Saturday, September 17, 2011

Reflections of a Quieter Time (2008)


The apartment I was renting in downtown Boulder a few years ago sat above a garage, and every time the neighbors opened and closed the garage door, my living room shook and groaned, and pictures rattled on the walls. When the upstairs neighbors came and went, it sounded like elephants stomping up and down the stairs. I heard way too much information.

I tried moving to a renovated, inexpensive unit in North Boulder but was again driven out—this time by the roaches who strolled fearlessly across my kitchen floor, the incessant beat of Mexican polka, and the stench of cigarettes and fried meat in the hallways.

So, after 12 years of renting too many apartments to count—from upstate NY to Manhattan, Boston, DC and Boulder—I knew it was high time to leave the noisy neighbors behind and seek solace in the woods. With that, I ascended into the mountains above Boulder.

My biggest requirement: no humans within sight, earshot or smelling distance. I rented a sunny, south-facing one-bedroom cabin with a loft, wood-burning stove, hardwood floors, lots of windows and a sprawling deck with a killer view. 

The house (now ashes as a result of the Fourmile Canyon fire) sat at the bottom of a long driveway on five wooded acres on a dirt road off Sunshine Canyon, six miles above Boulder and four miles below Gold Hill. My newfound gift of silence at first pounded in my ears, only to be replaced by birdsongs and the wind rustling through the pines.

Each morning, while Tinkerbelle, Sugaree and Bigwig cuddled close by, I put on my fleece hat and partook in the ritual of building a fire in the woodstove with the pinecones and twigs I'd gathered for kindling. During a few big snows I stayed tucked away up Sunshine for a week at a time. I loved my solitude … but was far from being alone. In fact, in my reality, I was merely a squatter on the property, which was inhabited by untold numbers of deer, foxes, rabbits and enormous wolf spiders … and received regular visits from many sweet dog friends and occasional forays from curious bears looking for food. Sunshine Canyon is a wildlife sanctuary, free from harassment by hunters.

My first encounter with deer on the property took me by surprise because I quickly realized that the deer were tame. One watched me cut up an apple, and when I outstretched my hand to jokingly offer her a slice, the doe walked up, gently took the apple, and ate it while standing at my side. She then licked the apple juice from my hand.

I loved watching the deer and once happened to see a young buck trying to sniff a cat who was hanging out in the yard. The cat wasn't comfortable with the deer's lack of respect for her space and she turned tail, but when she turned back around, she found the deer right behind her once again. She picked up the pace, and so did he. He followed her up the driveway, where she hid beneath the truck while he circled it, looking beneath it for this strange, hissing creature he had discovered.

Then there were the foxes. One morning, while I was outside picking grass for the house-rabbits, I felt someone watching. I looked behind me to see a skinny red fox standing just 10 feet away. I asked her why she was so tame and she crept closer and peered up at me with her enchanting reddish-orange eyes. She poked her nose in my bowl of grass and then meandered off into the trees. Later I realized that she was my neighbor: She lived in the dilapidated building at the top of my driveway, and she showed as much interest in me as I did in her.

As spring arrived and the first wildflowers bloomed, a house wren made her nest of hundreds of twigs in the wall of the mud room, a tiny entry area into the house, without a door to the outside. She built the nest just beneath the bare light bulb that illuminated the entryway, and whenever I turned on the light at night, the ethereal little bird would come out of the nest and blink at me accusingly. I finally resorted to wearing my headlamp when I came home at night to avoid disturbing the wren family.

One friend likened me to Snow White, communing with the wild animals in my mountain retreat. But, the sanctuary did not come cheap, and rent was rising. I was forced to move back down into town, where I bought a first-floor condo, and stomping from above now rudely awakens me each morning as the windows rattle and I curse the builder. I can't return to the mountains soon enough.





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