Enduring and endearing.

December 6, 2013December 6, 2013 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

So it’s Thursday afternoon and we stop working on the new snowplow blade to bring the horse trough into the house by the fire and get water heating on the wood stove.

It’s bath night.

Think of the folks working their tails off to afford a fancy bathroom with a shiny bathtub that’s easy to fill with water that you probably don’t know where it came from anyway, but that tub is quick to fill and simple to drain and it has to be easy because you’ve been working all day at a job you don’t like just to pay for all this and don’t have time to mess around. Long hours, big debt, no time for a bath anyway – just jump in the shower and get to bed because tomorrow you’re back at it.

Or, a hundred buck investment, an old garden hose, and all we have to worry about on this chilly afternoon is heating water.

No, I don’t have a car, a cell phone, TV, a hairdresser, a hairdryer, or fancy clothes. But I got a tub, and my husband has time to fill it.

Now it’s seven below zero and dropping and we’re sweating in the horse trough inside by the woodstove.

I step out with bare feet (and bare butt) dripping onto the snowy deck to let the dog out for one last bark and still I’m warm to the bones from my bath.

Maybe, just maybe, the heyday of consumerism is passé.

Another morning of fifteen below.
(nothing compared to what Forrest is dealing with down there)
He loves it.
And really, so do I.
The cold
brings out the wildness
chills your lungs as you howl as the sliver of moon reflecting on the flat white surface of a snowy pasture.
weeds out the weak
sends them south
and to lower ground
then again, most everyone I know
lives at lower ground.

Cold reminds me
of the fragile threat
of existence
When I can see it
at each exhale
Steaming forth like a dragon’s fiery breathe
or so it seems
a delusion
delicate like hoarfrost
as my eyelashes freeze closed
for just a moment and
I remember to blink
after every mouthful of air
escapes

But for our four leggeds
my beloved horses
out there in the cold

seeking relief of the sheds
the hay
my presence

the promise of more hay
the sun coming over the mountain
and hitting flat across their

solid brown sides
winter is too long
too cold

too harsh and white
and makes them too irritable
with frost on their muzzles

icicles dangling from their manes
and snow gathering on their back.

Three were given.
Three were born into my arms.
(Fragile life upon this hard harsh land
that through too many untimely deaths
I learned
this is no place to be born.)
And two have more than paid for themselves
through their offspring
not to mention their years
of carrying us
caring for us
and letting me care
being there with us
when really maybe
like on days like this
I’m pretty sure
They’d rather be somewhere else

Some days I think
they think
they are the luckiest of horses
with a balance between time to work and time to play
point and purpose, and spoiled rotten
wild and free, and my little ponies.
Other days, like today, I think
they think living in some stall on the outskirts of a city sounds pretty darned nice…
They don’t hate me
though at times I wonder why not
for it is only because of me they are here
And if resentment within them builds
(though I think a horse is beyond such things)
they forgive me fast when they see me
trudging through the snow three times a day
with the wildly barking dog
to feed them.

PS.

Carlos and Indi, please don’t write home now. These guys don’t need to know how nice it is for you in Hawaii!

The last of the living blue.

December 3, 2013 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

White washed.

The snow mounts while the temperature drops.

The last of the living blue.

A live Blue Spruce. Vibrant blue green.

Have you forgotten the fragrance, the sweet sap, moist needles, the soft pastel color?

Now take a closer look.

Pin holes, running sap, slipping bark and yellow needles.

Another tree is lost.

The mountain across river, and the mountains as far as I can see from our little bit of paradise surrounded by a lot of wilds once were blue green. Now they are red and grey. Oh yes, still beautiful. I will always find beauty in these wilds, no matter what we go through together, how beat and burnt, stripped and stark, old and withered we both may become.

Some days it gets to me. Today was one of those days. Watching the next wave of dying trees lose their needles, lose their life.

Maybe you don’t see it. It’s easy not to see if you remain safe behind a desk, or just stop in the woods from time to time to take a look, and leave. But for those of us who chose to live amongst the trees…

This is my community.

And can I do no more than sit back and watch through beetles and burning?

And then there is hope.

Baby Blues.

A line of spruce trees barely taller than the snow is deep behind my cabin.

Forget titles and stereotypes and labels and names your big brother has called you. Instead I ask you this: Have you ever hugged a tree? If you haven’t, try. A really big one that takes three or four of you to wrap around like a Giant Sequoia, or a Ponderosa with a vanilla fragrance when you bury your nose deep in the warm crevices of her bark, or the big old Blue Spruce with pokey needles and sticky sap that stays with you all day, or the soft sensual smooth skin of a Madrone wet in winter.

I used to get attached to trees. Forrest and I would name them. Maps across the ranch and mountain, landmarks. You could plan your route around them, explain where you were, where you were going.

The last we named was Grandfather Tree. He was dying a slow death by beetles. We cut him down. A loud crash on a quiet mountain and the scar of his big stump remains. Now he will be a base log for our new home. A Giving Tree.

Gunnar and I cross the frozen river and listen to the whisper of the running Rio beneath. My snowshoes stay above deep tracks of a bull moose who broke trail into the woods. A tall, cold grave yard that still gives me comfort even in its empty embrace.

Snow already over my knees and the winter has not yet begun.

It’s not enough, this snow. This won’t change the drought. That’s what they still call it, you know. A twenty year drought. Not a change. Oh, no. Just a drought.

What will happen to this snow, sprinkled with dead dark needles to absorb the sun that now filters through the once dark canopy of tall stripped trees?

What will happen to these trees, these mountains of dead standing fuel no longer with a windbreak? What do you think their fate shall be?

It’s a package deal. The trees, the river, the rocks, soil, wildflowers and wildlife. The cold white winters and blustery springs, monsoon summers and flamboyant falls. This is the world I live in.

Yes, there are people too. They come, they go, they take what they want and leave no more behind than the winds can blow away and the snows will cover. Or maybe they do more.

It is for them that I write, though I try not to care, I do. It’s a package deal. People are a part of that package.

Because I want them to see what they cannot, do not. So I share with you what I see.

Look.

I have less of some things

More of others

Learning to let go of

identifying myself with

how many hours each day I toil

And still I must justify myself to you

for no longer

keeping myself too busy to think

Now is the time of

intentionally slowing down

Taking time to see

to smell and taste and touch and feel

And listen.

Yes, now is the time to listen.

Hear the shiver in the wind.

Writing a new beginning.

November 29, 2013 / Gin Getz / 13 Comments

Of my words, of my self.

“The Color of the Wild.” What will be the first of many. None but Harold and Hillel and A.J. have read earlier versions. Now there is a new one, because if nothing else this past year, I have learned and grown as a writer. So my words must change.

Though there has been so much more. Life is neither static nor stagnant.

As my mighty Rio flows, so shall I.

Let me start by telling you this.

I’m still here.

That wasn’t my intention when I wrote this. I wanted to be gone. I don’t know what happened. Really, nothing. The economy crashed, the real estate market collapsed, our debt grew, and our best wishes of selling and making a million that would be our ticket out of here was held on a string for years and then finally just fell off. Faded away.

At some point, we figured, well, I don’t know. Maybe it’s not so bad after all.

We tried. We looked. All over Colorado. Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, Washington, Northern California. And found nothing. Nothing that compared to this. Nothing as remote, as beautiful, and breathtaking. Every time we piled into the pickup, that same one Bob had when I met him, and drove for days on end looking, skimming through ads, getting directions from brokers that thought we were nuts, hiking out of the way and skirting through fences, off dirt roads and in deep snow, driving through town after little rural town with “Meth Kills” billboards and women not much older than me with thinning hair and missing teeth smiling and waving at us from the front porch of the local bar, the only open business in town. Bob and Forrest in the front seat, since Forrest is now taller than both of us. Me and a dog in the back. Now it’s Gunnar. My bold partner with whom I brave the wilds. Before him, there was old Alan. Alan Shepherd. His head on my lap, my head turned out the back window smeared with his nose prints, looking for something I never found.

And then we’d drive back to our mountain. And when we’d start to get close, you could feel it. The excitement. The thrill. The connection. Damn, it’s beautiful. It takes your breath away every time. It high, harsh, wild and free, and the most beautiful place on this earth. It’s our mountain, our home.

Now the in-law matters are behind us, the trees around us dead from beetles and burning from continued drought. I gelded my stallion but keep riding, training and getting new horses to work with. We’re still digging ditch. Forrest is working for the winter in the South Pole, and Bob and I are here. Happy. I didn’t know I’d say that when I wrote this. And you know me; maybe next year I’ll say something else.

This year brought us closer to the land, strengthened our connection, tested in terrible challenges starting with driest year the mountain has seen. Then there were fires, the big one, which burned a hundred thousand acres of wilds and came within miles of our front door. Then rains, and floods and early snows.

I think what happened was this. You define yourself when you defend your space.

Brothers in arms! Or sisters of the earth. I don’t know. I don’t know if it matters. All I know is I learned I’d fight for our land as I’d fight for my family. And I’m not known to be really easy going.

So, here we are.

Here.

Home.

The adventure of standing still.

November 23, 2013 / Gin Getz / 9 Comments

Morning, warming by the fire, with coats and hats and mittens hanging, dripping, drying. Outside, the snow continues, amasses, piles a heavy load. Just back from feeding horses. They are worked up, snorting and running about because there’s a big old bull moose out there who doesn’t get that he’s not welcome. Now safe and warm inside, I watch from the big south window at them milling around, but they’re still upset and won’t put their heads down to eat. All but Norman, who has his head down and wastes no time on such silly things that the others can take care of.

Evening, warming by the fire, with coats and hats and mittens hanging, dripping, drying. Just back in from a ski with Gunnar along the river, oddly still open and full and shiny black against the flat white landscape. Blurred lines in heavy snow. Soft silhouettes of geese, duck, hawk and eagle. Now warming my hands and pulling out dry clothes before heading back out to feed again. And still it snows.

Winter. So far, so good.

A big one rolled in and has remains with us for days. White sky, white ground, white on the horses backs, the dog’s nose, deep up to our knees. The truck is out. We are in. Here with a deep winter world.

The horses don’t particularly like it. It’s a warm wet snow which is harder on them than a cold dry one. It won’t last, but the next couple of days might be not fun. They are grouchy, short of temper, snip and snap and one another. I will not work with them now, but feed quickly, and walk away and wait for this to pass.

The adventure of standing still.

Remaining.

Time to write.

And to keep up with friends.

“A very simple life. I make it full yet not stuffed and filled, if that makes sense. Time to walk, think, write, watch the snow fall, and feel the cold outside then the warmth of the woodstove inside. We all rate success differently. I wouldn’t trade my life for anyone’s. And still a creation in progress, as you too show me, life always is, always changing.”

“I need seasons. Here, there, where ever. I need that balance of time like putting your garden to bed, letting it be, fallow and dormant, and then reawakening after a deep slumber. In summer I work. In winter, I dream. I know that’s kind of weird, and very extreme, but it works for me, and connects me more to the land.”

“Professionally, as a writer, I do not know. What is my responsibility? As writers… what matters most? A wonderful challenge presents itself. Truth or beauty? Responsibility, environmental concerns, social ethos, pathos, or simply… entertainment?”

Except for my love of my family and four leggeds, my love of the land is my greatest passion. Unlike Mr. Berry, who said, “I have never not known where I belong,” I have spent a lifetime searching. I have been on this mountain only a dozen years. I tried to leave her. I could not. Now I watch her standing strong in this volatile time when the trees are dying – not just a few, patches here and there – but mountain after mountain after mountain in these great big waves that turn blue and green into red and brown. And then I saw her burn. A hundred thousand acres up to a few miles away from my front door. Not much press. Not much people around here. Just trees. And trees don’t scream.

So… I’ll write. (No, I don’t scream much.) I’ll carry the burden of the world we love because we are here, we see, we feel, we are intimately connected with the land. And because the land can’t speak for herself. Or maybe she does. We just need to listen.

I’m no greenie, no environmentalist, in fact, I don’t want a label and don’t want to side up with anyone from behind a desk who likes to call me names. Maybe mother, wife, horsewoman, fencer, builder, baker, cook and cleaner… Mountain Mama. That’s about it.

Now it’s time this woman wrote about what she sees.

Final thought to leave you with.

On aging.

Forever looking forward.

When I was a little girl, I used to flip through the fashion magazines and say, “When I grow up, I want to look like that.” By the time I was twenty, I did.

Now at nearly fifty, I see a picture of a beautiful, classy older woman, like Doris Lessing at 90, and still I say the same.

“When I grow up…”

A quiet voice from a high, harsh mountain.

And yet today, she feels so soft.

The burden and blessings of home.

November 18, 2013 / Gin Getz / 9 Comments

The burden and blessings of home.

The dirt road out (and in) blends into white hillside, disappears with the last storm, strong winds set it smooth, a white horizon before the black timber. Defining lines disappear.

(before the last storms, looking back at the burned mountains from far down at the paved road)

Naked aspen and stripped spruce hold the bounty of another early snow, fat and plump and plentiful on otherwise blatant branches.

Smoke in a steady stream trickles into the pink morning sky from the cabin I find myself living in this time.

Passing time. A season. This one of change. After a decade of dormancy.

Funny it would be now, in the snow, the time of year you’d expect us to curl into our cave and slow our breathing and wait out the long white season.

Instead we’re out there
in
of
a part of
together
with the elements

In snow so deep the horses have stopped pawing
we learn to breathe again.

Deep powder
Deep thoughts
Bury my burdens and cover the past
Watching each flake land on my hand
Remain for but a moment
Whilst a fairy dances within each one
Then turns to a drop of water against my humid flesh
And disappears
As will my burden
Vanish into the comfort of husband, home, four legged friends and a warm afternoon.

Maybe it will melt out. Some of it. Not all. Not for this season.

It begins. I accept, embrace, welcome with open arms.

The season of white descends, I tell to you with a shiver of excitement.

Silence in the snow as the river begin to freeze and traffic (what little remained from summer) has come to a halt. No one’s around for miles and miles and miles. No where I need to go. And next thing you know, the snowmobiles are out. At least the big old beast of a work sled with its gentler purr than the play sleds. Hauling fire wood. The best use yet for all these beetled killed trees. My version of a controlled burn. In my woodstove. And second best is this: Logs to build the walls of the next home we shall build together.

Death upon our own land becomes new life.

A grove of young trees
Needles blue green
Laden with seed cones
Red and ripe with life

Odd how beautiful and exotic it seems now here in the snow. Something I remember but have not seen in so long.

(Desire cultivating devotion.)

Lettuce seeds in the planters along the front windows have sprouted.
Things grow.

We say it’s too late to leave Nature alone to manage Herself, but I laugh to see her power of rejuvenation no matter how much we mess up. I may not have much hope in humans, but the Earth, I think she’ll be just fine.

Seeing the forest for the trees. Alternating with seeing the trees for the forest. Every needle. Brown and fallen on the snow.

And then suddenly.
The young ones bust through the whitewashed landscape defiantly. Holding the colors of the deep sea. Here so far from the warmth and waves.

Are we better to live our lives as sailors navigating in the wind
Or the seed gently accepting and landing where the wind will take her
Or do we strive to balance the two
Manning our own ship, but when the storm sends us off course, recovery may be found only in letting go.

I let go.
Toss the seeds to the wind and will see them only again when they have flowered.
Their sweet smell will draw me back.

last seasons remains
blushing
in the Early winter
as the young lover peeking from beneath
the comforter of freshly
fallen snow

I leave you then with this, this week, words of wisdom not my own, but those shared by the wise, wonderful, beautiful soul, Amy, of SoulDipper. She who sees well before me what seems to take me so long:

So be it.

I am done.

And back to living.

Where I’m at. (taking time for personal updates)

November 12, 2013 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

Remedy for an empty nest.

Fill the nest back up.
Or at least the barn.
Get new horses.

OK, so it might not be a cure, but I swear it helps.

Kinda strange not knowing
where on Earth he is Now.

As far away as one can go.
The end of the Earth. Really.

Somewhere between here and there,
I know that much.
Not much more.

Heading south for winter, he is.
All the way to the South Pole.
Can’t get much further away than that.

And I am pleased, and proud,
and know he is living life
full and rich and brave and strong
and what more could a mother, woman and friend
hope for?

(Update from late last night:
He’s there!
A day ahead and a world away.
And what can I say but
-stupidly-
Keep warm)

We remain
Home.
Bob and Gunnar and me
a couple of old cats
a bunch of good horses
And a few I’m going to try to teach.

So much to do and
our list keeps growing
fantasies of idle winter days
replaced with
lessons in time management
we had our idle time this summer
when we should have been
busy

try to count on things, make plans, assume
More often than not it turns out
so different than what I had hoped for

but if different is neither bad nor wrong
then why can’t I stop planning
learn to let go and just go with the flow

because really you know
what a disaster that would be
when at the end of the day
if I lived like that

we’d all be sitting around starving
wishing I had thought earlier about
what we’ll eat for dinner

These are the six months I live for
the easier ones to leave
the hardest ones
the ones that have become me
are me

and nothing no one no where else
allow this wild time

Time to release
my wild side

Intoxication
Of the elevation

Bob’s driving home and I’m watching the digital numbers on the thermometer on the rear view mirror drop. Ten degrees as we climb our mountain. By morning, the thermometer reads one below zero (-18 C). Bob’s up before daylight rebuilding the fire then climbs back in bed. The cats have been sleeping on him and I am wrapped around him and clinging tight to keep warm. He is the only one now very warm, but probably can’t sleep with all of us latched to him.

Some days I wonder what the heck we’re doing living here. Later on, that very same day, I wonder how I could ever leave.

Finally I leave you with these words for thought.

An observation on the Forest Service.

For those who live here, see.

We are willing to make observations based upon what is before us, what is happening, and common sense. It’s a matter of survival here, responsibility, connection.

On the other hand, many of those that come in to try to Manage (their term, not mine, though I believe even they are beyond maintaining such claims here and now) well, do as their told, say what they are supposed to, do their best to maintain of control of that which they will never.

My apologies to the wonderful men and women who remain within this Big Business because they care, and actually do see. I know there are plenty of you. The Cindys and Annes and so many I’ve had the honor to know, observe and work with… But I see so much more, and I’m tired of it, seeing the nothings happen and the so much spoken, the time wasted and the obvious ignored. I am sorry.

The latest bit of paid propaganda from one of their finest Yes Men is entitled (I swear to you): “Dead trees do not equal more fires… maybe.”

Really. When you’re done laughing, let me tell you this. As the title suggests and the piece confirms, it is no more than a way to get around admitting they have no clue…

However, rather than admit that then be free to open their eyes, look and think, they recommend this: let’s hold off on common sense, observing the obvious, and let’s wait for those scientific studies to be completed… which usually take a while, as we’re stuck sitting on our hands and can’t quite make it out there … there, where it is happening… there, where all of those folks who live, see.

What do you really need to comprehend the world around you, including the greatest of mysteries?

Beyond the front door.

October 18, 2013 / Gin Getz / 1 Comment

Bear tracks in the snow
on the front porch of the Little Cabin

he cleans up the last of my homemade cheese
sour and spoiled and I forgot to clean up

he steps on the bucket with which I gather wood ash
from the old cook stove
Crushes the metal side

and smears the mirror we keep outside under
which we hang wet coats
To dry in the intense high altitude sun

How many times have I see such marks
on the outside of cabin windows or inside of the old dump truck
stinking and smelling of last winter’s trash

who but me, my son wonders,
claps their hands in glee
to know her porch is chosen and shared

Wild enough
a rosebud
Ripe to bloom

awaiting patiently on my front porch
and all I need to do is reach

what I have been waiting for
may finally be here.

in my temple

outside
beneath heavy clouds
grey at noon
pink in evening
anointing me with soft snow

I sit back on hard rock in cold wind
and feel the bliss of eternal passion
in the wail of the still open waters
tears before the silence
of the deep freeze

Though far too much for me in summer
the crowds within a half mile of this dirt road
I have never found any place
As wild
as it is
in winter

Here

as far away from traffic and telephone
and gossip and a grocery store
from sound and synthetic stimulation
from humidity and heavy air
open trails and exposed flesh

far away from you

The wilds call

Here I have wide white wild wind
and really, I wonder,
what more do I need

maybe I already have

enwrap with
wind and white and wide open
remote, removed, far, far away

and for now I find myself
Here
Home

and am glad to find the world surrounding me
A world you know nothing about
and care for even less

or perhaps you have a picture
of where you once were that looked a little like this
But it wasn’t won’t be and is not

for this here and now what I see and what I do
Is mine
and not all of it do I chose to share

glimpses I allow
Open the door and let in the wind
with a swirl of brown leaves and white flakes of snow

and I may let out the smell of
fresh bread and warmth from the woodstove and
the sound of my boys’ laugher and

my dog barking and the cats purring and
my heavy breath and labored beat of my
heart as I have only just returned from

seeking out the last of the wilder beasts
from the big back yard a place where few remain
Where even big game seeks solace in lower ground

They say it’s the highest, hardest
place to hunt in the Lower 48

what I hunt
is just as elusive
within me

Winter here is a more wild, harsh and remote

place than any I have been to

any place I choose to be

though summers at times are hard to endure

This one was different
drought, fire, floods
evacuating all but us,
silence like winter
only it was warm
And we were waiting
in eerie silence
for something
more than flames and smoke
or the feeling that maybe it was time to leave
stuck in silence in a time there should have been children laughing
And the only noise you heard was
rumors as destructive as wildfire

I won’t forget this summer
and I can’t say my memories will be fond
Though you know how that can happen with time

There will be no ribbons for you my friend
only miles beside me
beside our horses

freedom you tell me you
need
spoken in loud barks

after a coyote
a half a mile away and
you’re hot on his heels

reckless they may say
but I see a heart bigger bolder and braver
than any I have known

at times I confess I thought to
Train him, teach him, subdue him
and break him like a old swayback horse

finally I have come to know
These things can’t be taught
and come only when we learn to let go

the wild beast that ran away
And when I awoke
on my doorstep he was waiting for me

Wintersong

October 11, 2013 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

Wintersong
sung in silence
hung low and dark
where even secrets be not told

as snow falls heavy
hard on still soft ground
not yet ready for approaching
freeze and black and

long nights and endless blinding white
leaving her mark
covering traces
evidence of suffocation

It comes earlier this year
every year
how does one keep track
when tomorrow is as unsure as memories

the view subsides
and voice is muffled
whispers left unanswered
screams a part of the wind

But wake my friend
and see the last signs of life
defiant blades of withered grass still standing strong
and the last leaves tired and shriveled holding tight to

bits of color yellow gold
before the white wash comes and covers
and warmth from the sun burning
through to one tiny bit of

exposed pale flesh and
maybe
that will be all
until the end of spring

Labored poem of love and leaves

October 10, 2013October 10, 2013 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

~

~

From the open window I hear
the metallic guttural cry of
elk bugling in the back yard

descending on around so near my home
covertly in the black and cold
of this arduous night

tell tale signs of
snow in higher grounds rousing bulls to
drive their herds down

and on the roof above me
continued heavy tapping of the last of
swollen beads of rain

as the temperature continues to fall
and I await the ensuing silence
telling me in the wordless way

it has all turned to snow

even down here
Down here at nearly
ten thousand feet high.

And the poem I so labored
is no longer valid

No longer matters
No matter works

about the graying sky and stripped leaves and
the last of the golden ground

But I wanted to write it, to
share it, to help you see it, and
Now I wake to a whiter world

and wonder what part of it matters
What part of it did I think you’d like
Would you want to hear and see

The picture I was painting for you in words
And what part of it can I
crumple and use to start

the morning fire
while I sit before the flames
coffee cup in hand

watching the steam rise
and words burn.

abandoned branches
bequeathed bare
suddenly slender nimble fingers
orchestrating a secret song in the wind
luring in the long winter

and the golden
leaves are pressed back
into the earth from which they once were born
seeds to bloom again
next summer

Places like this.

October 3, 2013 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

There are days I must wander
and wonder where and why
and keep going only

to find
myself at
places like this

and then
it all comes together or perhaps
no longer matters

just becomes
a matter of trust
and I go along no matter

how far and how hard and how hungry.
And my eyes cloud with tears and
the wilds tease and the wind

embraces and the mountain leads
me to where I do not know
but I trust and my dog follows and we go

and there we are.
And really,
I ask you,

my friend,
what matters
more?

Gin Getz

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

Author: Gin Getz

Enduring and endearing.

The last of the living blue.

Writing a new beginning.

The adventure of standing still.

The burden and blessings of home.

Where I’m at. (taking time for personal updates)

Beyond the front door.

Wintersong

Labored poem of love and leaves

Places like this.

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