Dispatches From El Escondido, Vol 2, Monday

 Labor Day, 2020, random musings. 

This morning dawn brought light winds out of the northwest, 40F temps and hazy skies, perhaps from the 139,000 acre  Pine Gulch fire near Grand Junction. Pine Gulch, started by lightning, has become  the largest fire in Colorado state history, surpassing the Hayman fire of 2002 near Colorado Springs. Inciweb says it is mostly from the fires in California and Utah. Either way this evening I could barely see the other side of the valley. 

The hummingbirds and bluebirds that were so ubiquitous 3 weeks ago appear to have headed for warmer climes. Change is in the wind. In fact the latest weather forecast calls for an 80% chance of snow/rain mix beginning early tomorrow morning. Up to two inches of accumulation during the day, and up to eleven more tomorrow night, with a low of 18 degrees.  Just in case, I carried a few armfuls of firewood onto the porch where they should remain dry. 

I have mentioned before that for me, there is something uniquely spiritual about being in the mountains. I am not sure of the reason...but I take solace that Native Americans seem to also have felt it. Perhaps it is the limiting of one's line of sight, or the quality of being reminded of one's smallness in the presence of grandeur. Psalm 139:5 comes to mind - "You hem me in, behind and before, Such knowledge is too wonderful for me." The mountains have that quality of taking a person in. 

I had a few errands to run in town today, and made a little detour to the Creede cemetery, which is probably best known to have been the initial burial site of outlaw Bob Ford. 

Ford was an outlaw, a member of the infamous James-Younger gang.  He earned fame by betraying and killing Jesse James for the bounty that was on James' head.  Later, Ford owned a saloon in Creede where he himself was killed by an assassin. There is a marker where Ford was originally interred, but he was exhumed and moved back to Missouri. 

It was a hard not to take notice of how many people buried here died young. Life was hard in a mining town in the old west. 

There is a creek just a few minutes from the cabin I wanted to fish today. Small and brushy, but a new adventure. This is a picture from the trailhead looking back toward Creede from my last visit, when there was no smoke haze.

My personal dia de los Muertos continued. Apparently life on a wagon train was risky business. I wondered if her parents continued on with the train, leaving their daughter on this lonely mountain side.  There is another grave just a few feet away, but no marker. A somber beginning to my fishing. 

My last anecdote for today was a first for me. As I was fishing, a little male pine warbler swooped down to the water and grabbed my foam grasshopper fly, hooking itself in the process. I crush all my barbs, so I knew I could be able to get him loose easily, but reeling in a bird is a bit different than reeling in a fish. Fortunately I got him in quickly before he could get lodged in a tree branch. As I was taking the hook out, his mate (I swear I am not making this up), landed on my shoulder and watched as I freed the male. Then both flew off. Pretty cool way to end the day.