Posts Tagged: ‘Colorado’

So, global warming has actually been good for the yellow-bellied marmot, and here’s why:

The marmot eats and eats before settling in for hibernation, only to be awakened early by warm weather, long before it’s burned off all those Clif bars.

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Last weekend, I strapped 30 to 40 pounds of camping gear to my back and hiked through Colorado’s wild-flowered Rocky Mountain National Park. I figured the pack would feel heavy, but I didn’t read How Altitude Sickness Works. So I was surprised at 11,000 feet when this happened: rapid heartbeat, shortness of breath, malaise, the chills, headache, loss of appetite, slight nausea, not being able to add and subtract quickly in my head, mean thoughts …

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In August, I’m going to ride a horse through this place. Red sandstone rock formations, reaching 300 feet for the azure sky. One-thousand-year-old twisted juniper trees. And — evidently — ants that gorge themselves on honey (says Frommer’s).

The Colorado park is 1,300 acres, saved for future generations by a man named Charles Elliot Perkins, president of the Burlington Railroad, who bought up the land in the late 1800s for a summer home and then just let it be.

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This may or may not be a good place to confess that a fear of heights has kept me from appreciating some amazing views. As I learned last year, though, sometimes all you need to overcome your fear is this: a bigger fear. In my case, that über-scary thing was an adorable, too-expensive handbag, and it sent me straight into Colorado’s Loveland Pass.

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When you drive a hatchet through the neck of a chicken, rendering it decapitated, it tends to thrash about here or there for a little while. Generally one won’t live eighteen more months, only to asphyxiate on some corn lodged in his exposed esophagus in a motel room in Arizona. Such is why the story of Mike the Headless Chicken is arguably the most recounted chicken decapitation story in America.

There’s really no wrong way to tell this story: Mike was an unnamed, anonymous 2.5-lb. bird living in Fruita, Colorado when he was chosen to die by farmer Lloyd Olsen who planned on eating him one evening in September 1948. After the hatchet was dropped and the rooster’s head severed from his body, Mike went through the usual indignant rigmarole of protesting such abuse, flopping about and flapping his wings and the like.

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