Forest Lakes homeowners
will undoubtedly see the benefits of the logging in the form of
reduced wildfire risk; the forest will be healthier; and
presettlement trees will be preserved for a longer and stronger
future. But there is still a story to be told of a dog, a family
and a meandering trail that once was shared only by the birds and
the occasional deer.
This particular stretch
of land, where my family and I would go each day to escape
civilization, became affectionately known to us as "The Bigby
Trail."
The trail was named for
our former neighbor's oversized Dalmatian, Bigby. When Bigby passed
our house on his daily walk with his master, he would beckon our
dog, Shasta, with one large bark. When Shasta heard Bibgy's call,
she would bolt out the dog door (sometimes even from a sound
sleep), gracefully leap our utterly useless fence and disappear for
some frolicking and fun. Shasta loved this daily excursion with her
best friend and deeply missed Bigby when he moved to
Dolores.
Several months after
Bigby moved, Shasta and I set out for our afternoon walk, taking a
different path than normal. At the end of our road, Shasta ventured
onto BLM land on what appeared to be a deer trail that I had not
noticed before. I could see that it wound through ponderosa pines
and gamble oak, and I realized this was where she had gone walking
with Bigby.
I followed Shasta as she
pursued some potent but unseen scent, eagerly sniffing each tree
that Bigby had probably marked months earlier. She pranced merrily,
with her tail held high, and I trailed behind, trying to remember
specific landmarks in case I got lost and to help me remember the
trail if I wanted to walk it again. Shasta led the way, past a
spooky dead pine whose branches had withered downward, resembling
the scrawny arms of a wise old wizard urging us forward.
Onward we ventured, past
a tree trunk that had been burned by lightning and looked as if it
could be a carved totem pole, protecting us with its ancient magic
as we passed. We continued on, noticing a large, forked pine and
then discovered a magnificent view of the Pine River Valley ridge
and a comfortable log on which to sit and enjoy it.
At this point, we looped
around to begin the journey home. We walked through decayed, fallen
trees, softened over time, that formed what appeared to be a
gateway, perhaps to a slower and gentler time. As we neared the end
of the trail, we passed a row of sizeable uprooted stumps, whose
long-forgotten tangled roots, hardened over time, lay as reminders
of the forest that stood here before we did.
Since discovering this
trail, it has become one of my family's favorites. When we walked
it for the first time after the Missionary Ridge Fire, we were
overwhelmed by the tremendous sense of relief that it was still
there. We inhaled the sweet, rich, fragrant offering of sap, pine
needles and earth and reveled in the sound of the freshly fallen
pinecones crunching beneath our feet. We sat at our view spot
looking dizzily, but with unending gratitude, at the untouched
ridges that stretched before us, the sound of birdsong in our ears.
We knew all too well what could have been for us, for our home and
for the beautiful Bigby Trail.
When workers began the
thinning efforts, it was difficult to watch them cut down tree
after tree and carve roads into the delicate landscape, oblivious
to all vegetation in their path. Our trail disappeared beneath the
littered carcasses of trees that once stood as our guardians,
watching over us as we journeyed through their land. I could no
longer recognize the path I thought I could follow with my eyes
closed. I knew it was there beneath the fallen trees and rutted
roads; Shasta knew it was there too. She led the way, nose to
ground, as I tried to keep up. We climbed over the maze of fallen
pines as they bled fresh sap from their severed limbs and trunks.
And though I caught a glimpse of the trail here and there, I looked
around stunned, sometimes no longer even recognizing my own back
yard. Some of the landmarks remained, but without the trees that
formerly surrounded them, they no longer looked the
same.
I know the carved roads
will eventually disappear beneath a few seasons' blessings of bark,
pinecones and needles. I imagine the road might become singletrack
once again, meandering through oak and pine out to our favorite
spot. I know that, in time, the area will probably be more
beautiful, with more sun shining through the forest canopy to
nourish the vegetation and wildflowers that will undoubtedly
flourish. My husband even has taken advantage of the new space to
create what he claims is Bayfield's first and foremost mountain
disc golf course.
With all that in mind, I
cannot forget that my son has become a young man; my husband and I
have become closer; and my pup has grown and mellowed as we've
walked along The Bigby Trail. I feel fortunate that something is
being done to reduce the potential fire hazard, but I do miss the
pristine and untouched quality this area once possessed, and most
of all, I miss the trail and the trees that stood as our guardians
and became our friends.
-Tamara Belgard
