I felt traumatized by yesterday’s activities.  It all began innocently enough:

My husband Frank and I started off on an afternoon walk through the snow-filled woodlands in our mountain valley just above Boulder with our dogs.  Just a few moments in, Linus stopped at my side, hair bristling on end.  Sheba sniffed the air, nose high.  Both of them know, moose will kill them in a hoofbeat.  What they don’t know is why.  (I can’t explain to them it’s because of a moose’s inability to distinguish them from a wild predator.)

Moose, I announced to Frank, blissfully unaware, grabbing his arm.

Where?

Through the pines, straight ahead, I motioned. I could see a tall, dark figure under the shadows.

I don’t see them, he whispered.

I saw her move a few steps. Then I saw the smaller ones at her side.

Oh, yes, now I see, he exclaimed, backing away. Linus – recalling viscerally what those weighty hooves felt like slamming down on his ribcage the early November day she trampled him – stopped by my side, whining, hair bristling on the back of his neck. There she was – and in reverse, off he went. Sheba beat him in a hasty retreat.

We made our way out of the woodlands into the clearing to the house, finishing our walk back to the trout pond. When we finally returned to our mile round trip valley stroll, the moose family was nowhere in sight.  Packing up my basket of things, I was eager to head off to my barn writing office for some much needed, long awaited writing time. It was Inauguration Day for President Tweety — and the level of chaos, fear, anger, hatred, confusion and desperation was palpable. I could taste the toxicity in our soon-to-be-disappearing-upon-confirmation-of-the-new-anti-EPA-director-air.

I opened the door, excited.  I stopped short when I saw the moose family just around the corner, steps from our house.  There was mama browsing happily with her two calves, nibbling on shrubs just under the pines.  Feet from the state highway.

Damn, I cried out to Frank now upstairs, she’s right up by the highway!

It was a weekday evening rush hour. People were returning down Boulder Canyon from their time on the flats – Denver, Boulder – thinking about a glass of Malbec by the fire or chowing down on a pizza in front of the television. From the opposite direction, skiers were sailing down from Eldora, blissfully unaware of the dangers that lie ahead.

I had to do something.  I felt desperate to save something in front of me, if only to counter my sense of powerlessness over other things completely out of my control.  We can all help something.  Sometimes, we have to look for it.  Others, it appears right in front of you.

I knew, too, that no motorist could see the family shadowed under the pines.

I ran out the door, up the embankment some seventy feet from our home. I could see mama making her way up the ridge, edging ever closer to the highway.  The calves stayed behind.

Feeling scared, anxious, concerned and sufficiently embarrassed, I didn’t know what to do:  So I started waving my arms at traffic to slow down.  Wildly gesticulating, I motioned to traffic speeding by, thanking slowing motorists for heeding my desperation and warnings.

What’s up? A young woman pulled over her Subaru, quizzically inquiring.

Moose – moose family ahead – on the roadside – I felt crazy for calling so much attention to it. Was I being overly dramatic or alarmist?

She nodded and drove off, and I repeated the warning a few other times to concerned motorists. People had run into at least three moose up here on Boulder Canyon and the Peak to Peak last year, all of whom died – the moose, that is.

Behind me, I could see mama and the calves, edging slowly up the mountain toward the state highway.

Yet they were still out of view.

Twenty or eighteen or thirty-nine minutes passed, I lost count.

Not everyone is paying attention these days to roadside activity. And certainly not the guy in the white pickup truck, ignoring my waving and gesticulating, who sped right past me, without benefit a brake light.

One hundred feet and three seconds later, mama stepped onto the asphalt. Right in front of his truck.

NO!!! She has calves!!! I screamed. As if any of that mattered to anyone in the moment. Her 1,000 pound wild chocolate brown body dashed across – all I could see were her legs and his brake lights – all I could hear were his screeching brakes.

She ran to the opposite side of the state highway. Traffic coming up from town slammed to a halt.

Then she crossed — right back — to the opposite side of the highway. Her calves had failed to join her and she, wildly protective and fiercely devoted, was not leaving them behind.

I walked back down the talus slope from the roadside into our valley. I watched as mama and her calves ran southward towards the creek. A bull emerged from the woodlands to join them. Together, they dashed across the creek, running back up the mountain ridge, on the other side.

I breathed a sigh and looked up in the sky, whispering a heartfelt thank you, for saving them in just that moment. We’re losing enough of what we love these days – peace of mind, beauty, harmony, a sense of safety in the world – the last thing I want to lose is the beautifully wild and dangerous moose family with whom we share our mountain valley.

We didn’t used to have moose in this area, until the reintroduction efforts back in the 70s, when 24 males and females were transplanted from Wyoming and Utah into the first reintroduction site in Routt National Forest near Colorado’s moose capital, Walden.  Now, we now enjoy a healthy moose population up here — Colorado has a reported population of at least 1,000  — and thanks to my friend at CDOT, we also have a bit more signage to warn motorists that they should be expecting them, if they will simply pay attention. Particularly in the winter, when vegetation is sparse and mama has calves in tow – they are more in our presence than not. It used to be I could ski up to Mt. Baldy and catch a glimpse of them high up towards the Divide, but these days, they are closer to town, browsing on vegetation and making sweet moose love…

As a seasoned mountain Realtor®, I appreciate coexistence.  It is with this in mind, I advocate for the animals in our midst.  They are the ones with whom we share our lives and enrich our spirits.  They are our neighbors, and we do best to inform ourselves of their seasonal movements and daily rituals.

The reasons are simple:  It’s their home, too.

I share the article below, as published in elephant journal, for your enjoyment…

It is six o’clock, this April morning, when I first awake. Fog has socked in the valley. Looking out the window from the warmth of the bed I share with my husband and Lab-Shar-pei, I notice a large and dark form outside. On any given day I have a clear view of the pine-forested southern ridgeline edging the valley.

Not today.

It takes me a few seconds. A bull elk stands statue-still, staring into the window. Next to him stand a dozen females–cows. Close by, a second young bull meanders, the lonely bachelor trolling for females at the ungulate cocktail party.

Munching freshly sprouted grass, they forage along the hillside. Elk are a peaceful presence. They move along in rhythm with their appetites. I watch the herd through the dampness of this particular springtime morning.

I love this time of year. The rain, snow and some combination in between–snain, I call it–falling upon the too-thirsty landscape. It has been a dry and windy winter. The softly falling rain is as comforting and long awaited as an old friend. The land soaks in the wet like a body takes in a slow, deep breath. A time out, a pause, from the dryness of any other day. The elk seem to sigh with mouthfuls of green, the chickadees greet the morning with their sweet mating call.

Living in the mountains means living close to Nature. Not everyone has the constitution for it. Eight thousand feet above sea level, springtime elk herds or fresh-from-a-winter’s nap-bears in the springtime cause some to tremble nervously. Some can’t breathe easily here. Others, pro-athletes—breathe even better. It’s all that extra hemoglobin.

Twenty-three years now, I’ve called this mountain valley home. Twenty-three winters, twenty-three springs. Twenty-three summers and twenty-three autumns.

I hail from Chicago, another notable windy place. A former Midwesterner ventured west in search of the sun. Chicago is on the same meridian as Colorado – it’s no wonder many of us wind up here. The year I moved I counted ninety-two days without sunshine. SAD—seasonal affect disorder—affects Chicago souls in the worst way; just ride the CTA downtown on any February morning, you’ll know what I mean.

People who move here from other places are often made to feel bad. Like we somehow shouldn’t be here. “Last settler’s syndrome”—close the door behind you before someone else gets in. It’s a real phenomenon in our nomadic country. We’re all moving about the planet; hardly anyone is living where they took their first breath.

Neither are the elk staying put in their landscape. They are moving from higher altitude to lower. Triggered by the oncoming snowstorm this week, they are awareness on the hoof.

We too, are a migratory species. Often, on the move.

People are also made to feel vilified for their part in Nature. Separate from, as if we don’t belong.

And yet, we do. Woman/man have been here for millions of years. Australopithecus-afarensis, Homo habilis, Homo sapiens. We’re made our way alongside the elk to the culture we have today. Up here, you can feel the connection.  You can also feel the effects of planetary change of seasonal weather patterns.

Climate change is driving people to seek refuge in places heretofore unpopular.  Higher altitudes, to escape intense summer heat.  It also makes living at attitude more possible — winters are gentler, temperatures more mild.  Colorado’s strong economy also provides opportunities for people they may lack in their home states, attracting them in record numbers.

Climate change is also changing the way wildlife behaves.  The appearance of hummingbirds once marked the onset of Summer — Memorial Day and the end of it — Labor Day.  These days, our first hummers show up on the feeders late April, the last one hanging out until late September.  It means they often have to endure late Spring snowstorms or early fall dumps.   I want to put little parkas on them, bring them inside to warm.  But all I can do is fill the feeders, and pray for their existence.

Last summer, my husband and me removed the old barbed wire fencing encompassing our pasture. After our 18-year old longhorn heifer passed peacefully (she often observed the elk migrations from the comfort of her barn stall), there was no more need for any fencing. A vestige of the previous landowner, we took down the square mile and rolled it up, tossed it into the back of the pickup truck, hauled it for recycling at the local dump. We wanted the wildlife to feel they could pass through the land freely. The danger of barbed wire is the threat it poses to wild animals. Pronghorn, deer, elk, moose—all jumping to clear several feet—often getting caught up in it. Sometimes, they catch a hoof, maybe even become ensnared. It’s a hazard they don’t need in a world already challenging them to live well.

Today, this foggy April morning, they move about freely. All fourteen elk. We are on nine and half acres close to a state highway. We are part of the elk migration corridor—a few miles above and a few below. The obstacle of fencing has been removed, but there is one obstacle over which I have no control.

I can’t help this particular one. The elk herd will need to cross the highway. They need to keep moving through their habitat, down to lower elevations. I worry for them.

I crawl out of bed, following them from room to room on the inside of our small log home. They continue to forage outside. I stop in the northern portion of our home, a view out the kitchen window looking onto the mountainside. I watch them roam northward in search of more green shoots edging the land. Right next to the highway.

I feel blessed and excited they have come—we only get to see them like this once or twice a season.

Another feeling sets in—fear. Fear for their safety, fear for how quickly they can perish. Fear for the timing of any bad decision any one of them could make. Fear that their seasonal migration could be cut short.

I watch as the lead bull stops grazing suddenly. The herd raises their head, mouths full of green shoots. He exalts his nose in the air, tilting his ears forward. He is listening for something.

Traffic.

The others freeze in observance. Holding reverence for the authority of his lead, they stand motionless. A car passes just then, the driver unaware of the dozen or so six-hundred pound bodies just feet from him. It is still foggy and soft rain continues to fall. And yet, expanding his peripheral vision to glimpse a herd of elk would prove helpful, if not lifesaving.

The lead male sets his left front hoof on the pavement. He jumps back with a start. I gasp as I continue to watch out the kitchen window. A second car shoots by, another sleepy driver at the wheel. It is still early—only 6:45am—commuting time, just beginning.

The driver is on his daily commute. The elk are on theirs.

The second car passes; the lead bull now takes a chance. A dozen cows and other bull follow. I breathe in a sigh of relief until a see a problem: There is one cow left behind. I watch the herd as they run like frightened schoolgirls across the highway.

I watch the lone cow left behind, spinning around in excitement. Her nostrils are flaring—she is anxious, wanting to follow. She is uncertain—and now, she is in danger. A trailing lone elk is vulnerable to traffic. Motorists can’t escape the sight of an entire herd—they can, however, miss just the one.

I want to help so badly. I cry in frustration. I can no more dash out our front door, flagging down traffic, than I risk scaring her right out onto the highway. Besides which, I never bothered to change out of my bedclothes, I was so captivated by the elk this morning.

Holding my breath, I wait. She turns and spins in front of me. The herd continues up the grassy draw on the steep mountainside the other side of the highway.

She leaps just then. Darting after the last wave of cars has gone; she saw her chance and took it. Animals risk their lives every day just to move through territories, get a drink of water and find a mate.

The suchness of mountain living is living with wildlife in mind. I’m attuned to the seasonal migrations of elk or the daily movement of the fox because I pay attention. It’s so easy to do. I accept I’m part of Nature. I learn so much more for giving pause and observing, my life feels different from the mainstream, a choice I made deliberately when I drove out of that Windy City twenty-three years ago. I feel enriched the elk have passed through our land this morning, waking up to a wet dark elk nose, just outside our bedroom window. Nature informs a mountain lifestyle.

My real estate practice supports Wildsight, a wildlife advocacy effort.

Why do you go into the wilderness?

If you’re like me, you go there for peace of mind. Nature. Balance, in our too-too-busy world. Health – physical, psychological, emotional, spiritual. It all dissipates each footstep we take on the Devils Thumb Trail. We’re looking for the chance to glimpse something wild — a moose or a coyote or a fox — hear the calls of the Stellar Jays and Chickadees in the Ponderosa Pines…

How do you feel, when you catch a glimpse of brown fur dashing away deeper into the forest, out of the corner of your eye?

Maybe you feel a little more connected to the deer or the moose. You wandered into their habitat. Their safe place.

But, here’s the thing…

The moose or the elk or the White-Tailed Deer’s habitats don’t end at the boundaries of the Indian Peaks. They missed the class, informing them of where and where not to place their hooves. And in our increasingly paved-over existence built around Bugs’ Bunny’s rabbit hole, we are likely to see them crossing in between their now-fragmented habitats.

“Roadkill” has replaced hunting as the leading cause of death of vertebrates in our country.

What does any of this have to do with anything?

We’re all sharing space together. Our driven – pun intended – movements in our SUVs gives us an unfair advantage over them.

Awareness of their presence, is where we start. Simple. We share the landscape with the animals. They, too, are trying to move about.

We can expect to see the White Tailed Deer crossing Boulder Canyon around Rogers Park Open Space, or ambling across at the bottom of it just outside the City of Boulder limits at dusk.

Driving within speed limits gives them a chance.  Wildlife travels at a slower pace than our vehicles. 

Consider this:  For every ten miles per hour you travel, you’re covering nearly 15 feet per second.  At 30mph, that’s 45 feet per second; at 60 mph, it’s 90 feet per second.  If a person needs JUST ONE SECOND to see something — that fox — and then reacts by hitting the brake or steering, — they gain an extra 15 feet of reaction distance for every 10mph you don’t go…

Fifteen feet can make the difference between saving the fox, and not.

Noticing the marmot living in the rocks just below Boulder Canyon would have afforded her life. I know this one well, I was the crazy woman gesticulating on her Triumph late last summer to scare her back off the roadside and into the rocks.

Just knowing the red fox is making her way out of her former habitat once previously enjoyed along the newly reconstructed Boulder-Denver Turnpike into safer lands — she got the eviction notice – and watching for the pair of bouncing blue eyes in your peripheral vision, can be all it takes to avoid striking her down mid-effort. (Me, personally, I lean over and honk as I utter an apology to my husband at the wheel.) Whatever safe effort it takes to deter and save her life.

These are the daily happenings of wildlife living in our midst, and we can make a difference, whether the doe returns home safely at night to nurse her newborn fawn, just by paying more attention, or her fawn starves because we forgot she is out in early Spring above Boulder Falls. Wildlife is there for the looking, all the time.

Notice me, we all want to be seen…So does wildlife!