Column by Hal Walter
Climate – May 2000 – Colorado Central Magazine
I’M OFTEN ASKED this time of year: “When will it be spring?” The answer — after nine Wet Mountain winters — is “never.”
Oh sure, there’s the soft week in May when the aspens finally leaf out. But a procession of snowstorms alternating with windstorms is pretty much what you’re in for from the Spring Equinox until Ma Nature is good and tired of it. One year the last measurable snowfall of the year came on June 9. The following day was almost hot.
So there really is no spring, at least not as most people know it. Instead, spring in this region is just this period of unsettled weather much worse than anything winter can manage. Staring out the window into the intensely white heart of a March blizzard when your job is to fill blank pages of paper can be hazardous to your mental health. So this year I decided I would do my best to make the best of it.
One day following one of these spring storms I was out doing something I call “running” but others would call “speed-wading” when I heard a vehicle approaching from behind. Mostly what I heard was splashing. I checked over my shoulder to make sure my dog was out of the way because from the sound of things this motorist had no intentions of slowing down.
I moved over, and actually so did the vehicle. But as she sped by, a driver in a dark gray Nissan Pathfinder soused me from head to toe in icy mud and slush. I told this story to my neighbor Beverly — who knows the comings and goings of most everyone in the vicinity — and asked her if she knew who drives a dark gray Pathfinder. She couldn’t quite place the vehicle but said she’d think about it and keep her eye out. Beverly walks and rides her horse on the same road and doesn’t care for rude drivers.
The very next day I had a call on my voice mail from Beverly saying that the local Census worker had just stopped by driving a vehicle matching the description. Beverly had also taken the liberty of telling her that I didn’t appreciate the mud shower, which coming from Beverly was probably something just short of the riot act.
As I hung up the phone I could see the Census lady already wading down my driveway. She came in with a sheepish look on her face, apologizing profusely, and saying she thought she had moved over and slowed down enough. She really was sorry.
Then she got down to business, explained the Census forms and was on her way. It wasn’t until she was driving away that I noticed the silver Toyota Forerunner.
Despite my best efforts, the shack nasties, common this time of year, were trying to creep up my spine as I realized that the offensive driver wasn’t her. Apparently, the census taker had been one of those polite citizens who had actually slowed down and pulled over for me that day (one of those considerate people I had so quickly forgotten when I was dripping with ice and soil).
Another neighbor, Robin, who owns a tractor, came down one day between a windstorm and the next snowstorm and helped me by cutting a small ditch to catch the runoff from my downward-sloping driveway. After analyzing the situation for all these years, it seemed to make sense to try to divert the water elsewhere before my home took on its annual waterfront property characteristics, with the house acting as the dam.
Then came the “Big Kahuna” as I call it, though the irony of using Hawaiian vernacular to describe a weather event that is less than tropical does not escape me. Of course the thing about the Big Kahuna is that you’re never sure if it’s really the Big Kahuna. March may come in like a lion and out like a snow leopard with 20 inches, as it did in this case. But you may still get slammed with three feet in May. There’s always a Bigger Kahuna lurking.
Anyway, when the current reigning Kahuna began its meltdown, my little ditch began to flow just as designed. I was proud of my armchair engineering skills and happy to not have to wear rubber boots anywhere beyond my front step. That is, until the ditch overflowed and I found myself outside on this bright day with a shovel, building up the downhill bank and trying to keep the waterway clear of silt, which happens, as the bumper sticker says. When it was all melted, I had something that looked like a miniature version of the Grand Canyon crossing my driveway.
THIS SPRING I also marked a few diversions on my calendar to help punctuate the season. First was a lecture and slide show at the University of Southern Colorado in Pueblo by author David Petersen, who has extensively researched the possibility of a remnant population of grizzly bears in the San Juan Mountains. Next was a night of poetry readings in Salida by Art Goodtimes, Jude Janett and Peggy Godfrey. The grand finalé would be a talk and readings by author Jim Harrison at Colorado College in Colorado Springs. Free admission to all these events helped to offset the rising cost of gasoline and the declining balance in the checking account. When this tour was over, so would be March.
I was flattered to be invited by USC professor and nature writer Chas Clifton to have dinner with Petersen before the talk and slide show. I have read David’s book, Ghost Grizzlies, as well as other materials on the subject, but the information, as he presented it with slides and interviews with people who had experience with these bears, was even more compelling. Petersen had actually taken pains to track down people who have had experiences with Colorado grizzlies. He then hiked with them into the sites where those experiences took place. I got a feel for what it was like to be there.
The poetry readings by Goodtimes, Janett, and Godfrey were not only entertaining, but also testimony that this region produces some fine artists. There was also a surprise appearance by poet Ellen Metrick of Boulder. I had sworn off writing poetry myself years ago, thinking the craft seemed too full of rules. And I don’t like rules.
But in listening to these poets I could see that what they were doing was painting small pictures with words. Each read with a style that perfectly matched the poetry. All were good readers, but I have to say I will always hold dear the image of Goodtimes practically bouncing off the floor and ceiling of La Frontera with his reading of a poem about fearing bears.
And then there was Harrison, who may be my favorite writer. It took Hollywood three hours of cinema to tell the story of Legends of the Fall, which he wrote in 81 book pages. And the book is so much better than the film. Harrison was reading from his new poetry collection, The Shape of the Journey, and though he is not the performer that any of the poets I saw in Salida is, his 51-minutes of story-telling and poetry readings was truly one of the finest things I have ever witnessed. Afterwards, he signed a copy of Just Before Dark for me and I gave him a copy of my humble book, Pack-Burro Stories, which he stuck in the pocket of his sports jacket.
And thus the worst part of this thing we call spring had passed without the usual madness, depression and angst. But I know the Bigger Kahuna could still be out there.
Hal Walter turned 40 this March and also wrote his first poem in 20 years.
