ShadyStump
Imperial Masterpiece
I said, "no more trees this year, at least until I can trust you to not eat them." So it was supposed to be a casual walk through the woods with my new dog before cleaning my shed this afternoon.
"Ok," I'd conceded to him as we drove in my minivan out to a not-too-far-off mesa. "Maybe if we find a sagebrush or alder leaf mountain mahogany, but nothing really nice." This spot is brimming with imminently collectable yamadori of most locally native sorts, so I didn't dare set a standard I might not bare to keep.
Mesa Park, at the southwestern corner of Williamsburg, CO is not otherwise a particularly special landmark in the region, but the geology is such that there is little more than two hands depth of sand atop the sandstone bedrock. Any tree - from 1 foot to 20 tall - has the potential to come up with little effort, except where a root might have found it's way in a fissure in the rock.
The sand was soft, cool, still damp from three nights of rain earlier in the week, the trees healthy and vibrant.
I had chosen a path this morning that was an exercise in restraint.
No bother, just keep moving. Keep walking, keep up with the dog, take him to the northern slope of the mesa where there's plenty to see, but less to dig.
Making it there, we looked out over a deep, rugged gully, where trees laid undisturbed except by deer for years at a time. A little ways down, in a crevice in the boulders, was a little one seed juniper. Straight tapered trunk with well worn bark, and a single round pad of foliage. I had to see!
It of course did not budge when I tried to wiggle the trunk. Juju whined from stop a boulder just over my head. "Well then get down here then," I cajoled. After a moment there was a crash in the brush on the other side of the boulder, and Juju appeared from below me this time. "Well," I said, "I guess that'd do it," and I slithered, fingers and toes around gripping the sparsely textured surface of the sandstone until I could let myself drop to the ground beside the him.
Not really thinking, we continued down the gulley a ways, sometimes hiking, sometimes climbing, occasionally leaping. With each leap, however, my right knee began to ache. Recalling the movie line, I looked at the dog, who painted profusely and licked at his paws, while we paused under an ancient juniper, me rubbing my sore spot, and declared, "I'm gettin' too old for this shit."
I looked up the direction we'd just come from. A wince as I pulled myself back to my feet. Juju seemed to frown. This was only the second time in his young life he'd been out in the sticks for real, after all.
I looked the other way down the gulley, and could see in the distance, between the slopes to either side, the barns and silos of the prison complex farm. Ah, I thought to myself, I know where I am.
I decided there was no need to pain myself or Juju more than necessary. We were perhaps half a mile from a state highway at the edge of town, and, if I'd been right, would intersect it about that far from my father's house.
We'll just get a ride back to get my van.
So we continued winding our way down the gulley, which became smoother, and more level as we went, all the while convinced that we'd chosen the easiest route.
Some ways onward, I wondered why I hadn't seen the century old ruins of the old coal mine I anticipated.
Oh, well, we definitely aren't going all the way back up at this point.
And we kept on.
After several hundred more yards of winding turns, me beginning to limp and a one year old pup losing steam we finally came upon signs of civilization.
I looked down at the dog. "I don't think we am where we thought we was."
And my cellphone dinged; a rarely welcome interruption while on the trail. It was my younger sister sending pictures of a baby shaped sculpture in brown moss with faux ficus leaves protruding from it's head. A little tag stuck in the terracotta pot it was nestled in read Mandrake.
"I thought you'd get a kick out of this," read the attached message.
I replied, "now I need to grow a ficus in a baby shaped mould."
Then, "BTW, are you busy?"
Eventually, we emerged into a town at the very end of a dead end dirt road. Another quarter of a mile and we found an intersection: Cedar Ridge Rd was printed on the street sign.
"We can't be," I muttered aloud as I hobbled on, the dog lazily following, now on his leash. Another hundred yards and another street sign read Wilmont Rd. "Well," I consoled Juju, "I know exactly where we are now," as I texted the intersection to my sister. "About three quarters of a mile from where we parked."
I'm not getting to the shed today.
"Ok," I'd conceded to him as we drove in my minivan out to a not-too-far-off mesa. "Maybe if we find a sagebrush or alder leaf mountain mahogany, but nothing really nice." This spot is brimming with imminently collectable yamadori of most locally native sorts, so I didn't dare set a standard I might not bare to keep.
Mesa Park, at the southwestern corner of Williamsburg, CO is not otherwise a particularly special landmark in the region, but the geology is such that there is little more than two hands depth of sand atop the sandstone bedrock. Any tree - from 1 foot to 20 tall - has the potential to come up with little effort, except where a root might have found it's way in a fissure in the rock.
The sand was soft, cool, still damp from three nights of rain earlier in the week, the trees healthy and vibrant.
I had chosen a path this morning that was an exercise in restraint.
No bother, just keep moving. Keep walking, keep up with the dog, take him to the northern slope of the mesa where there's plenty to see, but less to dig.
Making it there, we looked out over a deep, rugged gully, where trees laid undisturbed except by deer for years at a time. A little ways down, in a crevice in the boulders, was a little one seed juniper. Straight tapered trunk with well worn bark, and a single round pad of foliage. I had to see!
It of course did not budge when I tried to wiggle the trunk. Juju whined from stop a boulder just over my head. "Well then get down here then," I cajoled. After a moment there was a crash in the brush on the other side of the boulder, and Juju appeared from below me this time. "Well," I said, "I guess that'd do it," and I slithered, fingers and toes around gripping the sparsely textured surface of the sandstone until I could let myself drop to the ground beside the him.
Not really thinking, we continued down the gulley a ways, sometimes hiking, sometimes climbing, occasionally leaping. With each leap, however, my right knee began to ache. Recalling the movie line, I looked at the dog, who painted profusely and licked at his paws, while we paused under an ancient juniper, me rubbing my sore spot, and declared, "I'm gettin' too old for this shit."
I looked up the direction we'd just come from. A wince as I pulled myself back to my feet. Juju seemed to frown. This was only the second time in his young life he'd been out in the sticks for real, after all.
I looked the other way down the gulley, and could see in the distance, between the slopes to either side, the barns and silos of the prison complex farm. Ah, I thought to myself, I know where I am.
I decided there was no need to pain myself or Juju more than necessary. We were perhaps half a mile from a state highway at the edge of town, and, if I'd been right, would intersect it about that far from my father's house.
We'll just get a ride back to get my van.
So we continued winding our way down the gulley, which became smoother, and more level as we went, all the while convinced that we'd chosen the easiest route.
Some ways onward, I wondered why I hadn't seen the century old ruins of the old coal mine I anticipated.
Oh, well, we definitely aren't going all the way back up at this point.
And we kept on.
After several hundred more yards of winding turns, me beginning to limp and a one year old pup losing steam we finally came upon signs of civilization.
I looked down at the dog. "I don't think we am where we thought we was."And my cellphone dinged; a rarely welcome interruption while on the trail. It was my younger sister sending pictures of a baby shaped sculpture in brown moss with faux ficus leaves protruding from it's head. A little tag stuck in the terracotta pot it was nestled in read Mandrake.
"I thought you'd get a kick out of this," read the attached message.
I replied, "now I need to grow a ficus in a baby shaped mould."
Then, "BTW, are you busy?"
Eventually, we emerged into a town at the very end of a dead end dirt road. Another quarter of a mile and we found an intersection: Cedar Ridge Rd was printed on the street sign.
"We can't be," I muttered aloud as I hobbled on, the dog lazily following, now on his leash. Another hundred yards and another street sign read Wilmont Rd. "Well," I consoled Juju, "I know exactly where we are now," as I texted the intersection to my sister. "About three quarters of a mile from where we parked."
I'm not getting to the shed today.
or I would have taken a few more pics of the REALLY impressive views.
