The Devil’s Backbone

Reckoning and Recollection

March 28, 2021

Once flat sandstones and shales west of today’s Loveland, Colorado, were long ago rumpled up by the rising Rocky Mountains into a series of waves. Like a rug you accidentally slide across the floor into a wall. Unlike the rug, the tops of the rock waves weathered away over long time, leaving behind a series of wonderful ridges and valleys. The Devil’s Backbone Open Space lies within this terrain. Only 10 minutes from my home, I often go to this place to stretch my legs and my mind. Lacking strenuous paths, but celebrating an open sky, it is a walking meditation in the offing.

Here, as distance grows from the car park, I enjoy long walks kept company by the abundant rocks, sparse grasses, shrubs and occasional small pine tree. Well laid out, the area offers a sequence of three loops in series. Walk as far and as long as you like. The loop closest to the car park, Wild Loop, is visited on the week ends by many people with children and dogs. It is heartening to see them all out, but I normally beat feet to the two outer loops, the Hunter and Laughing Horse. My mind does not readily clear in the presence of others. It is only during the empty mid-week that I will saunter along the entire, close in, Wild Loop. But I do make the time to walk this  loop, and come right up to the very ridge known as the Devil’s Backbone, protruding straight up into the air. On late summer afternoons, I have often walked to and sat along this stretch listening to the cascading song, always downward  and never upward, of Canyon Wrens. It is a magical sound bouncing off the rocks into the surrounding silence and late day shade.

I first heard Canyon Wrens many years ago in the red rock canyon country of southeast Utah. Then, in the back of beyond in Bown’s Canyon, far past the end of any road, I spent a week locating and sampling remote springs and seeps for chemical analysis. This was background work for the National Park Service and was the project of my now wife of 36 years. Remote and quiet, in the cooler reaches of the the main and side canyons, the wrens would sing their song to no one. For anyone. The perfect pitch, their notes resonate and carry. And at the Devil’s Backbone they bring to mind great, comforting thoughts of long ago adventure. Because I am just that way, it seems so appropriate that they should sing here at the Backbone, among rock types that are also present some 300 miles away in Utah’s canyon country. The grand scale of geology.

Lacking much in the way of shade, the Devil’s Backbone provides much needed winter time wandering. When, that is, there has not been recent snow that muddies the trail, and in some places creates snow pack with slippery footing. But that is rare and it is routinely possible to venture out. There is a particular section of ridge comprised of the Fountain Formation, a sandstone with large pebbles in it, that is my winter time haven. The ridge is sharp, and the sand weathers slowly from the rock, building a fine seat at its base. The remaining rock provides a perfect backrest. On a winter’s afternoon, the two mile saunter to this location provides just the right amount of walking to drift into poorly lit corners of my head. I can arrive in the perfect mood to sit comfortably. I look to the west at  Mt. Chiquita (13,100 elevation), Mt Ypsilon (13,500), and Long’s Peak (14,300) a bit to the south. All are only about 25 miles away as the crow flies. With high hills between them and me, only their snowy summits are seen. My seat faces generally southwest and in the winter afternoon, when the clouds stay away, the low sun warms me perfectly. The ridge to my back and surrounding shrubs keep me from direct wind. There is no one but me. Slight paths traveled by deer, who leave their usual calling card on the ground of small scattered dark pellets, pass closely by. A personal oasis. I read. I write. I snack and I nap. Blissfully. Eventually, I get up and move on. There are some other rocks and isolated vistas I need to inspect.

Things change slowly here, and vary a bit through the seasons. The rock alters little, but occasionally shows new tire marks or the scrape of a pedal from a mountain bike. Yes, there is some bike traffic here, but it is not troublesome and most, but definitely not all, riders are friendly and courteous. But perhaps that is because I am 6’5” and 205 pounds, affording me consideration that would be denied others. No matter. My walk is good. In winter, the grasses are dead and brown, the shrubs bare. When I return in spring, green will rule the day and small flowers will color small nooks and crannies in the rock. There are many such small gardens along this way that I have dutifully inspected for the past 17 years. I find it remarkable how little they grow or shrink in size, despite the variable water supply from year to year. Very stable. Seems like there is a lesson in there somewhere about balance. And the lesson concerns the Built World relative to the Green, and the equilibrium they seem these days to be unable to achieve to produce a sustained, perpetual, mutually respectful existence.

On a recent walk, the first in a good bit to the far back of the Laughing Horse loop, I came across a freshly cut dirt road. It was just outside the open space boundary, leading to a hilltop location for a remarkably large house. Someone obviously thinks rather well of themself. I was irritated, as I always am, with this kind of thing. I understand it is a great view. But it just seems so very impractical and self-serving. A needless and inappropriate intrusion into an ever dwindling footprint of undisturbed land. In fact, the open space was established, in part, to recover some of that openness once lost. I will not judge this homeowner, but I will not support or compliment them either. Given the chance, I will oppose such behavior. Selfish and needless. There are better, more practical places down in the valley where other settlers have established their luxury homesteads. All along the margin of the open space, there are homes. Most are at a respectable distance, and although still exorbitant to my way of thinking, establish a tolerable balance between the Green and Built worlds. I stride past the disturbance and offer a gesture my Mom would not be proud of.

Having turned the farthest loop, I leisurely walk back in the general direction of the car park. Passing across a grass-filled ridge, I pause to look for the hunting blind I’ve read about, constructed of rock by indigenous peoples (Utes I believe) long, long ago. Although I have looked for many years, I have yet to see it. Perhaps someday. Perhaps not. Circling the southern limb of the Hunters loop, I pass a slight path unseen and undetected by anyone but me. I passed here four years ago on my birthday and my mobile phone rang. I had, uncharacteristically, forgotten to turn it off (although I always carry it with me). It was my Dad. He was ailing but, as usual, was calling to say Happy Birthday. This year he added that he had just that day checked into hospice and that this would be the last birthday call from him. I sat gently on a rock, looked out over a near timeless scene that the Utes looked at so long ago in their search for food. I spoke with the man who provided my food for so many years. He had given me more than I could ever give back to him. I told him this one time and his guidance was “do it for your son.” But on that rock, that day, I relished, savored, and celebrated every heart-wrenching moment of that call. I heard every inflection in his voice. I wrapped myself in the frequent and long pauses that were a centerpiece of his everyday speech. He said “Happy Birthday. I love you and am proud of you.” I told him I loved him. We hung up, never spoke again, and he died a few days later. March 28, 2017.

I stop by the spot where my Dad and I said our final farewell at least once a year. I sit on that same rock for a short time and replace a couple of the tears I left there on that last day. Tears that have since been carried away by the winds. They are tears of gratitude, of simple remembrance, of change, of love and respect. The pain has become smaller, the change becoming more familiar. And the deep sea of time from the Ute hunters of long ago, through to my Dad, to me, going on and on and on without any of us, colors the space where I keep Dad’s memory, and is humbling. 

A gentle, light, fatigue hints at my legs and my mind slips into step with the simply rhythm of my boots lightly crunching small bits of rock on the trail. Walking back to the car park there is commonly little thought. I acknowledge the shrubs, sitting in place day after day, year after year, sun, rain, and snow. Brush their outer branches with my fingertips and the palm of my hand. Howdy friends. Quiet inside and out. Along my path, I shined some light into dark corners inside my head. And like the kitchen of my low rent graduate school days, watch the mental cockroaches run for cover from the illumination. With enough walks perhaps I’ll run them all off for good. Not too sure about that. Eventually, the car park comes into view, the number of people increase, along with a few bits of litter and a dog turd or two. There is the clutter, confusion, and the stinking breath of the cars jostling for position. But it is all okay. I’m carrying calm secrets and a sense of the larger, Green World and its gentle, quiet persistence. I’ll be back soon, to walk, to reckon, and recollect.