( started on 3/14/09)
The mountains were socked in all day yesterday, from Cuchara Pass all the way into the San Luis Valley. When I arrived at Graceland, our little trailer on the slope overlooking this valley, I had a clear view 50 miles to New Mexico, but behind me Mount Blanca and its neighbors were all gauzy white.
My steady canine hiking companion, Amber Grace, and I took off for a stroll. Something about low-hanging clouds made the noises seem louder; each sound seemed separate from the other, very distinct and slightly amplified. Mountain bluebirds flitted about and twittered to us as we descended the slope. The neighing of horses down on the flats floated up our way. And my left boot squeaked so loudly it sounded like a squawk.
I bought these Ariat barnyard boots in November, calling stores all over Denver and Boulder until I found my size. They zip up on the sides, cover my ankles, and provide such support that I’m reluctant to take them off. My feet feel like they’ve found their proper home to such an extent that I’ve been wearing these babies to work, for city walks, and even mountain hikes. But one shoe squeaks. I’ve never had a shoe squeak before, and I’m clueless as to why it does or what in the world to do about it. Walking down silent, empty corridors in the schools where I am to observe a teacher candidate's classroom, my shoe announces my presence before I even get there. Children turn to look, wondering what the ‘creeeak-creeeak’ sound is, perhaps imagining a wooden leg beneath my slacks.
I’ve conditioned the leather, but this is something in the inner sole. Ok, now I’m wondering if there is a message for me in this experience. My soul is squeaking?? And if one pair of squeaking shoes is not enough, a second pair of shoes, some Merrill clogs that I bought at a big Title Nine sale at the end of last summer, starting squeaking about a month ago. Once home, when I finally coerce my feet out of my Ariats, I slip on my Merrills, but with no relief from the sound of one shoe squeaking, except that it’s the opposite foot. With the Merrills my right shoe has decided to speak up.
Back to Graceland. On my second morning there I was up at 4:30AM for two reasons: I wanted to get to the Monte Vista Refuge by the crack of dawn to catch sight of the migrating sand hill cranes, and I was tired of listening to the mice in my trailer. A chilling 14 degrees hit me as I emerged from my down comforter to hastily crank up the oven and turn on the little pro-cat heater. Coffeed up, I stepped out of the trailer into the light of a bazillion stars to go warm up my frost covered car. The sound of my shoe squeaking echoed in the crisp air, possibly alerting the coyotes who began a series of yips, yaps, and yowls prompting Amber to tuck her tail and rush to the car.
After picking up a valley friend, Lynn, in Alamosa we found our way to the back roads of the refuge by sun-up. A blanket of diamond hoarfrost covered the fields. In the areas where there was standing water, a fine mist rose up to meet the morning light and create a breathtaking glow. The cranes were luminous, standing four feet tall with their long legs and long necks, leaping several feet skyward as part of their elaborate courtship dance. Six foot wingspans with feathered fingertips swished through the air amidst the raucous calls of thousands and thousands of sand hill cranes that echoed across the valley. When we got out of the car we were immediately struck by a consistent croaking, crowing rattle. It took a few seconds to realize that those guttural sounds resulted from field upon field of flocks of cranes. Thankfully this was an environment where the sound of a squeaky shoe couldn’t be heard.
Arriving back at the trailer later that morning, I froze on getting out of my car and hearing a squawk. Lynn told me the cranes sometimes lounge in the fields in front of my trailer. I reached for my binoculars then slowly began walking toward the open view, when the regularity of the sound reminded me of my shoe. Oh well, if the sound of one shoe squawking can bring to mind the majesty of a sand hill crane, surely I can find something Zen in that.
The mountains were socked in all day yesterday, from Cuchara Pass all the way into the San Luis Valley. When I arrived at Graceland, our little trailer on the slope overlooking this valley, I had a clear view 50 miles to New Mexico, but behind me Mount Blanca and its neighbors were all gauzy white.
My steady canine hiking companion, Amber Grace, and I took off for a stroll. Something about low-hanging clouds made the noises seem louder; each sound seemed separate from the other, very distinct and slightly amplified. Mountain bluebirds flitted about and twittered to us as we descended the slope. The neighing of horses down on the flats floated up our way. And my left boot squeaked so loudly it sounded like a squawk.
I bought these Ariat barnyard boots in November, calling stores all over Denver and Boulder until I found my size. They zip up on the sides, cover my ankles, and provide such support that I’m reluctant to take them off. My feet feel like they’ve found their proper home to such an extent that I’ve been wearing these babies to work, for city walks, and even mountain hikes. But one shoe squeaks. I’ve never had a shoe squeak before, and I’m clueless as to why it does or what in the world to do about it. Walking down silent, empty corridors in the schools where I am to observe a teacher candidate's classroom, my shoe announces my presence before I even get there. Children turn to look, wondering what the ‘creeeak-creeeak’ sound is, perhaps imagining a wooden leg beneath my slacks.
I’ve conditioned the leather, but this is something in the inner sole. Ok, now I’m wondering if there is a message for me in this experience. My soul is squeaking?? And if one pair of squeaking shoes is not enough, a second pair of shoes, some Merrill clogs that I bought at a big Title Nine sale at the end of last summer, starting squeaking about a month ago. Once home, when I finally coerce my feet out of my Ariats, I slip on my Merrills, but with no relief from the sound of one shoe squeaking, except that it’s the opposite foot. With the Merrills my right shoe has decided to speak up.
Back to Graceland. On my second morning there I was up at 4:30AM for two reasons: I wanted to get to the Monte Vista Refuge by the crack of dawn to catch sight of the migrating sand hill cranes, and I was tired of listening to the mice in my trailer. A chilling 14 degrees hit me as I emerged from my down comforter to hastily crank up the oven and turn on the little pro-cat heater. Coffeed up, I stepped out of the trailer into the light of a bazillion stars to go warm up my frost covered car. The sound of my shoe squeaking echoed in the crisp air, possibly alerting the coyotes who began a series of yips, yaps, and yowls prompting Amber to tuck her tail and rush to the car.
After picking up a valley friend, Lynn, in Alamosa we found our way to the back roads of the refuge by sun-up. A blanket of diamond hoarfrost covered the fields. In the areas where there was standing water, a fine mist rose up to meet the morning light and create a breathtaking glow. The cranes were luminous, standing four feet tall with their long legs and long necks, leaping several feet skyward as part of their elaborate courtship dance. Six foot wingspans with feathered fingertips swished through the air amidst the raucous calls of thousands and thousands of sand hill cranes that echoed across the valley. When we got out of the car we were immediately struck by a consistent croaking, crowing rattle. It took a few seconds to realize that those guttural sounds resulted from field upon field of flocks of cranes. Thankfully this was an environment where the sound of a squeaky shoe couldn’t be heard.
Arriving back at the trailer later that morning, I froze on getting out of my car and hearing a squawk. Lynn told me the cranes sometimes lounge in the fields in front of my trailer. I reached for my binoculars then slowly began walking toward the open view, when the regularity of the sound reminded me of my shoe. Oh well, if the sound of one shoe squawking can bring to mind the majesty of a sand hill crane, surely I can find something Zen in that.
well, only you, patricia, could find the zen connection between a shoe and a bird. another reason why i love and appreciate your view on life, your nature-bound writing, and most of all, you. thank you for pulling me out of my work-focused urban routine to go on a walk with you and out into a cold morning bird watching venture. This valley is one that I love, as well, especially during the season that bears thousands of cranes.
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