By Louie Ferrera

The hike I went on today was all about feathers. It seemed like everywhere I looked, there they were: A 12 inch long, steel-grey wing feather from a Great Blue heron, a tail feather from a crow; coal-black and broadly rounded at the end in two heart-shaped humps. I saw a turkey feather and one from a jay, bits of down from who knows what and a jumble of feathers from all parts of a quail’s body marking the spot where this bird met its end.

I’m not sure if there just happened to be a lot of feathers lying around or if I was just tuned into them, probably a little of both. Either way once I began noticing feathers they seemed to be everywhere. I wore the crow feather in the back of my Giants cap which elicited smiles from folks I passed along the trail. My favorite finds of the day were the trio that accompanies this story. The black one with spots is from a hairy (or downy, I can never tell the two apart) woodpecker. The multi-hued one was found along the rocky shore of a river so I think it belonged to a spotted sandpiper, a small shorebird that I had seen before at that spot. I’d have to consult an ornithologist to ID the solid grey feather.

The perfect, beautiful symmetry of a bird feather is a true wonder of nature. I love the way the individual parts of a feather radiate out from the central rib and sweep upwards to a taper at the end. When I hold a feather in my hand I can feel the energy of the bird it was once attached to. If there are gaps in a feather it can be restored to its previously unbroken state simply by running your fingers along its length, I think that is just so cool!

Throughout human history bird feathers have been prized and in some cultures thought to bestow magical powers on those who wore them. In Native American culture, eagle feathers represent courage, strength and healing. Colorful feathers have been particularly sought after, leading to extinctions or near extinctions of many birds as they’ve literally been hunted to death. One such bird is the quetzal, the national bird of Guatemala. Quetzals are extremely rare and confined to isolated pockets of undisturbed jungle in Central America. On our family trip to Costa Rica in 2018 we were fortunate enough to see a Resplendent Quetzal while on a guided hike through the Monteverde Forest Preserve. It was a brief but memorable glimpse, the quetzal’s ruby red breast flashing in the sun, its nearly one meter-long emerald green tail feathers trailing behind it as it flew from the tree tops. My favorite bird feathers can be seen a little closer to home: the dazzling, iridescence of the hummingbird. With the right combination of sun and light our year-round resident, the Anna’s Hummingbird, lights up like a jewel in a yuletide display of crimson and emerald.

For me, finding and identifying feathers is one way to deepen the nature experience. Seeing a bird through my binoculars is one thing, finding its feather is to hold a little piece of that bird in my hand. Today I was a collector, other days I’ll just observe and leave them for someone else to find. It’s a good policy to spread the wonder around.

By Louie Ferrera

Research has shown that the most effective way to conjure up an old memory is through the sense of smell. Well, the researchers never got around to my house because for me it’s always been music.

Growing up in a house where music was always playing in the background; on the radio, on the stereo or my mom singing, my brain is hard wired to respond to music. Mom once told me that when she listens to music she feels it throughout her entire body. Like mother like son. For her it was Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald, for me it’s Neil Young and The Beatles. My connection to music is as visceral for me as it was for mom.

There’s a direct line in my brain from music to memory that’s always open and just waiting for a song to bring it to life. Hearing that song at the right time will literally bring me to a specific moment from my past. I’m not only there, but I feel the memory and everything associated with it. Sometimes it’s a very specific moment in time that I shared with a friend, family member or lover, other times the memory will be of a more general period in my life when I was happy, sad, content, searching… Either way the effect is immediate, like a switch has been flipped in my brain. I’m amazed at how a sappy love song, by of all people Alice Cooper, can conjure up such a sun burnished memory for me.  My song memories run the gamut of human emotions; sad and melancholy, blissful and elated, unrequited longing. I try and go with whatever comes up and ride it out, feeling the emotion as deeply as I can. I rarely put on a song intentionally to re-experience the moment it reminds me of. Like seeing a shooting star or an unexpected spotting of wildlife while out in nature, I think song memories are most effective when they’re least expected. They can come from anywhere and at anytime; on a Spotify mix, at a concert, while grocery shopping or even just a snippet of song heard through the window of a passing car. It doesn’t take much to flip my song memory switch.

I won’t bore you with my song memories, after all they’re my memories and won’t have anything to do with any experience you may have had with a song, unless of course it’s a shared song memory. I’ve got several of those so if you’re reading this perhaps we were along for a musical ride together sometime in our past.

Song memories do occasionally change. Has this happened to you? Typically for me the song and the memory are inextricably linked but it has happened when I’ll have a new experience with a song that will supplant my old song memory. Like all memories, song memories fade too. A one-time vivid memory I have with a song can get washed out like the colors on an old Polaroid photograph, the memory is still there but its intensity diluted, the song just doesn’t have the same power that it used to. However I’m also finding that some of my deepest song memories grow stronger with time. I said I wasn’t going to bore you with any of my specific song memories, but indulge just me once here, ok? 

From the first notes of Al Green’s Let’s Stay Together, I’m immediately transported under the canopy of a mixed redwood, oak and bay laurel forest. The light is dappled and green, the air warm and pleasant on this July afternoon. There’s an impossibly beautiful woman in my arms wearing a wedding dress, we’re surrounded by all of our closest friends and family. Carol and I twirl gracefully as the strains of Let’s Stay Together echo through the forest. Everyone is smiling, we’re as happy as we’ve ever been because we’re beginning  our life together. Like I said, my song memories are powerful!

By Louie Ferrera

I get the feeling that someone or something is watching me. Am I being paranoid or are those just imaginary glances from behind the green facade of the forest? The canopy in here is thick and nearly impenetrable, what light that does make it through is green and dappled. Walking down this trail feels like I’m swimming underwater, all that’s missing are the fish and the frogs. The tree cover is very dense, redwood and bay laurel trunks stand shoulder to shoulder like silent sentries, stretching as far as I can see. In here it’s womb-like and soothing but also tentative and a bit spooky too. Try as I may I can’t seem to shake the feeling of being watched. I tell myself that those glances are only imaginary. By definition a facade is a kind of cover, a device by which what’s underneath, the “true thing”, is hidden or obscured. Is the green facade of the forest hiding something from me?

The Native Americans both revered and feared the redwood forest. Perhaps it’s those people’s ancient spirits that I’m sensing. When European invaders arrived here they took one look at those majestic trees and could think of only one thing: how to saw them down and use them for their own purposes. I have no conception of that kind of mindset, it’s like shitting on the Mona Lisa. Trees are living things, they have a spirit, an essence. The wisdom stored in an ancient redwood is beyond human capacity to understand or quantify. Perhaps the forest facade is obscuring the imaginary glances, the spirit, of those long ago clearcut trees?

The glances of animals are anything but imaginary. Animals don’t need a facade, they can hide in plain sight. A deer’s ability to camouflage is akin to magic. One minute it’s there, the next minute it has literally melted into the forest. The only thing that reveals a deer’s presence is movement and a deer can stay still for a long time. Who knows how many times I’ve been watched by coyotes, bobcats, foxes or mountain lions? I’ve never seen a mountain lion but I’m certain one has seen me. So it is entirely likely that this green facade surrounding me is hiding the not so imaginary glances of forest animals. The birds, insects and other minute forest dwellers know I’m here too. We humans are so clumsy and oafish the way we trample through the domain of others. The facade is real, the glances not so imaginary. I move about with trepidation, my senses on full alert.

By Louie Ferrera

The fog is quiet as a dream. Sunny mornings sing, foggy mornings whisper. The sky today is a grey blanket, the diffused light deepens the infinite shades of green and colors become more saturated. The air is absolutely still. A couple of tiny songbirds occasionally fly across my field of vision, zipping from feeders to trees and beyond.

The times we’re living in are on hyperdrive and becoming more difficult for me to make sense of every day. It’s nearly impossible to shut out the noise. A morning like this is one time when the static and background noise fades away and my head is actually clear enough to think…or not to think, I can just be. Today I’m not waiting for the other shoe to drop, the playing field is even and my mind is calm. A foggy morning like this is the absolute best kind of morning ever. 

A Townsend’s warbler, a regular autumn arrival, has just shown itself to me for the first time. I’m watching it bathe in one of our fountains right now. This is a sure sign that a new season is waiting at the doorstep. The air feels different today too but perhaps I’m just breathing easier and deeper. The summer heat has been so blistering. The impending arrival of autumn and the dream-like gift of this  cool and soothing morning is the reward for enduring those infernal days. Beautiful birds are everywhere! The only way to really observe them, to actually be among them, is to sit motionless with the silence and peace and let the birds come to me. The white breasted nuthatch, simply stated, is a gift from Gaia. The Wilson’s warblers, titmice, chickadees, towhees and finches are all miracles on the wing. And where would we all be without those feisty and heroic little sprites, the hummingbirds? The reality of their existence is almost too fantastic to believe. Hummingbirds go into a state of torpor (near death) every night only to be reborn in the morning. They are the only bird that can fly up, down and sideways and hover like a helicopter. There are seven different hummingbird feeders around our yard, we always keep them filled.

Other sounds gradually fade in as the morning goes on: the chatter of our resident grey squirrels and the owl- like “hoo, hoo” of a mourning dove, the slight tinkling of a wind chime. The rising sun is securely tucked in under the fog blanket and the sky gradually brightens. Traffic sounds are now audible in the distance as the rest of the world begins to awaken. Our cat Ella is outside now so the birds are a bit more leery. She usually leaves birds alone and seems content to just sit back and observe them, swishing her tail inquisitively The spell of this unique morning has been broken and I awaken from a dream state feeling renewed. I breathe in the last wisps of peacefulness to tide me over until the next time.

By Louie Ferrera

One of the readers of this blog recently commented on how much she enjoys the “deep dives” I do when I write about music. This got me thinking; in pretty much all of my essays, I really do dig in and get to the heart of the matter, I “go deep” as it were. After four and a half years of blogging, I decided that It was time for a bit of a makeover. So… welcome to “Deep Dives”, different name, same thought provoking and heartfelt reflections on love, music and nature. If you’re new to this blog, scroll back and check out some of my past essays. If you’re a regular reader, thanks so much for your support, it means a lot. Now go ahead and dive in!

Cheers!

Louie

By Louie Ferrera

I put a smile on my face and I keep it on all day.

Joy

Keawakapu Beach is a mile long slice of paradise in the little town of Kihei on Maui’s south shore. It was Day #2 of our recent two-week trip to Hawaii and Carol and I were just settling into our Tommy Bahama chairs for a morning of sun, sea and sand. I looked to my right along the surf line and saw what appeared to be a ray of sunshine making its way towards us. As the sunbeam drew closer,  it materialized into an elderly woman decked out in full yellow regalia. Her dress was the color of Vincent’s sunflowers over which she wore a thin long-sleeve lemon yellow shirt. Her wide brimmed hat was pale yellow with a crown of brilliant yellow artificial flowers circling the brim. This unique fashion statement was topped off by a small yellow felt purse decorated with the face of a chicken and worn slung over her shoulder. Her skin was leathery and deeply tanned, a large pair of sunglasses covered her eyes, her face was lit up in a beatific smile. Sunbeams seemed to literally be shooting out from the top of this woman’s head. It was clear to me that Ms. Sunshine could give zero fucks about what people thought of her and that she does what she wants. I was so taken by this woman, she exuded such a blindingly happy glow of positivity and was practically vibrating with love. Ms. Sunshine sauntered past us and on down the beach with a weaving, sashaying dance of a walk. I was left with the type of afterimage one gets from looking directly at the sun.

Two days later, I’m at our same spot on the beach and here comes Ms. Sunshine again. Her outfit was the same one as the other day except she had swapped out the yellow dress for a salmon colored model. This time I stopped her and we struck up a nice conversation. Her name is Joy. She appeared to be in her late 70s-early 80s. She had lived in Berkeley in the 1960s (wow!) and relocated to Maui 15 years ago. Joy loves walking up and down the beach and engaging tourists like myself in conversation. We found common ground in our mutual sunny outlooks on life  and the fact that I’m a twin dad and her father was an identical twin. Our conversation was easy, both of us feeding off of the positive energy we were putting out. After a few minutes we shook hands and she went on her weaving way. I was a little richer and a lot happier from this shooting star-like encounter.

So much fear and negativity permeates our society nowadays, it’s like a millstone around our necks dragging us down. There needs to be like a million more Joys in our world spreading their message of hope and positivity and reminding us that it’s not all shit, that there’s still goodness in the world. Doomsayers like the malignant monster Trump and his followers thrive off of fear and negativity. Like the Death Eaters in the Harry Potter books it makes them stronger. Joy and those with an outlook like hers are the antithesis of the MAGA mindset. They and consequently we, grow stronger by putting love and hope into the world; giving a smile, performing a random act of kindness…whatever. It’s like what Marvin Gaye sings in What’s Going On?, Only love can conquer hate. I believe that Joy is the embodiment of this sentiment, she’s doing it one person at a time. Strolling the beach and making personal connections by way of her radiant outfit and equally radiant personality Joy is bringing people together, perhaps helping someone feel less lonely and reminding everyone she meets not only that there’s love and goodness in the world but also of the love and goodness within themselves. Joy is paying it forward, saying: I give freely, take this from me and pass it on.

I firmly believe there’s a way to find common ground with almost anyone. If more people believed that, perhaps there’d be less suffering and hatred in the world.  Some may see Joy saunter past them with her outlandish outfit and sunny smile and may think she’s just a goofy old lady. Not me! Joy has an important job to do which she appears to take quite seriously: to spread the word of love and the importance of squeezing every bit of living out of every precious day that we’re granted here on Earth. Keep your eye out for the Joys of the world, there are more of them out there than you think.

You can come up with unusual solutions when you’re sitting in the love vibe.

Joy

By Louie Ferrera

Yesterday was as picturesque a bluebird sky day as there could possibly be, the temperature Goldilocks perfect. Summertime, and the livin’ is definitely easy. It was Multiples of Eight Day (8/16/24), a day not to be repeated for another hundred years! Carol, Denali and I celebrated this momentous occasion by driving out to Point Reyes for an adventure. We parked at the Coast Trail trailhead, laced up our hiking boots and headed out. Whenever I enter the mystical forcefield that is Point Reyes National Seashore my body buzzes with anticipation as magic always seems to be at foot. The light here is different than anywhere else and the air is always tinged with possibility.

We began our hike along a narrow, sun-splashed trail that offered little shade. Our path was lined with coyote bush, lupine, wild cucumber, blackberries and delicate, orange monkey flowers. A few bay laurel trees provided the occasional pool of shade. A soft breeze cooled the sweat on our bodies. After the initial climb we crested a hill and were rewarded with sweeping views of the endless blue Pacific a mile or so to the west. Being midday, the birds all seemed to be taking their siestas, save for the ubiquitous turkey vultures and red-tailed hawks riding the thermals high above us, describing slow, lazy circles against the azure blue.

Down, down we went, the breeze becoming stronger and the whitecaps more visible the closer we got to the sea. The trail ended at the bluffs overlooking the southern end of expansive, crescent-shaped Limantour Beach. It was an easy scramble down to the sand where we plopped down and immediately tucked into our Jersey Mike’s sub sandwiches. A group of Heerman’s Gulls were our companions, they plied the surf line digging for creatures in the sand. This is a handsome bird; two-toned grey with white stripes on its black-tipped tail feathers and a ruby red tip to its beak. White gulls with black wing tips wheeled overhead. The surf was gentle, the vibe sublime.

After cat naps we decided to continue our hike. The view along this stretch of the Coast Trail is breathtaking! The dun colored hills above the beach standing in perfect relief against a cloudless sky, the sweeping curve of Limantour Beach visible all the way to Chimney Rock, the westernmost point in the park. We took our time and enjoyed the view. Denali heads back to school this week so we wanted to have one more outing with her before she took off. Not every 20 year old wants to spend time with their parents but Carol and I have nurtured a close and loving relationship with both of our kids. A day like this is the reward for that nurturing.

In a half mile or so the trail veers away from the bluff and begins to wind gradually uphill and inland. We enter a short section of deep forest and deeper mystery. The tree cover is dense, the color mint green and soothing, the wind moving through the leaves like a whisper. We spy a large, round hole about ten feet up the trunk of a trailside snag.  I bet if we staked this tree out, an owl would fly out at sunset. We emerge from the forest to the stunning sight of montbretia (falling star) flowers growing along one side of the trail. With everything so far being muted browns and greens, the brilliant scarlet of these iris-like flowers literally vibrated. Any hike I do at Point Reyes is always a journey, complete with some kind of wondrous and unexpected event thrown in. We had ours today at a tiny pond at the end of the flower patch.

The murky, brown water of the pond was ringed with duckweed, tiny water striders skated across its surface. All around was the green of the forest. Carol spotted what she initially thought were fish. Upon further investigation these “fish” turned out to be California Newts, lots of them! We watched in wonder as these creatures glided just below the surface, rising occasionally to nip at an insect then just as quickly disappearing again. Newts move awkwardly on land but in water they are graceful swimmers. We were mesmerized by this newt ballet. There were many tiny fish swimming about as well. Of course eagle-eyed Denali spotted the snake, a tiny reptile about three inches long and as thin as an earthworm. It zig-zagged its way through the water to the shore where we picked it up, taking turns holding in the palm of our hand. Snakes are shy and elusive so a  close encounter like this doesn’t happen very often. This was a classic Point Reyes moment where time seemed to stand still. We bid goodbye to the newts and the snake and continued on our way.

The last mile of the hike was a slow ramble, the trail widening and opening up as we climbed out of the forest. At the end we saw a laminated sign tacked to the trail sign. It described in detail how one month ago a mountain lion had killed a deer at the Coast Camp (we walked through the camp on our way to the beach). A stark reminder that Point Reyes is a truly wild place in more ways than one.

By Louie Ferrera

I just spent the past three days dancing at the center of a swirling vortex of bliss. Tie dye, rainbows and glitter burst forth from its center and up into the air creating a vortex of its own. There were hugs and kisses and smiles, dust and sweat and joy…so much joy! At one point the individual ceased to exist, we simply morphed into one massive, swirling organism of love. Is this some kind of hippie fantasy? A psychedelic vision of an unobtainable nirvana? A time trip back to Woodstock? Nope, just another weekend of music and magic courtesy of The String Cheese Incident.

The String Cheese Incident (SCI, The Cheese) had their humble beginnings in the early 90s as a Colorado-based quartet of bluegrass picking ski bums (a fifth member was soon added followed by a sixth a decade later). Like a snowball rolling downhill the band gradually gained momentum, building a large and dedicated fan base that is the envy of any touring band. Like the late, great Grateful Dead, Cheese fans follow the band on tour, never missing a show. A run of shows is a much anticipated and celebratory event where old friends gather and new friends are made. When The Cheese come to town jobs and responsibilities are put on hold. SCI is the vehicle and focal point, an empty canvas onto which we the fans and they the band create something new and original during every show. Once the last notes fade away, the canvas is wiped clean in preparation for the next day’s festivities. We are thousands of Van Goghs, each adding a color from our individual palette.

The emergence of the Jam Band scene coincided with the demise of the Grateful Dead following the untimely death of Jerry Garcia in 1995. SCI has been at the vanguard of that scene ever since, gathering up stray Deadheads and like minded travelers along the way who were looking for adventure and something different. SCI are musical chameleons who defy description. Throughout the three hour journey that is a String Cheese show, a straight ahead bluegrass rave-up can morph seamlessly into a furious techno jam then back into the bluegrass, like Bill Monroe on acid. There are latin infused melodies and West African rhythms, lightening fast guitar picking and seamless ensemble paying that is nothing short of telepathic. SCI plays original music but you never know when they’ll throw in a nugget by The Allman Brothers or Talking Heads. The band understands the value of a well placed cover tune. 

So, who the hell are these musical Merlins? Drummer extraordinaire  Michael Travis, percussionist and erstwhile rapper Jason Hahn, laconic bassist Keith Moseley, firey electric mandolinist and fiddler Michael Kang, bouncy, bearded acoustic guitarist Billy Nershi and keyboardist Kyle Hollingsworth, that’s who! Like all good bands, each member adds their own unique personality and playing style to the mix. With The Cheese, the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. Billy, Keith, Kang and Kyle write the songs and sing ‘em too. The vocal harmonies are solid; two, three and even sometimes four part. Billy is a Tony Rice caliber flat picker with a little Dickey Betts thrown in for good measure. His playing style is tasteful and original. Kang has taken the mandolin boldly where no man has gone before. Think Bela Fleck on banjo and you’ll get an idea of his virtuosity. The interplay between these two is furious and inventive. Moseley is rock solid on bass. His gentle anthem Joyful Sound is a staple of their live shows and sums up nicely the simple joys of making music for people. Kyle sits perched atop a riser surrounded by keyboards, moving easily between piano, organ and synthesizer. He’s the “funny headgear” guy in the band. Kyle’s easy-going stage presence belies the seriousness of his playing. Keeping this train on the tracks are the Dynamic Duo of Travis and Hahn. Michael drives the band on traps, he’s a whirling dervish, all hands and feet. Jason adds the seasoning with congas, talking drum, djembe, shaker, cowbell and the kitchen sink.

The guys in String Cheese are serious musicians but they don’t take themselves too seriously. This is a band that knows how to have fun. Their symbol is the humble jellyfish. Taken from the eponymous Billy Nershi tune on their debut album Born On The Wrong Planet, this song tells the tale of a rough morning after a night of marathon tequila drinking when Billy’s brain is “just a jellyfish in the ocean of my head.” Dancing through the crowd at every Cheese show you’ll find people wielding homemade jellyfish fashioned from colorful umbrellas, complete with flowing tendrils of flashing LED lights.

Besides being a one-of-a-kind, impossible to define musical experience, the band creates something else, something that we all desire, something that we all need: community. Like it or not, modern American society is all about the “me” but, at an SCI show it’s all about the “we” where  possibilities are limitless; no wonder they titled one of their albums Untying The Not! While The Cheese are holding court, we’re not focused on our phones but rather on the band and the kaleidoscopic synthesis that occurs when like-minded people and mind blowing musicians come together. Despite what the media is constantly telling us, it’s not all shit!! Step inside the force field that is a String Cheese concert and you’ll quickly see that love and beauty, joy and acceptance, camaraderie and creativity abound and are alive and well.

I guess what I try and do is to take all of this goodness that I’m filled with after a run of SCI shows and put some of it out into the world. Here’s the deal: String Cheese you keep playing, we’ll keep coming and together maybe, just maybe, we can steer our troubled world in a more positive, hopeful and loving direction.

By Louie Ferrera

There’s a monster living in our backyard. It only comes out at night, catching and devouring its prey in an elaborately constructed trap. This monster strikes fear into our hearts; a primal dread that sends shivers up our spines.

Ok, this “monster” is actually just a spider, an Orb Weaver spider to be exact, who my daughter Denali and I have affectionately named Junior. A month or so ago we literally stumbled upon it. Junior has chosen to weave its web across a narrow pathway between an Asian pear tree and a jasmine bush. Denali and I were walking into our backyard when I saw her recoil and shriek in fear. She had walked right through Junior’s web! Judging by what was left of the web, we figured it was one of those enormous garden spiders that we’ve seen from time to time in our yard. Right then and there, we hatched a plan. After dark we would head out with flashlights in hand to investigate. What we saw both horrified and fascinated us. Junior had completely rebuilt its web and was sitting in the center of it waiting for some unfortunate insect to fly in. This was by far one of the largest spiders either of us had ever seen. From its huge bulbous abdomen to its smaller head, Junior was at least an inch and a half long. Add in the legs and we were looking at one big ass arachnid!

Junior’s web is a marvel of engineering, it measures nearly two feet across. Of all the beautifully constructed homes in the animal world, from bird’s nests to the honeycomb inside a bee hive, I find a spider’s web like this one to be the most exquisitely designed of all. I think it’s pretty special having such a uniquely beautiful creature like Junior make its home in our backyard. We’ve since strung caution tape across the walkway so that Junior can live in peace and we can avoid the horrifying experience of walking through his web again. A spider like this is best left alone.

I think there’s a little bit of arachnophobia in all of us, especially me and Denali. Her paternal grandmother was an extreme arachnophobe, so perhaps that’s where we get it from. There’s just something about spiders that evoke a kind of primal fear in people. Except for species like Black Widows and the Brown Recluse, spiders are shy and harmless creatures that benefit humans by eating insects that we don’t want around. So, Denali and I go out every night to check on Junior. We shiver and we laugh at our squeamishness but keep our distance. We don’t want to tempt fate.

By Louie Ferrera

Carol and I recently spent a week traveling around Colorado. Here are a few of my impressions 

Wildflowers

Crested Butte, Colorado is the self proclaimed “wildflower capitol of the world” and the Snodgrass Trail on the outskirts of town is its epicenter. It’s a lofty statement to claim to be the world capitol of anything but after experiencing the riotous outburst of color, shape, form and abundance that are Crested Butte’s wildflowers, I doubt that there’s anyplace in the universe that could begin to match them.

I’m a Californian, I’ve seen amazing displays of wildflowers, I know about wildflowers, but after Crested Butte I realize that I’ve seen and know nothing. We took photos, so many photos but photographs can’t even begin to describe what Carol and I experienced on the hillsides and ridge tops surrounding Crested Butte. It’s a vast canvas painted from God’s palette: oranges, pinks, yellows, reds, blues, purples, lavenders, whites and all shades and hues in between. Complimentary colors appear like magic; I never saw a shade of yellow without a shade of purple nearby. The predominant flower is a large, popsicle orange variety of daisy, in knee-high patches that cover entire hillsides. Mixed in are small, delicate, five-petal blue and purple blooms atop slender stalks. There is lupine and paint brush, wild rose and Queen Anne’s lace and of course there’s columbine, the Colorado state flower, larger and more spectacular than the kind that grow in my backyard. The sheer abundance and variety of flowers literally took my breath away! At certain spots along the trail, the colors went on as far as the eye could see. The feeling I had on our hike was similar to seeing the Grand Canyon or Yosemite for the first time, this wildflower display was on a scale that I simply had nothing to compare it to. These are WILDFLOWERS! It was awe inspiring. When Carol and I spoke to one another the only words we could muster were wow and amazing, whispering as if we were inside a cathedral.

I could look up the latin and common names of all these flowers and bore you by listing them, but what would be the point of that? Seeing these flowers is not about naming and categorizing but rather just being among them and letting their beauty wash over you. I felt great joy but small and humble too. I was just grateful to be here. I have no idea who or what “god” is but I do know that among the wildflowers of Crested Butte, I felt the presence of the divine.

Aspen Trees

The trunk of an aspen tree is bone white and telephone pole straight. The surface is marked by dark concentric rings that run the length of the tree and darker circular spots scattered among them. An aspen’s heart-shaped leaves are two-toned, the underside being several shades lighter than the top so when a breeze kicks up a shimmering light dance occurs. Countless millions of leaves flicker in time, their swishing sound is similar to that of waves receding from the shore. It is quite the experience to hike through an aspen grove while this dazzling show of light and sound is on display. In Colorado entire mountainsides are covered solely in aspen trees.

Waterfalls

waterfalls, waterfalls, waterfalls!

roiling ribbons roar

the hillside sings

Birds

As an avid birder, seeing a familiar species while traveling is like running into an old friend. On one of our hikes in the mountains a diminutive kinglet flashed its ruby crown for me and I briefly heard the unmistakable summer song of the elusive Swainson’s thrush echo through the aspen forest. A dipper did its river dance, bobbing up and down and under the water’s surface in search of aquatic insect larvae. For me, spotting a new species of bird  is one of life’s simple pleasures. In Colorado I added the spectacular Lewis’s and red-naped woodpeckers to my life list as well as the brilliant mountain bluebird, broad tailed hummingbird and blue grouse, the latter skittering through the underbrush with four babies in tow. The next time I visit Colorado, these too will be old friends.