Creating Space at Mueller State Park
I just returned from a weekend backpacking trip to Mueller State Park near Divide, Colorado.
It was a gentle introduction to backpacking, if I’m being fair. Our campsite was only about a mile and a half from the parking lot, where there were bathrooms and easy access to the trailhead, so it felt a little closer to glamping than true wilderness. Still, once we hiked in and settled at camp, it felt wonderfully removed from everyday life.
Best of all, the campsite was completely empty. We had the whole place to ourselves.
It felt like one last taste of summer before the seasons begin to shift. The days were warm, the skies were clear, and the aspens were still green, not yet transformed into their bright autumn yellow.
I brought my sketchbook and a little blue padded stadium chair, which turned out to be one of the most useful things I packed. I could set it on the ground or on top of a picnic bench and settle in comfortably with my drawing supplies. I spent time sketching trees, rock formations, and whatever happened to catch my attention.
One of my favorite surprises was discovering a bird I had never seen before.
A pair of Canada Jays kept visiting our campsite, curious and bold, clearly hoping we might have something to share. By complete coincidence, the Canada Jay was also the featured bird that day in my Merlin Bird ID app. The description matched them almost perfectly.
We also spotted an Abert’s squirrel, which looked like something out of a fairy tale. With its long tufted ears and enormous bushy tail, it seemed like some strange combination of rabbit, cat, and squirrel.
There were ravens overhead, Dark eyed Juncos hopping through camp in the evening, and a Hairy Woodpecker tapping along the bark in search of insects.
No bears appeared, although we were very aware that we were in their territory.
The season had been unusually dry, and our expected water source had dried up completely. That meant hiking back toward the parking area to refill our water, a small inconvenience that became a good reminder of just how dependent we are on things we normally take for granted.
That is part of what I love about camping and backpacking. It reveals how much we overlook and take for granted, as well as how little you actually need to live well.
At the same time, it makes ordinary comforts feel luxurious again. Sleeping on the ground makes you appreciate your bed. Carrying water makes you appreciate turning on a faucet. Feeling tired and sore makes a hot shower seem almost miraculous.
There is something about voluntarily stepping away from convenience that resets your perspective. That is what I enjoy most about these trips. You enter nature’s territory instead of expecting the world to arrange itself around you.
You watch the birds forage in the evening. You notice where the light falls. You pay attention to the temperature dropping as the sun disappears. You become aware of the wind, the clouds, the stars, and the rhythm of sunrise and sunset. You remember that the world is much larger than your schedule. For me, that creates space for imagination.
New scenery gives my mind something fresh to work with, but more importantly, it reminds me that life is larger than work, bills, obligations, and whatever problem currently feels important. I still found myself thinking about everything I needed to do when I got back. Those responsibilities didn't suddenly disappear just because I was in the woods, but little by little, they began to recede into the background.
I like the feeling of being small in a landscape. It's humbling in the best way. It puts me back in my proper place, reminding me that I am part of creation, not the center of it, and that I don't have to carry the weight of everything.
When I am surrounded by mountains, trees, animals, stars, and all the quiet order of creation, I find myself wanting to know the Maker of these things more deeply. The beauty of the natural world awakens a desire to worship the One who made it.
There is something mysterious to me about realizing that the God who made the Canada Jay and the squirrel, the clouds and the moon, the cycle of rain and water and seasons, also loves us and desires to be known by us.
That thought changes the way I look, and perhaps that is part of why sketching feels so meaningful to me.
Drawing asks me to stop long enough to notice. To study the shape of a tree instead of merely calling it a tree. To look at the angle of a rock, the gesture of a bird, or the pattern of branches against the sky.
Sometimes I wonder if the things I draw somehow feel seen and noticed. Is there something in creation that longs to be regarded with that kind of attention, just as we do?
My sketches are small imitations of a creativity that already exists all around me. In that sense, drawing becomes its own kind of worship. It is one of the ways I make room in my heart for wonder, gratitude, and the things that draw me closer to God.
That is what this little backpacking trip gave me: a quiet campsite, my sketchbook, a few familiar creatures and a few surprising ones, a little discomfort, and enough distance from normal life to remember how much there is to wonder about.
