Purple pasque flowers poked through the soft ground and a bald eagle encircled this special mountain meadow. Tarryall Creek rolled gently between grassy banks and the sun massaged my shoulders.
The meadow has been a part of my life since I first ventured there to fish more than 20 years ago. I'm not going to divulge its location, but it's not hard to find with a map.
The meadow, stream and towering canyon walls nearby form a perfect Colorado location. It never fails to inspire me.
It is the first place Elise and I camped together before we were married. It holds great memories for us.
But when we visited there last week, I was angry. I could only wonder why somebody would leave a homemade toilet - a wooden frame and seat made to sit over a hole - toppled in the middle of the meadow.
Some handyman actually went through the trouble to build the contraption, cut the wood, assemble the pieces, load it in his vehicle, transport it over a four-wheel-drive road and then leave it behind as an unnatural piece of junk in a beautiful mountain setting.
What the heck?
Elise and I knew this special place had been trashed. It was her idea to go there on Mother's Day and pick up garbage.
Along with our daughter, Laurel, we managed to collect about 50 pounds of refuse.
We grabbed dozens of beer cans - Coors cans seemed to be the litter of choice. I picked up hundreds of glass shards - 20 pounds worth, I'll bet. We collected various chunks of plastic, a straw hat, hair ties, a tampon applicator and several diapers. We found and removed two grills and a couple of cardboard boxes.
Along the short four-wheel-drive road that leads to the meadow, visitors had thrown cans, pop bottles and other junk out of their vehicles.
One disappointing discovery was a paper Starbucks coffee cup that had been thoughtlessly jettisoned from somebody's vehicle. The question "why?" bounced around in my head. Why would somebody throw a paper cup out of their window, rather than keep it inside their car and discard it in a trash can when they returned to civilization?
Elise spotted another box about 70 yards off the road. As we walked to retrieve it, I noticed several 30.06 bullet casings in the grass.
The box was full of empty whisky bottles. There were others shattered in the area, shot dead by the marksman with the 30.06 I guessed.
Why?
Driving back to town with the homemade toilet, grills and cans rattling in the back of the truck, that question changed to "who?" and then "how?"
Who leaves garbage behind? Who can't accept the simple responsibility of cleaning up after themselves? Who can't understand the common sense - the common courtesy - of packing out what you pack in?
I don't know who. Do you?
And how do you talk to people who would leave their garbage tossed hither and yon on beautiful public lands?
I don't know how. Do you?
I'd like to hear your thoughts or solutions to the problem of back-country litter. As environmental problems go, this seems like one that can be solved.