So it’s spring.

March 24, 2014 / Gin Getz / 8 Comments

On the first day of Spring, Forrest atop the mountain behind our ranch, looking down our valley and beyond.

So it’s spring. Yes, here too. In spite of the single digit mornings and a pasture of unbroken white.

I remember what the season should bring, could bring. Rich soil turned up in garden beds, fresh linens from the line on our bed. Sweet sap running in the trees. Foals romping outside my window. I don’t have that here and now. None of it. Only memories. So strong I can smell the earth and the sweet sap and the new born baby’s breath.

It’s different here. Still spring, the emerging of warm earth from her frozen slumber, but here and now with a new set of definitions. Like the sighting of the rufous sided towhee scratching at the seeds I toss out beneath our picnic table, and awaiting the song of the frogs. Thinning snow that turns to slush in the afternoons and light so intense on the spring glazed surface even cloudy days seem blinding.

We learn to adjust. Human beings are remarkably adaptable, no matter how stubborn we may seem. No place is perfect. Thing about this place, with all the trials and tribulations to get here and stay here: it’s ours. That means something to me. More so with each passing year, growing connection, memories embedded in the soil. A glance around and I can point to what fence we built, cabin remodeled, road or trail constructed, which mountain I climbed with which dog in what sort of weather. A board on the old bedroom door frame records Forrest’s growth in faded pencil marks, and generations of horses – mother, daughter, grandmother – await me at feeding time.

Out on a snowshoe alone with the dog. Gratitude. It’s easy to find it here. Ten things a day, a friend and I prompt each other when we find ourselves forgetting. Yes, I do forget. The space, the light, the beauty, thin air, a mountain that looks as fancy as a wedding cake, solitude, silence but for spring winds and the opening river and birds. Yes, spring brings such song in the early mornings before the wind picks up and late in the afternoon as the shadows are tossed long and indigo upon sugary snow.

Living. Dying. This season. Every season.

I remember the dread that came with the risk of the open road bringing conflict and chaos along with cars. Now I await the open road as the open pasture when we can begin building our place on our land that we have fought for and won.

Bob takes the Cat down there in the afternoon slush and cuts through the open white. The first step towards breaking ground. Frost just below surface. We are early still.

And I remember the fear that hung heavy in the spring storms back then with each birth. I would rather not remember. I turn my attention to the mob of chicks scampering about in the giant dog crate between the planters of newly spread lettuce seed and the grass for the cats and dog. Their happy chirps blending with the melody from the various birds feeding at the picnic table right outside the window.

And now I know

the loss of none

As if I could remember

a babe crying to be nursed

And the sound of children’s laughter

The gentle nicker of the mare to foal

The song of two blue birds

on the top of a spruce tree still green

Where they first arrive here

every year.

The sap won’t run this year.

At times emptiness is a relief.

Now I know what is beneath the slipping bark.

I take out the draw knife for the first time this season. Peeling a small log needed for a remodel project on a neighbor’s bathroom. With every pull of the knife, tiny white life revealed. Ten, twenty, maybe more. Slicing through life. Larva.

I know it’s crazy but still I feel sadness. I am taking life. Can I look at them as the enemy? Who is to blame? I daresay, not the beetles.

Will every log I peel for our house reveal the same?

I need a shower. Rid myself of their remains which has stuck onto my skin, in my hair, my jeans after working out in the wind.

Author’s Update.

With regards to The Color of the Wild, much thanks to all of you readers who posted reviews – what a wonderful help you have been – and for those writers who took the time to share reviews and interviews on their web sites and blogs, especially:

Amy of SoulDipper

Carrie of The Shady Tree

Ray from New Book Journal

Kat from Indies Unlimited

More big news this week is that I just got the word that a select number of Barnes and Nobles bookstores will be stocking The Color of the Wild on their shelves. Please take a look at your local store and let me know if you see it there!

As for what’s next… Patience (I tell myself). It’s in the works. Two so close to completion, but we’re not there yet. And I’m not ready to be there. No, it’s not fear. Crazy? Maybe.

This is where my attention should be – getting the next one finished up and ready to go – and yet I find myself shunning the process, intentionally. I’m not ready. Isn’t that strange? It is not lack of words, as you, dear reader, can see. It is something else. I need more time. I need to find a balance between pushing myself, and holding back. With distance comes understanding. It’s not reading the same thing over and over. It allows me to see it all anew. To pick up the manuscript with a fresh perspective and a bright, eager mind. Editing need not be a chore. It can be a pleasure – if you love what you wrote. And if you don’t , here’s your chance to fix it, and fall in love all over again.

I don’t know how it is for other writers, but for me, I am learning it has to do with trust in timing. Trust and timing. And knowing when to take a break. To step back before diving in head first… Then take a deep breath and go for it!

For now, I let it go. Brew like the beer. Though I’m starting to get thirsty.

Waiting for words to ripen.

It won’t be long before I open the pages up again, and maybe turn them into fine wine.

Stirring frozen waters.

March 21, 2014 / Gin Getz / 12 Comments

Stirring frozen waters.

This is dedicated to the angry old man who was so afraid of noise all he could hear was his own shouting for silence. And for the folks so busy tooting their own horn they miss the symphony behind them.

I wrote this article a couple months ago for a magazine I thought would be brave enough to publish it. They were not. Am I? Silly question.

This piece may break some peace, stir some waters, ruffle feathers, raise fur and churn up mud so comfortably settled at the bottom of the still forest pool. My sincere apologies if I offend any individual and I hope to hear your response and opinion if so. You matter to me. My intention is to share my view, and in doing so, open eyes. Maybe even open a few hearts, minds and souls along the way, but that is asking a lot of a little article. It’s long. Take your time. I hope you will enjoy.

So the other day…

We’re at the Rio Grande Reservoir Dam. The westernmost edge of the nearly 110,000 acre West Fork Complex fire that burned deep into the Weminuche Wilderness last summer. It stopped here in part because of the powerful prompts of the powers that be. The District that owns and operates this dam, and depending on how you look at it, owns a lot of the mighty Rio Grande. When the fires erupted in June, the crews were here working on the hundred year restoration of the dam. Water is powerful. Here in Colorado, powerful enough to hasten firefighting efforts, mechanized and otherwise, into the Wilderness and keep the fire from damaging more of the fragile water shed or dam restoration efforts.

In the snow, the charred trees to the south and east look like the pencil hatch marks of a black and white drawing. The hills are somewhat sensual in their stark exposure, now revealing the undulations, curves and crevasses. It’s beautiful in a different sort of way.

I forget about the burn some times. Out of sight, out of mind. Finally. The scars on the land will last a lot longer than ones within me. Left quite an impression on us in early summer as our family remained on the otherwise evacuated mountain while the hills below us burned. And then later after the rains began we’d stare at the gathering thunderheads and wonder. I remember friends in San Fran after the big shake up of ‘89 that would wake in a sweat when they felt a rattle for a long time afterwards.

An hour ago, my husband, Bob, rode his snowmobile here to meet his cousin, Ty, who is coming up from the farm on the valley below to play in the mountains for a couple days. He’s also delivering the Cat tracked skid steer. Bob’s new toy. Yes, you could say, Bob’s Cat. And our big splurge. The secret weapon for building our new log cabin. We’re cutting down all the beetle kill, which I guess means all the trees, on our land along the Rio now while the river is frozen, dragging the timber back across, and stockpiling, all in preparation for building our new little family home this coming summer on the bare bluff above the Rio.

That’s why I’m here now. I need to ride that snowmobile back with Gunnar on my lap, the almost eighty pounds of semi-feral- almost-four-going-on-like-six-months-old German Shepherd dog, while my husband slowly follows in that Cat. Otherwise, I’d manage pretty well to stay away from even this white ribbon that hints of leading to civilization. It’s not that I’m anti-social; it’s just that I like to be alone.

On the way here, Gunnar and I alternate between running and walking along the six and half miles of packed snowmobile track from our home to this spot. Just past Halfway Hill, there’s a dead moose spread across what would in summer be a road. The head, spine, and a few legs are still intact. It’s like a speed bump in the snow. I can see from the tracks that Bob drove the snowmobile right over it. I lift it up and drag it to the side of the road. Gunnar sniffs. He does not care for rancid meat. Not much remains. The spine is already speckled with bird droppings.

Just past the pile of bones, I feel it before I hear it, and hear it before I see it. I’m like Radar. By the time the helicopter comes round the mountain, I’m standing there pointing my big old SLR camera with telephoto lens (no, I do not own a smart phone with built in camera, or any phone for that matter, there’s no cell service around these parts anyway; and yes, I do run with this big beast of a camera around my neck). I recognize the yellow. Same one that came up two weeks ago in a storm looking for the Big Horn but I think when he got this far, they were happy to leave. The pilot flew directly over our house and all he got to see was my horses huddled against the fence and maybe some crazy woman running around in the snow. Wild life indeed.

There’s not a lot of noise around these parts in winter. You learn to recognize motors. We’re at the kitchen table at breakfast and walk outside if we hear an airplane. Funny thing, funny for lack of a better word, is my horses get buzzed a few times every winter. They no longer flinch when the copter flies over head. Let alone run like we watch the moose do from the kitchen window, out there across the deep white pasture trying to seek shelter in the trees. I don’t know if the needle-less timber provides much shelter anymore.

Now, the pilot sees me and does a quick 90-degree maneuver, high tails it over Finger Mesa and out of site. I wonder what he thinks when he sees some woman way out here ready for him before he knows I’m there, with a camera pointed at him? Better that than a shot gun. I’m guessing he’s heard of me. Not a lot of other half-feral women live out here.

I continue on, Gunnar blazing the way, following Bob’s track to the dam. This is where the plowed dirt road that eventually leads to a plowed paved road that after a while leads to a little town ends. And this is where the snowmobile track that leads to our cabin and then into the great white yonder up to the Continental Divide that may seem like the end of the world to some and the big back yard to us begins.

There are people around in summer. An abundance of Texas tourists, ATV riders, fishermen fixed up in Cabela’s finest, hunters in camo and blaze orange with big diesel trucks that they drive even to their office in some flat land town but here actually might get dirty and kick into four wheel. Maybe.

I live for winter. That’s our time. Me, my husband, our four legged and feathered friends. Our son, when he’s not off to university or like this winter, working at the South Pole. (You might say growing up here was in preparation for such a position.) No one has lived here before us, and probably, no one would live here after we move, if we ever do. High and harsh as this mountain is, I’m in no rush to leave. And it’s not summer now. Those tourists are a long ways away right about now.

Only, here they come. One, two, three, four, five, six… a parade of big diesel trucks moving up the mountain and pulling into the little snow packed parking area at the dam. Safety in numbers. Only that’s not why I live here. The wildlife would probably say the same if they could speak, or if we would learn to listen.

It’s not tourists. Not really. It’s the Colorado Division of Wildlife. I wonder what they’re here to chase down, shoot, tranquilize or trap today.

The herd of trucks drive up and stop dead in their tracks. They’ve arrived at what they may think is the end of the world, but for us is just the beginning. I can be sure my presence is not a welcome sight. My support, or lack thereof, is not unknown. It’s kind of fun being a little woman intimidating a bunch of big men.

Turns out to be the moose’s unlucky day. We cringe to hear this. Last time they went for the moose, four were killed in one day. The tranquilizer didn’t work very well. Oops.

One more cow moose was left for dead a mile below our ranch. We watched over a span of several days in sub zero weather as she lay there still in the open snow, and then she was gone. She was one of the lucky ones.

Before that, there was the lynx project which I understand they finally tiptoed away from with their tail between their legs. It’s 1998. Global Warming is getting hot in the headlines. But hey, let’s see what happens if we trap some lynx from up in Canada and bring them over 1500 miles down to the Southern San Juans! There might be a few that remain. Most starved to death, or high tailed it back north where they belong. I hear a few got hit crossing a highway on their way. Several years before they scrapped their attempts, I read the program was called a success based on numbers. That year, they counted more kittens born in the litters than they recorded deaths. I always wondered: how many dead did they count?

Today, they’re here to collar the moose, they say.

Right. So, I’m thinking, the plan is this: they’ll chase down the already taxed moose from the air, sharp shoot and tranquilize it, hope the tranquilizer works this time, strap on a collar, and hope the animal makes it so they can go back to town and watch the wilds from the comfort and convenience of their computer on their desk in their office.

Today, I keep my mouth shut and fire up the snowmobile instead, call the dog who jumps on board and off we go, back up the mountain to the safe haven of our home, wait for my husband to slowly follow in the Cat, and then sit back and watch the helicopter fly back and forth for the rest of the afternoon, right over our house or across our pasture. I know my horses won’t be any more bothered than me. But I worry about the moose. I hope they get the tranquilizer right this time.

Revealing.

March 19, 2014 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Another big moon comes

and goes as

the season of life

and death that is

spring unfolds

somewhere, maybe

here, maybe

tomorrow today

as the cat lays in

the grass planted

last fall inside

the kitchen window

and waits.

And I wait impatiently for the horses to begin shedding their shaggy coats just so I can have reason to spend more time with them as they bustle about on dry dirt and vie for the attention of my curry comb and close breath.

A mourning dove shows up early, lured by warmer air only to find no more than small patches of open ground, not ideal for a ground feeder, and the seeds I throw out daily are of no interest.

Down at one of the few open places where the Rio Grande runs clear and black like licorice beneath her otherwise still white ribbon, a pair of Mallards swims from one end of the open place to another and fly off as the dog and I cross river, me on snow shoes, he on broad feet with long fur between his pads that have only rarely touched bare earth in so many months.

Spring approaches the high country like a chrysalis revealing.

After weeks of crunching more numbers that I have since… ever… and straining my eyes where by my reading glasses no longer seem strong enough, I’m done playing architect, done with our house plans. We await the opening of white pasture and the cutting into ground, and in how long, too long, not soon enough, we will be in there living, breathing, walking around,, parking muddy boots by the door, sitting at the kitchen table with burning candles and full plates, watering house plants, baking bread, making love, kicking back in my claw foot tub and writing while the sun comes up in my nook.

So much for the simplicity of a little log cabin. These drawings, ten pages from the bottom of the concrete footer to the top of my writing nook, seem so complex. Does it help or hinder to have plans drawn up by those who have built, not just those who have planned it on paper? I do not know, but I’m ready to put down my pencil and pick up my draw knife. I’m ready to build, to break ground and pour cement and peel and stack logs and with tired muscles and sore hands sit back at the Little Cabin and watch the new one come to life.

In darkness.

March 11, 2014 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Rotten snow and dirt on the road below the ranch. The forecast says it’s far from over. The white expanse of pasture before me confirms. Looks like winter, feels like spring. Chicks in a box by the wood stove in our cabin making spring sounds, and the first robin on the open hill above the Rio.

Single digits when I wake and watch the passing of a magenta sky. A pink face on an otherwise white mountain peak outside my cabin window. Chances are it will be fifty degrees warmer by mid afternoon.

The boys are still sleeping – so much for new time. Give them another day or two to adjust. Can’t get much done in the dark anyway. Time carries little meaning here.

With fat parka and heavy boots I head out to feed the horses. They count on my coming to feed by light in the sky. I see them lined up along the fence, ready. Calmer now in the end of winter warming air. They lie in the deep wet snow mid day and sleep with the soothing of the sun. They are ready for solid ground and shedding. They’re ready for attention and a good trim. They’re ready to work, as I am ready to ride, and still we both must wait.

I remember the frogs in March under the willow tree on Barn Hill where it only barely froze and very rarely could Forrest sled down fresh snow in the early mornings before the NorCal mildness would melt it off by noon. I could hear them at night when I stepped out to smoke. Living now at ten thousand feet (and I’d like to say wisdom comes with age, but there are enough young readers out there who will be quick to tell me otherwise) I haven’t smoked in years. (Yes, that’s a good sign when you no longer know how many years without thinking long and hard.) Now I make an effort to go out with the dog every night, crunch over the snow up the little hill behind the cabin and stand at the edge of the trees while the dog waits for me, watches over while I do what appears to be nothing at all. I look up at the stars and listen. So deep, still and silent here.

A land as infinite as the stars, it seems at night.

In darkness.

And as quickly as

it came

it left

and I am left

to wonder, why.

In my dreams I am

underwater trying

to breathe

waking wide eyed

short of breath

and gasping and

then just like that

it is gone.

And I dance under the starry night skies once again.

The thing about marketing.

March 4, 2014 / Gin Getz / 14 Comments

This picture has nothing to do with marketing, but it’s adorable, so I’m sharing. Twenty seven chicks arrive by snowmobile to our ranch yesterday afternoon. All night long, the house sounds like an early summer morning outside, inside. Now, they are somewhat settled and silent and I’m smiling… And all because of him…

About that marketing thing.

OK, so, you got a beautiful book in your hands, and you spent years getting it to this point (at least it took me years)… now what do you do about it? Because remember this: writers do not do all this work just to hold the pretty thing in our hands. We do it to share it. Yes, we must write for ourselves, to please ourselves, because we have something to say. But secretly (or otherwise) we hope someone is going to like what we write and how we write it.

So, that sharing… I think they call this part, technically: Marketing.

When I started not just writing since I’ve been doing that a long while, but getting close to actually publishing which is still brand new for me, I didn’t think this was part of it. The marketing part. Maybe most writers do not. I don’t think selling oneself is something that comes naturally to a writer. We can be a quiet sort. At least, I am. Though I’m surprised how much I can reach out. Maybe not enough. I know there are still some e-mails and hand written letters left without a response. I’m sorry. I hate doing that. Everyone matters. Everyone. If I don’t write back right away, chances are I may forget. Not that the person is not important, only that other things get piled on top and a few get buried below.

For some reason, getting the book out there matters to me. I’m going to guess this is not uncommon for authors. Not for the money, but for the acceptance. I want people to like my writing. That may be stupid, I know… but…

Do I write for me? Yes. Primarily. For I’ve found I won’t compromise. But I also write for others, or rather, hope they will like what I write. Does that make sense? If I had more confidence, and I am not so certain I ever will because I used to say, “Once I’m published, I’ll be more confident…” and I am not.

Right, so I know I need to learn not to let these things matter. But how do you feel so much and not let yourself get down? Feel less? How? And is that really what I want? When that is what my writing is so often about…

So, we market. Try to sell our book. Not for the money, but for the love. We want to be read like we want to be accepted. I can accept that.

The how-to’s of marketing include such obvious aspects as using social media, networking, asking friends for help, cold calling and following up warmly. I’m not going into that here and now for risk of trying to sound like a pro at something I am not. If we ever get a best seller and top the charts and I have something solid on the subject you want to hear, like, “Look what I can do,” great, I’ll give you that lecture then.

I have a very intimate, personal book and style of writing that’s not meant to appease the masses, and as my friend reminds me, I’m not looking to be Danielle Steel. My work is harder to sell on many levels. Not the least of which is this. It is a part of me. Onto the pages, I have bled. How do you sell a part of yourself?

Step back, and treat it like a business. Grow up and get over it. Stop taking it so darned personally.

As my publisher, Sammie, and I were discussing, this grassroots approach to marketing we are taking is based on (1) sincerity, (2) the expectation that one must give more than one will receive in social medias and networks, and (3) keeping it personal. That said, one must learn to draw the line and not give too much of oneself. That is a tricky matter. Balancing our sense of giving, sharing and self preservation. Our tendency can be to give too much, try too hard. And the end of day, you’ll know if you’ve gone too far. Look in the mirror and see if you’re still smiling. (For the record, I was not last night.)

Finding the right outlets in which to share is essential. There are so many out there, so many options, suggestions, ideas, directions… and if you tried them all, you’d spread yourself thin and more often than not, fall through the ice. Or maybe be barking up the wrong tree.

I think it always comes down to this: sincerity. And ultimately it is our words that will share themselves.

All in due time.

This marketing thing has brought me tremendous ups and downs this week. Insecurities and celebrations sharing the same days. A sense of feeling very lost.

This is ridiculous. My poor boys. Heck, poor me!

So the rest of plan is this. I’m calling it quits. I am done with this part for now. I have another few days of contacts I promised myself (and Sammie) I’d reach out to and give it a shot and then I’m going back to what I do best. Writing.

Until I get a second wind. Or new ideas. And try my hand at marketing again.

Oh, and yes. Rough draft of book three? Check. Done!

Writer’s lament.

March 3, 2014 / Gin Getz / 13 Comments

I once read that writing is the loneliest profession. One must love to be alone to choose to write. Or at least learn to tolerate it, or you won’t get much written. I write best in total silence and solitude. Days like to today, when the boys are off on another adventure, snowmobiling together in their Very Big Back Yard this side of the Divide, now is the time to write.

Completing the first draft of my third book.

And tonight I will celebrate!

Tomorrow I will put that manuscript aside to brew and ferment, bubbling and gurgling in the dark corners of my mind while again my focus returns to finish the story I was working on this time last year. A Story of Two Virginias. It has had its time to percolate. Now it is time to pop open the lid, stir it up, and see what we’ve got.

Don’t plan on kicking back, sipping and savoring the aroma.

More like: Right. Time to re-write.

Back to the beginning. The first book. The Color of the Wild…

I finally got it!

Before the storm, or maybe in the middle of it, by snowmobile Bob brings home a box from town, and there inside are a dozen hard copies of my book. My first book. It is beautiful. Wow. Sammie, Dee, Nadene… my friends at Norlights Press… it really is beautiful. Thank you. My first signed copy goes to Forrest. Maybe now he’ll read it.

So, here it is, finally. On my coffee table, a book with my name on it. Forget how many years it took to get here. It’s here. There, alongside a book of poetry from Wendell Berry, and a new copy of Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac, and a well worn copy of John Palmer’s How to Brew. I like it. I could get used to this. I hope I do. Hopefully this is the first of many.

By this morning, I already see dog hair, dried crumbs and spots of red wine on the cover. It’s a part of the house. Old news. Time to move to the next…

But not so fast… I used to think it worked like that. (And believe me, I wish it did!) All I had to do was write. But now I’m learning about this marketing thing.

Wait. Before we go there. First, a few cold hard facts.

My awesome publisher and growing friend, Sammie, has started a blog. You can see it here: http://norlightspressblog.wordpress.com/. Writers – it’s worth watching. The thing I really like about it is this. She is putting a face, a real living, breathing person behind the otherwise overwhelming and austere profession of Publishing. She comes at it from an interesting angle. She’s also a reader AND a writer. Many of us writers look at publishers as a separate species. Sammie shows you otherwise. How the good ones at least (and I consider her now among the best!) think. To think they are no different than you and me!
The Color of the Wild is now available at Barnes & Nobles on-line, and this week, starting at midnight tonight, there will be an autographed copy of The Color of the Wild on the GoodReads Giveaway. We’re working on some wonderful bookstores, too. I’ll keep you posted, and please, keep me posted if you have any ideas and suggestions and I’ll be happy to contact them myself. I like to keep it personal, and I think bookstores do matter.
Which brings me to this. One more thing I’ve learned from Sammie and this marketing adventure. She calls it the “Grass Roots” approach to what had for a lot of years turned into Big Business. Now we’re turning the tables and bringing it back home again. It’s not just Sammie and me. It’s a big part of this whole industry. We’re being human beings. Real people. Writers, readers, publishers, printers, even cover designers and all the rest that go into this exciting process of making books. And when we do that, you know what? It’s nice. It’s easier for me. I can be myself. I can’t pretend to be something else. And I think I’m not alone in this thinking.
And the Grassroots approach does mean this. I need you. For spreading the word. And, yes: Reviews. If I were closer to some of you, I’d be prodding a few of those who agreed to read and review, and might not quite have had time to do either one just yet. I need your help! Reviews matter! And in this grassroots world of marketing that we are entering into, it’s all about people like me and YOU.

Goodreads Book Giveaway

The Color of the Wild

by Gin Getz

Giveaway ends March 07, 2014.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter to win

Phew. Enough for today. I need to get back to work. Writing. You probably need to get back to work too (don’t tell your boss you’ve been here reading…).

Among the crying trees.

February 25, 2014 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

I remember the day it burned. I remember the giant plume and we were up here, out of touch with the rest of the world I have never been able to be much of a part of anyway, and together in our awkward silence we watched and worried and wondered what was burning, something big and angry and then we saw the news.

I remember walking up the Box one fall during hunting season with my son when he was still close to my height, maybe even just a little smaller. We had left the old Blazer by the summer homes at River Hill and Bob dropped us at the bottom of the Box and Forrest and I kept to that trail all the way back up, high on the hot hillside above the river, following the one-horned big horn sheep we nick-named Tighty Whitey.

I did not cry going through there yesterday. I did not think. I did not judge. I did not contemplate how I “felt.” I simply observed. I took over five hundred photos. I was with my boys and they made me laugh as they skated down the river on their knees.

It was a good way to see it, starting a little bit distant from the center of the frozen Rio Grande, the hillsides softened still by snow, the air warm and river singing loudly below us as she broke open to her black abyss at times and left you wondering so many others. By afternoon the new days water ran over the old winters ice and the dog learned to trust it would still hold him up.

On one side of us where the fire had raged were a lot of black sticks in white snow and long grey shadows. On the other side, the south facing slope, the snow had mostly melted off exposing places where spot fires had burned and the ground was ash and thick and dull and scratched into by the melting snow. Sometimes a footprint of no more than a single tree. Other times the size of a Walmart parking lot.

I look at the pictures now and want to cry but can’t. I feel I should because I know it is sad and a tremendous loss. But I am over it or distant enough or maybe still in denial. I know I should be concerned still because of the fragile soil, destroyed wildlife terrain, and inevitable years of a blank stare that these hills will remain where we are all so excited to see a new blade of grass and a spouting willow emerge but will never see a spruce forest again in our lifetime.

But there is finality there. An open slate. Ready for rebirth. And in that starkness, there is great hope.

As we drove home, back up the mountain and found ourselves passing by the last of the burn and then into the beetle killed hillsides, then is when the sadness hit. I stared out the smeared window as the trees moved by in blur of paling green and fading brown. These hills are still dying, slow and steady, in their silent way. I was tired. Too tired to shed tears.

Among the crying trees.

Today I walk the trail to Sweetgrass Meadow. The tallest of trees still standing though not a needle remains on their dried branches.

Almost fifty out after lunch and the warmer air gets the sap running.

A new batch of dying trees emerging. A new generation of expiring trees. The next wave of the slow tsunami comes to conquer.

Trees with green needles. Like watching them take their last breath, an extended exhale that will last all spring until the needles fade and fall and so silently they weep, without drama and attention, flames and fanfare, plumes or headline news. No one hears, no one listens.

I stare at a long drip line of sap sparkling in the afternoon sun and let my eyes lose focus in the light and for a moment it is almost beautiful. Watching the life blood leave the tree.

I wrap my arms around one tree and press my nose against the slipping bark and dried sap and breathe deeply and smell very little. How can I describe this odor? It is dry. It no longer smells alive. Yes, you can smell death. With my trees, it smells like nothing at all.

Now I can cry, we shed our tears together, and to them I say farewell.

Into the burn.

February 24, 2014 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Yesterday we went into the burn.

Down Box Canyon, along and on top of the Rio Grande, from the River Hill Camp Ground all the way through the Box to the road on the lower side of mountain where the hills are speckled by vacant subdivisions and within sight of a paved road, though we saw no signs of so-called civilized life stirring. That’s not what we were searching for. Though I sincerely thank our dear friends and summer neighbors for helping make this possible by bringing our truck down the mountain so we could get back up. What a welcome site that was to see rattling down the road towards us when we made it through.

Eight hours, about as many miles and it seemed like we each hauled that many pounds of food just to keep us going. My husband, my son, my dog and me.

Today I’ll share only my photos, not my words. I hope the images speak for themselves, each to all in a different way, but words of truth. These images are completely untouched, only reduced in size to share with you.

In search of a living blue.

February 20, 2014February 20, 2014 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Allow me share this with you first, a minute of Book Business since that’s what seems to be consuming the majority of my time right now. And then come with me, back to the mountain…

The Color of the Wild is almost a week old. I still haven’t seen a hard copy. I understand it’s beautiful, and have the publisher, Sammie and her team at Norlights Press, to thank for that.

Again, sincere thanks for all the reviewers. Please keep them coming. They also mean so much to me.

Starting today, GoodReads is having a Giveaway for The Color of the Wild. For those active on GoodReads, you know it’s a great chance to get a free copy. The promotion lasts today through the 23^rd. If you’re a member of GoodReads, give it a try, even if you already have a copy. You could always share one copy if you win another. If you’re not a member, and you love books, it’s a pretty neat sight – I’m new to it, just learning, and definitely enjoying.

A special note to Bookstores, Book Clubs and Libraries. Thanks to those who have expressed interest and inquired. For all of you, and any others interested in carrying The Color of the Wild, please contact Sammie, the publisher, directly at publisher@norlightspress.com ; or give her a call at 1-812-675-8054 .

Everything you read tells you the Amazon numbers are the Big Ones. But the numbers only matter so much to me. What I’d like to see is people reading what I wrote to share, and old fashioned as I may be, I still think a lot of those readers are finding their books at the local library and corner bookstore. As it’s been three months since I left the mountain, I confess, I’m grateful for Amazon.

So, please keep the book in mind when browsing your local shelves, and ask for it if you don’t see it. If y’all hadn’t noticed, I’m not a big name yet. (Gin Who?) So they might not know about it otherwise.

Now, let’s put the Book Business aside and get back to the mountain…

Muddy horses for the first time in months. It’s early for mud season.

Big brown circles of fresh, wet dirt beneath the trees. Odors I have not savored in months. Earth. Rich and raw.

The air is alive with song stronger than the coming of the spring winds. Redwing blackbirds, chickadees, juncos, grosbeaks. The Woodpeckers this winter here have been as plentiful as flies on a bloated carcass Yeah, yeah, I know, that’s an exaggeration .

Lovely birds, but I know what their presence means.

Where there are woodpeckers there are bugs. The more woodpeckers, the more bugs. This winter has been good for both. Not so good for the trees. You can see it coming. Or rather, now you know it’s here. Hidden beneath the bark.

The thermometer reads 47 F (over 8 C) and I don’t know what to wear. It’s warm. It’s snowing.

I strap on snowshoes and hope the snow is too warm to stick.

A walk in the woods. Or rather, a snowshoe. The temperatures are unprecedentedly high and have been all winter up here but for the most part, our world remains white. The blanket it getting thin. The only patches of dirt are on the south side of the cabin and exposed steep slopes. The only dirt I step on still is three, maybe four steps with my snowshoes grating on rock and mud.

Thunder. I’m sure I heard it. A quarter mile later, I hear it again. Ten thousand feet elevation, mid February, it’s almost fifty and still it snows.

In search of a living blue.

I’m on this photo safari looking for a live Blue Spruce for the cover of the next book. I’m inspired. A wild woman on a crazy mission.

At first glance, you’d think there they’re all over the place. A whole bunch of trees with blue green needles. Right. Now take a closer look. You don’t see these things from the airplanes flying over assessing damage nor from your truck window rolled up to the cold.

Yellowing of the needles on the lower branches.

Slipping bark.

New growth of mistletoe.

Pin holes and dripping sap.

Needles on the snow.

And a pile of chipped bark around the base of the big ones.

You get good at it. Seeing through the last of the green to the tell-tale signs behind. You get used to the yellowing color, like a child sick with fever. And the slipping bark. As if the very core of the tree has given all it could to rid itself of the beetle and pushed its own life out in the process. The bark looks loose. I don’t know how to describe it. Like a snake skin preparing to slough off.

You get used to seeing the signs and learn to find them fast.

I try to find a live spruce tree. I’m not so sure I see one.

I hope you’re still with me. I wanted to share this with you.

Calm now, in the soothing comfort of remaining snow and silence. The time of solitude remains with us, allowing us healing, the mountain and me. I rest, she recovers, my pain and fear are comforted. Life goes on. We adapt, adjust. Find the beauty in the beetle kill, in the burn.

I want to walk in the burn.

I have not left the mountain since sometime in the middle of November. I still do not care to leave her, but want to go down to her darker places, below the Dam, in the still long blue shadows and grainy snow that has not and will not set up, and post hole through and be out there, in there, with her.

I think I can handle it now.

The burned face of my beloved.

Yesterday.

February 17, 2014 / Gin Getz / 9 Comments

Yesterday.

The river begins to open.

The release of the season starts.

Our frozen white highway over which we dragged nearly ninety logs bares elusive glimpses into the dark face of the Rio.

She laughs loudly now beneath our feet.

Her waters rise, ice thins, snow loses its strength. And we stand upon her remaining hard surface and what else can we do but hope she’ll hold?

We light the last of the slash piles upon the ice and listen. Open water beneath the flame. Floating fire.

Our tools are gathered, brought back to this side of the river. If the warm weather continues with daytime temperatures climbing steady into the 40s and 50s every afternoon as they have been, the Rio will no longer be passable. At least, not on her surface and I’m not big on swimming up here.

The timing is just right. Our work across river is done.

We’ve harvested what we need to build our home and shop. Should we need more for the barn, well, it’s safe to say there will be a new round of dead trees to harvest next year.

So now, the work on this side begins.

This is progress. We are pleased. Still there is a little bit of sadness too, for we have loved our time together by the river, silent as she had been, knowing she is there with us in the long blue shadows and heavy hoar frost and steaming breath and laughter and bloody noses and fat lips which were our only injuries and many a hot dog roasted over our slash piles over what in summer would be the middle of the river and our intimate involvement with our dying trees.

An update on the birth of the book.

Thanks to so many for so much. For your support, encouragement and kindness.

For those who have been waiting, it is my understanding that the Kindle version will be available on Amazon later today.

For all those that did write and leave reviews, I can not thank you enough.

To so many, I send such sincere thanks, love and gratitude.

So, yeah… everything is going great… you’d think I’d be just floating on cloud nine with the wonderful reception and reviews that the launch of the book brought us.

But I’m not.

They warn you to expect bad review. It’s going to happen. Not everyone is going to like what you write. Some folks in particular will really not like it because they don’t like you, or they don’t like the fact that you did it and they did not or whatever goes through someone’s mind to justify saying mean things.

But what about no response at all? Brings back memories of all those years sending out my manuscript. I was lucky to get the rejection letter.

So yes, to hear from those who enjoy my writing… that means a lot.

You know what they say is true: If you dare to put yourself out there, you better be prepared to be burned. Even if what burns is hearing nothing at all.

That’s the downside. And it’s down. It’s the pits, and it hurts. Some folks manage to bounce it all off their hard shell. Not me. It gets me. I’m softer than I care to admit.

Don’t be so sensitive, some say. Be stronger. Care less.

If I followed that advice, my writing would not be what it is, would it?

And for better or worse, I would not be either.

Those who have been through this before, the big first book deal, compare the process to giving birth, with a longer gestation, (in my case, would you believe, five years in the making?) and a little less physical pain. That’s not too far off, having been through childbirth too. Hey, Mom and Dad, you were there when I did that. Remember all my screaming and cussing? Guess what – I did the same over these past five years and then some “birthing” my first book. My one hope is that each subsequent book will be a little easier. Dang, I hope so.

Some even say if you knew back then how hard it would be, I bet you wouldn’t have done it.

But for those of us who do write, I think we can’t not write. I am incomplete with out. Be it my gift or the part of my private self I can share.

It’s not just words. It’s a part of me.

And at these times of introspection, we’re forced to ask ourselves this questions:

Who do I write for?

Family?

No.

My brothers both forgot. The lack of support (even acknowledgement) from most of my husband’s family on this accomplishment should not have surprised me but still did.

Thank goodness for good friends and new readers. And a few wonderful surprises along the way, including some close family and distant friends.

Who do I write for?

Not for myself, for although that is the advice of some successful writers, it is not what I care to do.

I guess I write for you. For the few still here with me reading whilst the rest have run off to other things, pressing issues, important matters, and something shiny and new.

Gin Getz

On the intimate connection between person and place. Sharing words and images of wilds within and around.

Author: Gin Getz

So it’s spring.

Stirring frozen waters.

Revealing.

In darkness.

The thing about marketing.

Writer’s lament.

Goodreads Book Giveaway

The Color of the Wild

by Gin Getz

Among the crying trees.

Into the burn.

In search of a living blue.

Yesterday.

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Goodreads Book Giveaway

by Gin Getz

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