Snowy Range Peaks of Wyoming
How fortunate for Wyoming, that it has ever so much more going for it than Dick Cheney! Truly, within its borders are some of the most spectacular scenery in the entire world, but no doubt most know little beyond Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons. But here, hundreds of miles from either of those two fantastical places lies another scene of glorious beauty. I had previously uploaded another shot from my recent trip to this location here: www.flickr.com/photos/80014607@N05/21237983879/in/datepos...
Alas, the dead trees here, though they were terrific as elements in the photo, are worrisome harbingers. Millions of trees are dying in our western forests as an indirect result of global warming. The warmer winters have meant that the species of beetles that were usually killed off by the cold, now thrive, and live to kill the trees. And as the trees die, there will be less CO2 converted to wood, and so there will be more CO2 in the atmosphere, which means a warming climate, which will mean even more beetles surviving--further and further north. And so the cataclysmic chain of events continues.
On that other photo referenced above, I wrote about the things that drove me to visit here, which I append below:
"The most beautiful place." So thought my Dad. And he wouldn't be far wrong. I have been referring to my most recent trip (August 2015) as a trip to Colorado, which it was, but the ultimate destination was a spot in South-Central Wyoming--a spot that had long since taken on mythic proportions in my memory. As a child, my family--father, mother, 7 year old sister, 1 year old sister, and twin sister/brother who had just started to make themselves indirectly visible by the unmistakable expansion of my Mom's waist--drove to Colorado from Topeka. It was to be a trip of short duration as my Mom began to experience morning sickness which extended into much of the day. But in those few days, I saw my first mountains--unless you count the Ozarkian Hills as mountains. That first moment when the clouds on the horizon resolved into the awesome realization that they weren't clouds, but snow--snow on mountain peaks--remains one of the sentinel moments of my life. But there was to be yet another such moment, and that was when we drove north into Wyoming, passing over Wyoming Highway 130 through the Snowy Range. There, at or near the highest point of the drive was a scene my Dad had always remembered as perhaps the most glorious sight he had ever witnessed. Great peaks, towering cliffs made of stuff that seemed more a creation of a fantasy writer than reality--quartzite. (If you're not familiar with the stuff, it's a very hard stone made mostly of quartz, and is usually whitish in color.) The beauty of the place absolutely staggered me. And it was more than "just" a few white mountain peaks--it was a string of white thousand foot cliffs rising from a string of beautiful alpine lakes, with forests and meadows overflowing with flowers all about. This was a spot that would leave even the most jaded traveler breathless with astonishment.
Or at least, so I remembered it. I had never ventured back to this much venerated site in the intervening decades, and after a time, I became fearful of doing so. It occupied such a prominent place among my memories--What if a return trip revealed that it didn't measure up?
Whether it did or not, after my father died some years ago, I decided I would bury some of my father's ashes there. He never indicated this was what he wanted, but I was as certain as I could be that he would approve. Unfortunately, a vicious psychopath paid my home a visit when I was on vacation and stole my father's ashes, along with numerous other very personal things. Nonetheless, having determined to return to the Snowy Range, I decided to do so on this trip. Even without the ashes, this trip was very much about my Dad, and he was often in my thoughts. I took the same route he took so long ago, in as much as I could recreate it, which also contributed to his being in mind. I was still worried about finding this purportedly magical place a let down, but no matter, only a serious accident would deter me from revisiting the place. After a week-long trip through Western Kansas and then to Estes Park and Rocky Mountain National Park, I drove up Colorado Highway 125 toward my goal (I've recently uploaded three photos of that portion of my trip). As I drew closer, I started to feel anxious--more and more as I felt the temperature drop as I gained altitude. Would it measure up? Coming from the west, there is no distant preview of what lies ahead--trees and smaller mountains/hills block ones view. I nonetheless strained to see my goal miles before it was possible. And then, rounding a bend the mythic peaks revealed themselves all at once. I realized two thing almost simultaneously. One--I had arrived at the wrong time of day. It was late afternoon and the sun was behind the peaks, which meant that their whiteness was much subdued compared to the time I had previously been there--at mid-day. But secondly, I realized that I needn't have been concerned about disappointment. Wrong time of day or no, I was once again witnessing the fantastical. If you, dear reader, have never been to this spot, then I can hardly wish anything better for you than that you someday stand in awe of these magnificent peaks and their crystalline lakes. Assuming I have yet some years to trod upon the earth, I myself will return yet again--this next visit with more time at my disposal--and will dedicate several days to trying to capture these beauties with my camera.
Poor time of day notwithstanding, I did my best on this occasion. But most of my few hours there I spent simply communing with nature. And, of course, the spirit of my Dad. Terribly imperfect father that he was--he was still my Dad. I wish I could have left a little of him there as I intended.
Snowy Range Peaks of Wyoming
How fortunate for Wyoming, that it has ever so much more going for it than Dick Cheney! Truly, within its borders are some of the most spectacular scenery in the entire world, but no doubt most know little beyond Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons. But here, hundreds of miles from either of those two fantastical places lies another scene of glorious beauty. I had previously uploaded another shot from my recent trip to this location here: www.flickr.com/photos/80014607@N05/21237983879/in/datepos...
Alas, the dead trees here, though they were terrific as elements in the photo, are worrisome harbingers. Millions of trees are dying in our western forests as an indirect result of global warming. The warmer winters have meant that the species of beetles that were usually killed off by the cold, now thrive, and live to kill the trees. And as the trees die, there will be less CO2 converted to wood, and so there will be more CO2 in the atmosphere, which means a warming climate, which will mean even more beetles surviving--further and further north. And so the cataclysmic chain of events continues.
On that other photo referenced above, I wrote about the things that drove me to visit here, which I append below:
"The most beautiful place." So thought my Dad. And he wouldn't be far wrong. I have been referring to my most recent trip (August 2015) as a trip to Colorado, which it was, but the ultimate destination was a spot in South-Central Wyoming--a spot that had long since taken on mythic proportions in my memory. As a child, my family--father, mother, 7 year old sister, 1 year old sister, and twin sister/brother who had just started to make themselves indirectly visible by the unmistakable expansion of my Mom's waist--drove to Colorado from Topeka. It was to be a trip of short duration as my Mom began to experience morning sickness which extended into much of the day. But in those few days, I saw my first mountains--unless you count the Ozarkian Hills as mountains. That first moment when the clouds on the horizon resolved into the awesome realization that they weren't clouds, but snow--snow on mountain peaks--remains one of the sentinel moments of my life. But there was to be yet another such moment, and that was when we drove north into Wyoming, passing over Wyoming Highway 130 through the Snowy Range. There, at or near the highest point of the drive was a scene my Dad had always remembered as perhaps the most glorious sight he had ever witnessed. Great peaks, towering cliffs made of stuff that seemed more a creation of a fantasy writer than reality--quartzite. (If you're not familiar with the stuff, it's a very hard stone made mostly of quartz, and is usually whitish in color.) The beauty of the place absolutely staggered me. And it was more than "just" a few white mountain peaks--it was a string of white thousand foot cliffs rising from a string of beautiful alpine lakes, with forests and meadows overflowing with flowers all about. This was a spot that would leave even the most jaded traveler breathless with astonishment.
Or at least, so I remembered it. I had never ventured back to this much venerated site in the intervening decades, and after a time, I became fearful of doing so. It occupied such a prominent place among my memories--What if a return trip revealed that it didn't measure up?
Whether it did or not, after my father died some years ago, I decided I would bury some of my father's ashes there. He never indicated this was what he wanted, but I was as certain as I could be that he would approve. Unfortunately, a vicious psychopath paid my home a visit when I was on vacation and stole my father's ashes, along with numerous other very personal things. Nonetheless, having determined to return to the Snowy Range, I decided to do so on this trip. Even without the ashes, this trip was very much about my Dad, and he was often in my thoughts. I took the same route he took so long ago, in as much as I could recreate it, which also contributed to his being in mind. I was still worried about finding this purportedly magical place a let down, but no matter, only a serious accident would deter me from revisiting the place. After a week-long trip through Western Kansas and then to Estes Park and Rocky Mountain National Park, I drove up Colorado Highway 125 toward my goal (I've recently uploaded three photos of that portion of my trip). As I drew closer, I started to feel anxious--more and more as I felt the temperature drop as I gained altitude. Would it measure up? Coming from the west, there is no distant preview of what lies ahead--trees and smaller mountains/hills block ones view. I nonetheless strained to see my goal miles before it was possible. And then, rounding a bend the mythic peaks revealed themselves all at once. I realized two thing almost simultaneously. One--I had arrived at the wrong time of day. It was late afternoon and the sun was behind the peaks, which meant that their whiteness was much subdued compared to the time I had previously been there--at mid-day. But secondly, I realized that I needn't have been concerned about disappointment. Wrong time of day or no, I was once again witnessing the fantastical. If you, dear reader, have never been to this spot, then I can hardly wish anything better for you than that you someday stand in awe of these magnificent peaks and their crystalline lakes. Assuming I have yet some years to trod upon the earth, I myself will return yet again--this next visit with more time at my disposal--and will dedicate several days to trying to capture these beauties with my camera.
Poor time of day notwithstanding, I did my best on this occasion. But most of my few hours there I spent simply communing with nature. And, of course, the spirit of my Dad. Terribly imperfect father that he was--he was still my Dad. I wish I could have left a little of him there as I intended.