Bristlecone Pine

There are forest stands in the Wet Mountains of southern Colorado that are composed of nothing but Engelmann spruce. Nothing. For tens of acres, if not hundreds, one can wander through the woods and see nothing but spruce. These are remarkably uniform and homogeneous forests. At Rural Ways we've not really seen anything like it. In southern Utah, the predominant forest species of the high elevation plateaus over the past couple of hundred years has been Engelmann spruce, but it is intermixed with sub-alpine fir and aspen. Sub-alpine fir is not rare in southern Utah; in the Wets, it took me four days of looking to find three individual fir trees.

What a surprise then, to stumble on this stand of bristlecone pine. The stand initiated 80 to 100 years ago after a wildfire. While there is still a lot of spruce, the pine makes up more than half of the stems. It is on a steep, rocky, south and west facing slope at about 11,000 feet. The pines are germinating and regenerating . . . often the work of squirrels and birds that cache the seeds for food . . . but the stand is also infested with white pine blister rust. Over time, there is hope for the development of blister rust resistant pine genotypes, but in many cases there is no time. The pine forests of Colorado have been heavily infested with Mountain Pine Beetle (MPB) over the past five years, causing extensive mortality. For small, high-elevation, five-needle pine stands, like this one, the one-two punch of white pine blister rust and MPB can virtually eliminate them from the landscape. Then all we'll have is more spruce.

Westcliffe, CO

Rural Ways is working in the Wet Mountains of southern Colorado this week. The job involves wandering through mountain meadows and beautiful stands of high-elevation Engelmann spruce, . . . more or less. My bunk is in the small town of Westcliffe, and my sunset view is of the Sangre De Christos. It is just a little better than another week in the office.

Regional Wastewater Treatment Facility

When Cedar City built its new sewer ponds, it put them well out of town at the northern end of 2300 West. I drove out there this morning hoping that it would seem an unattractive location for recreating. And it was. I went out past the end of the pavement and parked in the weeds and the trash. There were views from Pine Valley to the Tushars, but no noise for a change. I sat for an hour, listening to the wind and the lark.

New Sewer Line

Since the day we moved into The Homestead, we have had trouble with the sewer backing up. We thought the problem was out by the street where our line connected to the city. It was clay pipe that had been installed in 1968, and we thought it was broken. Well, it turns out that the problem was much closer to home.

When you buy a house, especially one that has seen more than a hundred years of wear and tear, you ought to expect to do some maintenance. Well, evidently, some of the previous owners of The Homestead didn’t feel the need to do anything. So, they let a small forest of elm trees grow up in the foundation to the point where they were lifting the roof off the house. One of the first things we did when we moved in was to remove those trees. I then sprayed the stumps repeatedly with Round-up until there was no more green. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. The extensive root system was still alive and it had worked its way into some cracked cast iron pipe near the wall of the bathroom. What a mess.

We hired a backhoe, a plumber, and a laborer. They started from the floor underneath the potty and replaced everything—five different kinds of old pipe—from there to the street. The trench was six feet deep and a hundred feet long. We haven’t got the bill yet, but I suspect that it will approach mid-four figures. With that kind of looming deficit, we will probably be eating out of the town dumpsters for a couple of months, but at least we’ll be able to flush.

Triple Digits

Yesterday, the temperature at The Homestead reached one hundred degrees. Now, southern Utah is known for its clear skies and hot sun, but, at 6,000 feet above sea level, Parowan rarely sees triple digits. In fact, since we moved here two and a half years ago, I’m not sure I’ve seen it in the hundreds. The low-nineties are not uncommon, but 100 degrees?

My brother-in-law has a theory that a person can always cool down, but that it can sometimes be difficult, if not impossible, for a person to get warm. I hold the opposite theory: You can always warm up, but sometimes there is nothing you can do to cool down. Yesterday was a case in point.

Let’s say that you have four things—a t-shirt, a pair of jeans, a shovel, and an axe. Let’s say that you are at The Homestead’s woodpile. Let’s say that it is 40 degrees. What can you do? Well, you can use the axe to split some wood; that will warm you up. You can use the axe and the shovel to build a shelter; that will warm you up. You can burn the wood you just split inside the shelter; that will warm you up.

If, however, you have the same four things in the same location, and it is 100 degrees, what can you do? Well, you can take off the t-shirt. (This is a family-friendly blog, so you can’t take off the jeans. ) You can use the axe and the shovel to build a shelter from the sun, but you’ll still be sitting in 100 degree shade. And, of course, building the shelter might cause you to expire from heat exhaustion anyway. So, basically, you can do nothing . . . but suffer.

Any questions?

Brian Head Arts Fair

Valerie is showing at the Brian Head Arts Fair this weekend. When the weather is hot in southern Utah—as it is now—Brian Head is a popular place to be. At 10,000 feet, it is typically about 20 degrees cooler than Parowan. In fact, this year, with so much late season snow in the mountains, you can still find 10 foot drifts at Brian Head. In any case, if you are in southern Utah, stop by Valerie's booth to say "hey"—and bring your checkbook.