loving Richard, I would never have come to know this small town where he lived as a child, a place we finally figured out how to return to seventeen years ago.

The valley and town, seen from the trail I run twice a week.

And even though brain cancer truncated our time together, I can still hear the sound of his laughter and feel his delight in these rocks and trees, hills and peaks, and the community of humans and wild species who weave the living tapestry of this particular landscape.

The place we shared longest in all our years together. And the only one we called home. The place I still do.

Tired, yes, but very happy to be here….

Cottonwoods showing autumn's final colors along the Rio Chama.

Trickster Grief

Posted on November 9, 2014 | by Susan Tweit | Leave a Comment

Cottonwoods showing bronzey-gold fire along the Rio Chama.

On my drive home today after teaching at the Tony Hillerman Writing Conference in Santa Fe, I stopped in the cottonwood bosque (“woods” in Spanish) along the Rio Chama and was surprised by grief. As I stepped out of Red, my ears filled with the “Chur-ee!” calls of red-winged blackbirds, my noise filled with the tannic smell of decaying cottonwood leaves, and my eyes filled with tears.

The sharp pain in my heart and the wrenching sense of loss shouldn’t have hit me unawares. The drive between Santa Fe and Salida on US 285 was one of Richard’s and my favorite “threads,” or shared road-trips. We first took it together in the fall of 1984, thirty years ago, and retraced the route many times over the decades.

Big Sagebrush (Artemisia tridentata or Seriphidium tridentatum, depending on your taxonomy) on the Taos Plateau.

My memory is layered with snapshots of those trips: The first shocking flush of chartreuse leaves in the cottonwood bosque in spring, when the rivers are running full, their water hissing with red and ochre sediment. The sweetly resinous smell of big sagebrush after a warm summer thundershower.

The sound of a flock of piñon jays whinnying as they forage for nuts from the tree’s cones; the sight of sandhill cranes, wide wings spread and long necks outstretched, flying down the valley in long strings in late fall.

The dazzle of stars in the black night sky one winter night, starlight so bright that the snow along the roadsides glowed even with no moon.

Over the years, we got in the habit of stopping in particular places. The bosque by the bridge where the highway crosses the Rio Chama, the river draining Georgia O’Keeffe’s beloved badland and mesa landscapes, was one of those stops, especially in autumn.

The last cottonwood trees still bright gold along the wash above the Rio Chama

A few bright gold cottonwood trees along the wash above the Rio Chama.

So I should have known I’d miss Richard when I stopped out of my truck. But it’s been almost three years since he died. (Actually, it’s been two years, eleven months and 18 days, not that I’m counting obsessively or anything.)

In that time, I’ve deliberately built a good life for myself, one both radically different (new tiny house/studio complex, new truck, new writing projects) and very much the same (same block, same town, my life and work inspired by the same terraphilia we shared, a mindful love for the earth and its living communities).

I’m happy in this new life. Sometimes so much that I feel guilty about it.

Richard ‘n Susan, twenty years ago….

Richard and I were together—so together that we finished the other’s sentences and held hands wherever we went—for just shy of 29 years, much of our adult lives. Our bond shaped us—for good mostly, but not always, I must admit.

That kind of deep connection does not go away at death. Richard is still part of who I am, and the love we shared profoundly affects my understanding of myself and my approach to life.

I should have known that when I stepped out of Red and heard the blackbird voices over the rush of the river, and smelled the spice of the decaying cottonwood leaves, I would feel Richard and the sharp pain of our parting.

The Richard-sculpted blue granite basin in my bathroom

I didn’t know, because that acute grief is not something I feel every day. I feel his love; I often smile and think of something we shared. I live with his sculpture around me. I feel the loss, but it’s more like a chronic ache than a piercing shaft to the heart.

Grief is a bit of a trickster, surprising us when we least expect it. Today’s encounter was no doubt triggered by the sensory memories attached to the sound of the blackbirds’ calls, the quality of the light coming through the cottonwood trees, and the spicy resin of the cottonwood leaves.

I don’t flinch from the visits of Trickster Grief. I’d rather be reminded of the love I had, even when it hurts like… heck, than never have known that love at all.

Sierra San Antonio, another memory-place on the drive

A selfie while driving--the road was straight, there was no other traffic, and right then there was no snow on the road....

On the Road Again

Posted on November 2, 2014 | by Susan Tweit | Leave a Comment

A selfie while driving–the road was straight, there was no other traffic, and there was no snow on the road….

Today Red and I hit the road for New Mexico, from where I fly to Washington State and spend the week in Olympia, visiting family and friends and doing some research and thinking on a book idea.

Rain pattered on the roof when I woke in the darkness before dawn this morning, and as the day grew light, I could see a fringe of white stuff on the mountainsides below the cloud layer–yup, snow.

By the time I left town at just past noon, the sun was coming through gaps in the clouds. I checked the road conditions–wet, slush, snow, wet–and shrugged my shoulders.

Wet, but not slushy. But look how gray it is–and that’s new snow just under the clouds.

It’s November in the Rockies. Snow is part of the journey. And it’s been warm enough that the snow on the passes would likely have melted off the pavement anyway.

The drive south to New Mexico takes me over Poncha Pass (a mere 9,010 feet elevation, nothing much in my part of the world, where mountain passes are often over 10,000 or even 11,000 feet above sea level).

The highway then heads straight as a ruler laid on the landscape south down the length of the San Luis Valley, Colorado’s Big Empty, a high-desert valley that is so sparsely peopled that the human population is only a little over twice as large as the population of migrating sandhill cranes.

The book about the valley that Glenn and I worked on together.

(I wrote a book about the valley in collaboration with Idaho photographer Glenn Oakley. For me it was a chance to explore a place that both scares and fascinates me, and to think about the concept of home and what it means to live fully in a place.)

Sierra San Antonio, on the border between New Mexico and Colorado.

At the south end of the valley is a bit of a rise and Sierra San Antonio, a dome-shaped mountain that marks the boundary with New Mexico. As Red and I approached that dome-shaped mountain, the wind gusted hard and it began to snow. The road climbed gently, the wind buffeted Red, and snowflakes swirled in all directions. Pretty soon there was slush on the road and then an actual coating of slick, white ice.

Things got pretty slow there for a while (and I didn’t shoot any photos), but eventually the wind quieted, the snow turned to slush and then just slop, and the flakes in the air melted to big fat drops of water.

Trees! (They’re not so common in the scrub desert.)

Then the high-desert scrub of the San Luis Valley gave way to the Taos Plateau and trees, first some fat but not tall ponderosa pines and then piñon pines, their shorter and bushier cousins which produce the fat-rich nuts, their furrowed trunks dark with rain.

Buttes that inspire artists, even on a gray day.

Eventually Red and I dropped off into Georgia O’Keeffe’s peach and ochre mesa-country and wound our way downriver to our home for the night, happy to be warm and dry.

As odd as it was to drive four hours under gray skies and snow and rain, it is a relief to see water in the desert, a gift we desert-dwellers know as rare. It’s like a blessing that we soak up, as if taking that moisture in through our pores the way a frog can soak up moisture through its skin.

That blessing fills our souls, and we cherish the feeling of air saturated with water–of plenty, especially when the sun returns and dries the land to patient dust again.

Rain! Puddles! Joy in the soul….

The benison of leaving home is the chance to see our place more clearly, and remember what we love about it.

I love the piercing sunshine and pore-puckering, wrinkle-inducing dry air of the high-desert where I live. I also love the rare gray times like today, with their gift of rain and snow–joy in the soil at the knowledge that life can continue.

Red and I head up Poncha Creek on our way to Marshall Pass

Time Out: Marshall Pass Road & Aspen Gold

Posted on September 28, 2014 | by Susan Tweit | Leave a Comment

Red and I head up Poncha Creek on our way to Marshall Pass. (I was not driving when I shot this photo!)

Late this afternoon, after I finished writing two grant applications and one report on a landscape restoration consult, I gave myself a time out–that is, time outdoors, not punishment. Red and I took a leaf-peeping drive to see the aspen on the Marshall Pass Road southwest of Salida.

Marshall Pass is the old railroad route over the Continental Divide; between 1879 and 1890 it was the only line between Denver and Salt Lake City, and thus the Pacific Coast. During that time before cars and highways, Salida was the center of rail travel in the Colorado mountains, and saw trains carrying U.S. Presidents (including Ulysses S. Grant and Theodore Roosevelt) and other famous folk.

The Denver Rio Grande & Western train heading up Marshall Pass in about 1890 Photo: William Henry Jackson

The Denver & Rio Grande Western train heading up 10,842-foot-elevation Marshall Pass in about 1890. Photo: William Henry Jackson

The Marshall Pass line was narrow-gauge, with rails just three feet apart, which allowed for a tighter turning radius in the switchbacks climbing the over the high passes but meant smaller cars and smaller freight loads.

D & RGW work train doing maintenance below Marshall Pass. Photo: Colorado Historical Society

D & RGW work train below Marshall Pass. Photo: Colorado Historical Society

After the standard gauge line was built over Tennessee Pass above Leadville, the Marshall Pass line became a local route; the upper part of the grade was abandoned in the 1950s and became a scenic auto route. (I live along the lower part of former line where it cuts through the town of Salida; it is now a popular section of Salida’s 8.5-mile town trail system.)

The Marshall Pass Road along Poncha Creek (that’s 13,275-foot-high Antora Peak in the background).

The beginning of the grade is mellow, and then it begins to climb, and climb, and climb, winding its way toward Marshall Pass and the shoulder of Mt. Ouray.

Aspen flickers in the dark forest of ponderosa pines and Douglas-firs

At first the patches of aspen were small, and scattered. But so bright! As the road wound its way uphill the clumps of aspen took on different hues, including orange and scarlet.

Green aspens with red tips are particularly beautiful against the silvery-blue of that big Colorado blue spruce behind them.

I stopped to shoot photos and inhale the cool air whenever the sun came out from between afternoon rain-clouds, or the colors were especially lovely, or a cut in the old narrow gauge roadbed invited investigation, or whatever. [Warning: Possible aspen-color overdose ahead.]

The sun came out….

Making the backlit mountain mahogany shrubs particularly lovely against gray clouds...

making the back-lit seedheads on the mountain mahogany shrubs particularly lovely…

Aspen-dappled mountainside with Antora Peak in the background, but from higher up

Aspen-dappled mountainside with Antora Peak in the background again…

And around another bend, this view of the Sangre de Cristos with aspens on their lower slopes, across the San Luis Valley…

… and then a blast of brilliant aspens below the road, reflected in O’Haver Lake

Red, hanging out among the aspens while I shoot photos…

It’s time to turn back, but let’s just see what’s around this curve…

Oh yeah! Mt. Ouray spills a flood of aspen from above...

Oh! Mt. Ouray spills a flood of aspen from above…

Okay, we’ll turn around after this next curve…

Well, just one more stop…

… after this curve

… and these crimson aspen

Now we’ll turn around and head downhill (in second gear)…

… and only stop a few more times

when it’s impossible to resist one more shot…

…or those scarlet-tipped aspens against the silver-blue spruces are just too lovely.

Which explains why it took me almost two hours to drive the 36-mile round-trip between Salida and just below Marshall Pass.

From evening shadows in the mountains to a flood of golden sun in the valley.

I was feeling worn-down before I left. Now I’m not. After time out among the aspens and the peaks, my heart is full of wonder and my spirit is tap-dancing.

And I am grateful once again for the gift of life on this numinous blue planet.

Yeah!

Blazingstar flowers (Mentzelia sp.) open in early afternoon and attract night-flying moths and other pollinators.

Orient Mine Bat Flight: A River of Wings

Posted on August 17, 2014 | by Susan Tweit | Leave a Comment

Blazingstar flowers (Mentzelia sp.) open in early afternoon to attract night-flying moths.

Last Thursday evening, I sat on Red’s tailgate in the San Luis Valley south of Salida, watching blazingstars open as I waited for my friends Maggie & Tony to join me in a field trip to the Orient Mine to see the evening bat flight.

Each night from June through September, a quarter-million Mexican Free-tailed Bats (Tadarida brasiliensis in the language of science) pour out of the collapsed roof of what once was Colorado’s largest iron mine.

Mexican Free-tailed Bats from a colony in Texas. (Copyright-free photo, not mine)

Mexican Free-tailed Bats aren’t big as bats go–their wingspan stretches a foot or so and they only weigh about half an ounce. Their colonies are huge though: caves in the southern Southwest, including Bracken Cave in Texas and Carlsbad Caverns National Park in New Mexico, contain millions of Mexican Free-tails.

The Orient Mine bat colony is nowhere near as numerous, but at 9,000 feet in the northern San Luis Valley, it has the distinction of being the farthest north and highest-elevation roost of Mexican Free-tailed Bats. And it’s only about an hour and a half from Salida, plus a short hike.

When Tony & Maggie pulled up, we loaded into Red and set off headed east toward then Sangre de Cristo Range, then turned north on a narrower but still good gravel road, after which we turned east on a rocky two-track and bumped our way uphill. Our track turned south again, crossed a steep-sided drainage, and began following a straight, gently sloping grade that we soon realized was an old narrow-gauge railroad bed.

Part of the route to the trailhead is visible at the upper right above the rock ridge.

Part of the route is visible at the upper right above the rock ridge. (Click on the photo to enlarge it.)

I parked Red where a gate closed the road to vehicles. We grabbed our packs, and ambled on up the railroad bed for about three-quarters of a mile.

At a side canyon, a tour-group of a dozen or so people was collected in front of interpretive signs, including one with a silhouette of a person wearing no clothes and the words: “Warning: Naked People.” That was a first! (The mine and surrounding area are owned by the Orient Land Trust, part of Valley View Hot Springs, a “naturist” resort.)

A cut limestone foundation below the old railroad grade.

Orient, the town that served the mine, was occupied from about 1880 until 1932, and at its height, boasted more than 400 residents living and mining at almost 9,000 feet elevation.

We wove our way through the tour and the overgrown building foundations, and then followed the trail climbing steeply through the oak-brush out of the canyon and around the face of the mountain.

Looking southwest across the San Luis Valley at the San Juan Mountains in the distance.

The sun was slanting low, but we reached the viewing site at the mine in time to eat our picnic dinners before dusk, when the bats would begin to fly out.

Part of the cliff face above the collapsed roof of the mine (mine opening on the lower left).

We watched a spectacular sunset while listening to a Poor-will call “poor-will! poor-will!” as swifts nesting on the cliff face chattered at a pair of ravens. Lovely dinner music!

The last of the sunset colors….

Then, just as the light began to fade, winged bodies began to hurtle overhead, first a few dozen, then a hundred or so, and then finally tens of thousands in a stream of bat bodies fluttering, jostling and occasionally chattering at a low enough frequency we could hear it.

As the stream of bats swelled, their fluttering wings sounded like a river rushing past overhead.

It was too dark for my camera to stop the bats' motion, hence the bat streaks in this photo.

It was too dark for my camera to stop the bats’ motion, hence the bat streaks against the sky.

Mexican Free-tails are long-distance flyers, using their long, narrow wings to power as fast as 40 miles per hour (they’ve been clocked going sixty with a tail wind) and to reach altitudes of 10,000 feet. They winter in caves in central and northern Mexico, migrating as far as a thousand miles each way.

The bats continued pouring downhill on the night air, headed off to eat their fill of moths, beetles, and other flying insects, which they catch in mid-air. They would fly all night and return at dawn.

Last light: the streaky shadows in the clouds are actually bats….

Maggie and Tony and I headed out too, picking our way down the trail in the darkness, stopping now and then to admire the stars.

By the time we reached Red, it was full dark. The Milky Way stretched across the sky like a sparkling river, or like a river of bats off to forage all night….

Molly, Richard and me in Boulder (we had an old Volvo station wagon then)

Going Red (pickup truck, that is)

Posted on July 28, 2014 | by Susan Tweit | Leave a Comment

Molly, Richard and me in Boulder (we had an old Volvo station wagon then)

For the past several decades, with the exception of a refurbished VW camper van and the Isuzu Trooper that became Richard’s boulder-hauling vehicle, I have driven a series of sensible, family hauling, gas-sipping station wagons and vans.

Before I met Richard though, I drove pickup trucks (I was probably the only Birkenstock-wearing pickup-truck driver in Wyoming then).

On our first and only date, my dark blue Datsun long-bed with a five-speed manual transmission carried us safely over the Medicine Bow Mountains in January to the hot springs at Saratoga, Wyoming.

It’s interesting that I remember not only what color that Datsun pickup was, and the length of the bed–long-beds were long enough to sleep in, which I did, many times–but also the fact that it was a five-speed manual tranny.

Ask me what color the Subaru hatchback we traded it for when we moved with Molly to West Virgina for Richard’s first teaching job. Yellow? White? Tan? Something like that.

Isis, our Great Dane, Richard and Molly in the mountains.

There was one brief and glorious year when we became empty-nesters and I convinced Richard, who really didn’t care what he drove as long as the driver’s seat was comfortable, that we should go camping again.

So we bought a Toyota Tundra with a topper on the back which we did actually camp in on its only road trip, a swing through Grand Teton and Yellowstone national parks.

A few months after we got home, Mom had a hip replacement and it was hard for her to climb into the cab, so we traded the Tundra for a van. And then several years later, we traded that for a Subaru Forester, which sipped gas and was perfect for hauling elderly parents. And commuting to Denver for brain-cancer treatments.

The Forester at the petroglyphs in Irish Canyon, Colorado.

After Richard died, I figured I’d drive a Forester forever. I even took it camping, but I had some creepy experiences, so I quit that.

Last winter sometime, I began fantasizing about a pickup. Something small with four-wheel drive for traction and a topper that I could sleep in without being obvious about it.

It seemed like such a frivolous thing to do. I’d be trading down in terms of gas mileage (but I only drive when I’m headed out-of-town; otherwise I walk or ride my bike), and it would require me to spend some of my savings. (I do not go into debt.)

I figured the idea would go away eventually, like the flu. Only it didn’t.

A truck? In my tiny garage?

I knew what I wanted: a Toyota Tacoma with a cab and a half, a six-foot-bed, four-wheel drive and a topper.

Last month I talked to Brian at AAA AutoSource (a service for AAA members that is considerably cheaper and easier than going to a car dealer). When he quoted me the difference between the trade-in for my Forester and the new Tacoma, I realized I could actually do it.

I thought for about twenty seconds, gulped, and then told him to go ahead. Two weeks ago I drove to Colorado Springs to pick up my truck.

Brian showed me how everything worked and we did paperwork. And then I climbed in and off I drove in my new pickup (the topper was on backorder).

Red in Big Horn Sheep Canyon on the Arkansas River

Pretty soon I was singing along with Lyle Lovett’s “Truck Song.” And I had a name for my new truck: Red. Because she is. Very.

I smiled all the way home. I honestly had forgotten how much I love driving a pickup.

Saturday, Red and I drove to Colorado Springs to get the topper, and then on to Denver for meetings. Now Red is ready for our first camping trip. I know just where I’ll go too.

If you see a bright red truck with a matching topper headed for the hills and the driver is smiling, it’s probably me.

Me and Red

The wide-open San Luis Valley with the Sangre de Cristo Range on the left, on the road to Durango.

Home (Briefly)

Posted on May 18, 2014 | by Susan Tweit | Leave a Comment

The wide-open San Luis Valley with the Sangre de Cristo Range on the left.

I’ve been on the road teaching and speaking so much this spring that I sometimes forget what is next.

Last week’s trip was to Durango, Colorado, to give a talk and teach a workshop for the Durango Botanical Society, an all-volunteer group that not only has established a lovely garden at the Durango Public Library showcasing plants native and adapted to the Four Corners Region, the group also offers an amazing range of programs and aims to establish educational gardens throughout the area.

Going over Wolf Creek Pass in the San Juan Mountains (that’s an avalanche shed ahead).

I drove to Durango Thursday morning (200 miles and four hours), did a quick interview for Inside Durango TV at the garden, spoke to a welcoming and receptive audience Thursday night, taught a “Field Notes” creative writing workshop to a smaller but no less interesting and interested group Friday morning, and then drove the 200 miles and four hours home.

Speaking about “Plant Magic,” how plants are key to restoring the everyday landscapes where we live, play and work.

I stayed with friends Doris and Bill (and their sweet pound-pup, Maya). They once lived nearby and joined Richard and me once a month for Buddhist/Quaker worship; in fact, they were with us when he died. Spending time with them counts as one of the unexpected blessings of my too-full travel schedule this spring.

Normally, I savor road trips for the time to watch the landscape go by, to parse the patterns that plants, animals and humans draw on the skin of the earth, and to let my thoughts run as wide as the western skies.

Historic ranch above Pagosa Springs. Not the pattern: meadows in the valley bottom on glacial soil, forest on the volcanic layers of the mountainsides.

Historic ranch above Pagosa Springs. Note the pattern on the landscape: meadows in the valley bottom on glacial soil, forest on the volcanic layers of the mountainsides.

But when the road-trips come every week or nearly every week, they begin to blur. By the time I topped Poncha Pass Friday night half an hour from home, I was exhausted.

I’ve been home two days; I have two more to prepare for the next teaching trip. I’ve made the most of the time.

New plants with their nursery tags, and new plants sprouting from the native meadow seed mix.

Tags identify the new plants in my front-yard habitat-restoration project.

Yesterday was my day to plant the next batch of vines, shrubs, native grasses and perennial wildflowers for my front-yard pollinator/songbird habitat restoration project. I renewed my acquaintance with the mattock while prying 39 holes in my stony soil and then carefully planted an equal number of plants. After which, I soaked my aching shoulders and back in the bathtub.

Red insulating "teepees" protect the newly planted tomatoes in my stock-tank kitchen garden.

Red insulating “teepees” protect newly planted tomatoes in my stock-tank kitchen garden.

Today was take-care-of-household-chores, including mundane stuff like paying bills, plus finally planting the tomato, basil and oriental eggplant starts I’ve babied inside since March.

I cope with my crazy travel schedule by focusing on the current work trip and ignoring what comes next. But I don’t forget to revel in being home, no matter how short the stay.

Which is why when I finished the accounts, planting the kitchen garden, watering, spraying deer repellent, and a work phone call, I went out on my almost-finished front deck and just stood there enjoying the beauty of a May day: no wind, birds singing lustily, the sweet smell of chokecherry blossoms wafting through the air….

Ditch Creek, running again after two dry months.

And under the town sounds of passing cars, bikes whizzing by on the trail, a siren wailing, and dogs barking, I heard something else. And smiled: the little urban creek I have worked for the last 17 years to restore to health is chuckling again.

I am home. Alone, struggling a little to manage on my own, but grateful to be here and to hear the creek’s voice.

(Listen by clicking the “play” arrow below and I bet you’ll smile too.)