Things shifted overnight from, “We got this,” to “Holy crap, are we gonna get this?”

We leave in one week.

So far, the stress hasn’t come from thinking about building a cabin from the ground up in one season (we’ll see how far we get), at an elevation of 10,000 feet, while tending to horses, chickens, dog, and garden (yes, I am bringing a “portable garden”) all the while spending the summer together in a 14 foot camper circa 1964 without running water or electricity but with an outhouse nearby, a bucket to bathe in, and as usual, no where near neighbors, pavement or cell phone service. That said, we are setting up a simple solar system just large enough to charge cordless tools and operate starlink from time to time. Our compromise at modern living.

What has been harder is preparing to leave this place behind.

That’s where our attentions and efforts have been. Mowing, weedwacking, weeding, watering, organizing, tidying, trying to get this place in a space that will safely hold its center in our absence. And still finding time to be with beloved friends and neighbors, the river, the wind, the air and essence and little bit of tended wild that is this wonderful place.

And of course… there is this. The garden. My baby.

For anyone who has ever tended to the land with nearly as much love as we gave to our children, you know what it’s like.

Seems like this baby is always the biggest user of my time. Sucks time away and I don’t even notice it’s disappeared until I wonder where the day has gone and why I am so hungry. But you know, they say it’s those kinds of things, those things that you totally lose yourself in, and lose track of time, that show you where your true passion lies. Gardening is one. Most anything outdoors, I guess. Working the horses, riding, hiking, and writing inspired by the wild…

It wasn’t always that way, and maybe that’s part of what makes it so endearing to me.

Here are a few “before” pictures Bob pulled up of this land, to share the perspective of space where the garden now grows.

This was a baby born in a painful birth of being scraped with a skid steer to clear the open slate.

That was nearly six years ago. Almost six years of watching her grow, spread her wings, and fly, deeply grounded. Six years of hauling a shit load of top soil from the other side of our land, mail ordered earthworms, innumerable bags of steer manure and organic amendments to get her growing, and shoveling manure every single day I was here. Keeping the poop in the loop, and the loop ever growing.

And now, see what a few years can do?

To her, I have given blood, sweat and tears. Lots of tears. I cried a lot when we first broke ground. “It will never work, it will never grow, it will never be beautiful,” I would cry to Bob quite regularly. As usual, he’d just patiently listen and watch as I got back to work. I am glad to say I was wrong.

She has provided for us in kind year round. For a couple with a primarily vegetable based diet, that’s something to be proud of. Yes, it means we eat simply and yes, it gets boring at times. Believe me, by March we’re usually pretty sick of old winter squash and bitter kale while we’re waiting for the new crops to outgrow the slugs after winter’s heavy rains.

I’m sitting there now, flip flops kicked off and toes thick in grass, listening to swallows chatter about their nesting box while swallowtail butterflies and hummingbirds dance around the profusion of brilliant colors just beginning to emerge for the season. And all the while this intoxicating fragrance of rose, oh! all these roses! gracefully bowing as they bend in abundance, most of which were started by sticks I stuck in the ground and trusted they would grow. They did. While meanwhile and always, this space is serenaded by the ever present hum of the river that wraps around this land.

Of all the work we did here, clearing, cleaning, caring, opening dry and dead and overgrown, trash strewn and fire damaged that was this land when we first arrived, the garden has grown to the crown jewel of the land.

Beside the roses, what I’m most enamored by is all the fruit trees we’ve gifted to the land: apples and pears, plum and persimmons, walnut and almond and fig. And most endearing to me are the peach trees started from seed. You see, four years ago, the Old Man gave me five pits. He had saved them ten years and handed them over with reverence. Told me they were the best peaches he ever had, so he planned on planting them some day. I gave it a try. Put those pits in a pot with some soil and set them out in the garden all winter and lo and behold, by spring, shoots shot up and last year, I picked the first peaches. A humble start, but worth it indeed. This year, those trees, though still somewhat small, are laden with fruit and bending to the weight of their juicy promise… which (don’t remind me, please!) I will not be here to enjoy. Funny things is, one of those peach trees looked a little different. Turns out it’s a nectarine. I love these little surprises in life.

One final breath out here in this little bit of paradise, then time to get back to work, loading the last of the lumber into the horse trailer that will carry a lot more than horses on this trip across the West.

A deep breath. With our departure just a week away, yes, it gets scary at times.

Scared? Yes. Change is always scary, isn’t it? Change of pace, change of place.

Change of heart?

Hopefully only a heart growing, expanding, unfurling like the roses surrounding me.

Mine is not a fearless heart.

I would rather it be a courageous heart.

For I would rather a heart that loves and cares and longs deeply enough that it knows what fear feels like, and chooses to love and care and long above that fear. I would rather a heart courageous enough to step forth into fear, like stepping into the stirrup and settling onto the back of a bronc.

So here we go. Again.

Stepping.

Hold onto your hat and enjoy the ride!

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin