Highway 133 rocks. Specifically, the bucolic stretch between the fish hatchery and the KOA. Thanks to ranching and open space, we have a “national park” right here. The diversity of wildlife in this four-mile stretch is more than I’ve seen anywhere else in the state — and that’s with half a lifetime in the backcountry. Is it because I’m paying more attention as I get older, or is this stretch as wild as it seems?
Last fall, my 12-year-old and I biked to school with her bestie. In the three hours I took cycling back, I…
- collected monarch caterpillars from whorled milkweed (we hatched and released ‘em!)
- contemplated the “whys” of a multitude of darling but dead yellow butterflies on blue grama grass (Googled it; no luck)
- glassed three sandhill cranes on Tom Bailey’s east pasture
- discovered a dead skunk outside its burrow and an adjacent colony of wildflowers I had never seen before (collected seed and ID’d them; growing this spring!)
- Harvested feral apples from the roadside (baked a galette for our landlord)
- and collected seed from a spectacular, random pink penstemon I’d never seen before.
All of this on a single bike ride on a highway trail. It blew my mind.
Months later, a winter sunrise lit up silvery-taupe coyotes traversing silver and gold snow fields; this time in Bailey’s west pasture. Seeing them so closely electrified me. Their coats were thick, tails lustrous and full. Who doesn’t dream of a close encounter with wildlife?
I got to watch another coyote hunting on Bill Fales’ and Marj Perry’s ranch for about 45 minutes a few weeks later. She was an impressive hunter — her ears flicked and rotated to sounds under the snow and she’d drop into stealth mode, stalking into a polar bear pounce. Coming up with a rodent in her jaws, she’d toss her head, swallowing it whole, seven or eight in a row.
Watching her, I also glassed incoming snow geese (first sighting ever for me), a string of Canada geese and a rafter of turkeys, all drawn to the cattle and hay. The coyote poked and sniffed her way through all of them. I’ve seen coyotes get turkeys before, so I admit I was riveted — half cringing, half hopeful. It’s all a part of it. The more I see, the more alive and mammal I feel, even through the death parts.
Neither the birds nor the cattle were fazed. The coyote was intent on rodents. They were all so agreeable and peaceful. I was grateful to be there with them. They don’t care if the DOW is up or down. Mass shootings and extreme weather don’t rattle them.
In March, heading to City Market, a neighbor rolled his window down, coming up our roadway. We pulled alongside and he exclaimed over a bobcat he had seen.
Hunter to hunter, he assumed I knew and of course, I did; we’re obsessed. Not with killing, but with seeing. Heart now racing, I was hopeful — and lucky.
I glassed what to me is a mythical creature; so stoked to finally experience one. It was riveting, watching a wild cat exhibit body language so similar to the antics of Youtube and TikTok cats! She wasn’t the most successful hunter, though, especially compared to the coyote.
Longer spring days have Merriam’s turkeys priming for the mating season. Check them out from Sustainable Settings to Cold Mountain Ranch. Morning is ideal, as the low, rising light illuminates their tail fan like a halo, visible across hundreds of yards. There’s a sacred feel to their displays; three or four in action strike a primal chord. Slowing for one right by the road, we had just enough time to glimpse his head — an electrifying, tumescent blue and red. Otherworldly.
The birds throughout this ribbon of highway and water are spectacular.
Great blue herons have started a new rookery on the Crystal. First it was one, then two, now four — especially exciting after the huge Roaring Fork rookery blew down a year or two ago.
An oddball snow goose is hanging out with Canada geese on Bailey’s east pasture.
Both ospreys are back at Nuche Park. I always worry one won’t make it! South American fish hatcheries shoot them.
The bald eagles fly a pathway up and down the river and along the base of Cold Mountain. The juveniles are maturing and hunting from the cottonwoods.
I was startled today by the rare, colorful sight of an American kestrel on a fence line, the most diminutive falcon of all, and I watched a ginormous redtail swoop down on something much larger than a mouse this morning, mere yards from me. That’s some metal nature!
Highway 133 — always a wild ride.
