Ink Tarsia: word mosaic

Last year, in early June, we visited Pearl Lake near Steamboat Springs.  We stayed in a cabin on a small ranch, where the boys could feed ravenous baby lambs with bottles, or watch a bedraggled, grumpy peacock strut in his stall near the horse paddock.

 A storm moved in the afternoon we arrived, bringing microburst winds through the canyon, toppling old growth Ponderosa pines (just missing the cabin roof), and dumping nearly a foot of wet, fluffy snow.  I sat by the crackling fireplace, reading scrapbooks about the ranch and local history.  One told the story of Minnie Pearl Hartt, PEO member and “prizewinning fisherwoman,” who donated part of the family’s sheep-ranching spread to the Colorado State Park system, including the lake that had been named after her.  A smaller pond had been reserved for Minnie to fish, nicknamed “Mini Pearl Lake”. 

The next morning, the snow had stopped, and we drove to Pearl Lake.  Heavy snow dragged the tops of laden aspen trees to the ground, and coated pines with globes of white.  We were alone in the park as we walked the path to the lake, through a tunnel formed by bent aspens, like walking through an arch of swords at a royal wedding.   

The forest was still, except for chunks of soft snow plopping through branches.  Quick-melting snow dropped from treetops, and limbs would shift upwards with a crack as they were liberated from the weight.  The rapid melt sounded like artillery.  We grabbed trunks of bowed aspens lining the path, and shook off some snow, just to hear the swish of leafy branches snapping back to full height.       

Fog and cloud had settled low, obscuring the mountains ringing the lake.   But when we returned the next morning–snow melted, weather warm enough for shirtsleeves, forest floor nearly dry–all the trees stood tall and green.  Skies clear, sun shining, we saw Pearl’s legacy.