Author: Gin Getz

Up close and personal…

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

… with wild flowers and tame horses.

Two months into it here, this is what my garden looks like:

It’s alive. That’s about it.

But then again… two months into California, this was what my garden looked like:

It wasn’t much alive at all.

After a few years there, however, this is what it looked like:

The moral of the story: Don’t give up. Keep on keeping on. Try, even when others think you’re a little nuts. Because maybe you are. And maybe you have to be if you’re gonna be the one to see what’s not there, and then have the commitment, discipline and determination to bring a dream to life.

A couple of stories I want to share with you today about wild flowers and tame horses.

In starting to learn the wildflowers that bloom on our new land, I’ve had the opportunity to reconnect with many of my favorites like monkshood, yarrow and gentians.

After watching a rare sighting of high country bee relish nectar in what I otherwise would have thought was something to avoid, I even have new found appreciation and maybe even love for the once dreaded  meadow thistle.

There’s one I’m still working on figuring out who it is, what it’s about, what lessons it has to share (besides the mystery and patience required in researching ).  Could be osha, porter’s lovage. Could be poison hemlock. Could be something else. Latest I heard from the best expert I know was: “I wouldn’t eat it if I were you.”  Don’t worry. I won’t.

And then of course there remains my obsession with wild grasses of which there seem to be a dozen varieties or more flourishing together in harmony on this rugged land.

One of my favorite plants both for medicinal and culinary uses is urtica dioica or stinging nettles. She’s in my daily tea year round, and in springtime, she’s the shining star of soups; a cleansing, healing, nourishing tradition. Since we’ve been here, I’ve been looking for her.  Just couldn’t imagine life without her. Figured she might not be present because of the altitude yet there are unexpected surprises, good and bad, that pop up on this land possibly due to invasive range cattle and negligent range fencing. I never once stumbled upon her in the two decades I wildharvested up river, which is just a little lower in elevation and not too far away.

Still I scoured along the road as Bob would  drive along slightly lower grounds, sticking my head out the truck window, sometimes saying  “stop!” then jumping out only to be disappointed as I find some other unwanted weed.

The other day, in a small patch of disturbed dirt between my so-called garden (the tomatoes and greens I grow for mice and squirrels), and our little camper, I was squatted down beside a low growing plant I’d noticed starting there. It was getting ready to flower and I thought I’d pull it out before such a weed spread. (I’m always aware of invasive species, trying to improve the pasture and land).

So I reached out and grabbed, full force fist, pulled and uprooted.

Now, I’m not one of those who can harvest nettles unscathed. And this time, as I grabbed with full fist, was no different.

Ouch.

I’ve never been so pleased to be in pain.

It was my beloved nettles. Careful what you ask for? Or at least… pay attention.

Needless to say, I replanted her right away, with soft soil, a splash of water, and a grateful blessing.

How could I have been so wrong? Well, in my defense, here she grows as a ground cover not much more than a few inches tall. Cultivated in my garden in California, she grows well over my head. As I rode across the west, we met regularly in the woods and along the trail, often in the wild places of Idaho, where, growing to heart or eye level, she blessed me with well needed nourishing greens as I carefully picked a few of her leaves and added them to my soup at night.

I’ll take making mistakes to learn something as pleasing as this.

The other plant I wanted to tell you about today is elephant heads, or pedicularis groenlandica.

It’s easy to see how I could be so enamored by such a flower, yes? But it’s not just because of her cuteness. It’s because of this story.

The second year I worked for Bob outfitting along the upper Rio Grande, we were guiding  a several day trip, leading guests and full packs across a marshy meadow just below treeline in the high country. Suddenly Bob dropped both reigns and lead to his pack string and gracefully jumped off his horse in one swift and smooth motion (as back then, only Bob could do), bent over, picked one flower, then approached me on my horse who  like me was wondering what he might be up to.

“Shhhhh…” Bob whispered as he handed me the flower. “It’s a nursery. Baby elephants are sleeping,” he said as I look in amazement at something I’d never seen before.

See why I wanted to marry this guy?

Though if I’m not mistaken, just a couple days before when we were getting ready to head off on this trip and I was bucked off my horse, landing a little battered and bruised on my back, and he didn’t even help me up or wipe the blood, I was saying something very, very different.

Don’t worry. Twenty something years later, though I can honestly tell you there’s been many more of both kinds of stories than I care to recount, I have never once wished he wasn’t mine.

Finally a few thoughts to share with you on joy, just because, and maybe to think about as you enjoy your weekend, wherever you are, whatever you are doing.

I’ve been thinking a lot about joy. The puppy has been my guru on that one. He’s joyous. Just plain joyous. Life is full of joy for him, and honestly, it’s contagious.

Bayjura is back, and the horses are settling in together, with each other, with us, living side by side, horse and human, in our daily rhythms and rituals and adjustments, like managing the shocks of the morning moose (which has become so regular even the horses are reacting less).

I was expecting more joy from Crow bringing Bayjura home from breeding. It was a mild homecoming, mellow, gradual, almost standoffish or so it appeared to me. It’s as if he noticed something different, and she’s been different, and joy has been more of an “oh, okay, that’s fine” feeling of acceptance rather than the big exciting dramatic display I was expecting.

And maybe that’s okay.

Remember how joy came easily as children, when we’d find joy in the simplest things and in natural states of wonder.

But then we “grew up” and joy became more complicated. Complex, convoluted, tangled in a web of expectations, demands, criticisms and judgments.

I want joy to be abundant again, found in all the simple wonders, all around, every day. It’s all there, just waiting for us to slow down long enough to see, hear and feel that which is already there, just waiting for us to find it.

Look around.

And listen.

There’s joy. Right there, where it’s been all along.

Maybe it’s quiet. Subtle. Even a little shy about it. But check it out. It’s there.

Joy. Just waiting for you to notice.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

And a little joy,

Gin

~

Somewhere on this long, dusty road.

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

Morning wakes to a cloudless sky over me, crisp and clean as sheets dried on the line. There’s a light frost down at the creek, and a moose somewhat regal in appearance with his slick black hair and mighty paddles hanging close by on pasture. I watch him standing proud, in a standoff with the pup. I call from the outhouse door. The dog returns. The moose lumbers off.

Another day without rain. I don’t take these things for granted. We can accomplish twice as much on days we don’t have to break each time a storm wave crashes onto the scene.  The downside to getting so much more done is sore muscles, tired hands, and sun burned shoulders. I’ll take it all.

This evening, after the sun is down and shadows have dissolved for the day, we sit by the camp fire watching the pup play with marshmallows as if they were toys, little balls, flinging them around joyously as he’ll do with a dead mouse. At the cross fence line, a herd of elk move in unison up the hill and vanishes into the dark timber.

I am in awe daily of the natural wonders found on this land, between the wildlife and our wild life and the simple, stark beauty of these rolling mountains under a wide open sky. That is why we are here. This is what makes us feel alive, come alive, stirring me somewhere deep inside as I pause for just a moment to soak it into the cavernous sea within my soul, something only high wild places will do.

Two full months have passed since we’ve been living and working here, setting camp, getting our temporary home in order, and starting to get the long term home going from the ground up. The months have gone slowly, been generous and allowed us to accomplish what feels like so much in such a short period of time. Alas there’s so much yet to do.

I’ve heard that summer is a time for vacations and time off and kicking back with a good book. It’s never been that for me. It took two months of averaging about a page a night and the book falling on my face startling me back awake to finally finish reading just one book (thank you, Cindy, it was a good one indeed). Maybe some day I’ll have that time and summers will be that leisurely for me. When I get old. Older? In the meanwhile, there’s been kids camp and guest ranch and cleaning cabins and  guiding rides, getting gardens going, digging ditches, renovating land and structures – all this work doing my darndest to create havens from the ground up so others could enjoy their vacation time. Oh yes, and building. Always building…

And still I feel my life is a vacation in a way, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. I get to do, be and live a dream. I know it’s not a dream a lot of folks might have, but it’s all I ever wanted, and getting to be more. It’s not a dream about comfort and ease and kicking back with books or bon bons or some frozen drink with an umbrella sticking out of it. And I get those things – they are all well and good and even wonderful, but they are not my path in life. Instead the path I followed is rather rough and rustic, high and wild, down and dirty, full of stuff that makes callouses and scrapes and bruises and wrinkled skin that looks like rawhide, balanced with silence and space and soul.

Meanwhile, out and about on the upper 80, during the monsoon rains we had been getting and likely will get more of, the horses seek shelter from the storms and find themselves protected under what we call the Barn Tree – one of the few older growth conifers remaining after the onslaught of beetles that left the greater part of tall old trees ravaged and brown. This tree, just behind our camper, with branches and needles broad and thick not a drop of rain gets through to the always dry ground below. The horses stand there through the storms, the three of them, kind of like me, waiting it out and wishing they were doing something else.

I haven’t taken time to train the new boy and/or ride the old one much this summer. I’ve done plenty of both in the past, and will again in the future, no doubt, but this summer is not about taking time off far beyond our daily evening walks. This summer is about getting solid walls built and roof up over our heads (hopefully) before the snow. That’s pretty much all consuming and not something one overlooks out here. It’s that in-your-face pressure and mission and challenge you can’t not see (even on days you wish you could). It’s even about building a solid shelter for the horses, because before too long, this rain and hail will turn to snow, and they too will need more than that big old tree can provide.

Slowly but surely, one grain of sand at a time, one big beautiful beaming beam after another,  hoisted into place, I think we’re getting there… wherever there may be, somewhere not too far away along this dusty path we’re on, together.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Deadlines, discipline and days off.

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

An intense lightning storm last night, striking so close and strong it startled me awake before even the crash of thunder, which in the high country, doesn’t end with a clap but rather rolls  around the mountains with sound and energy rumbling with reverberations that remind me of  a giant singing bowl.

This morning I woke to lingering clouds and puddles and heavy air and even the baby robins out early following their parents’ prompts are soaked, as I watch them with their scruffy feathers scurry around a glistening cinquefoil.

Careful what you ask for.  I had missed the intensity of high mountain summer storms with their booming voice, menacing clouds nearly black as coal, and sky-on-fire displays.  So far this summer, we have had so much and many, my desire is as saturated as the soil.

Rain has been regular. As with all of nature, it’s got its good points and its bad. But either way is out of my control. Not much I can do but sit in this little camper and wait the latest hail storm out, grateful for these somewhat solid walls within which we can be warm and dry and try not to get too anxious about what I could be doing but am not.

Sometimes you got stay inside and wait it out.

Today rain comes down harder and lasts longer than I ‘d like. I’d like to get back out there at it. We have a deadline to reach. Self imposed no doubt, but you have to have such discipline when you’re working for yourself. And when what you’re working for is your home. We said we’d get the walls roughed out including rough openings for the windows framed out with timbers by the first of August.

We’re close. Though not there, we are so close I can see it. It’s starting to feel like a space and a home and I can almost picture the wood cook stove cranking out heat and bread and cookies while the dogs lay on the rug  and the horses are tucked into their nearby stalls, and the chickens in a solid coop (they are, btw, still living in their portable pen we built with our lumber out of the back of the horse trailer… but still laying plenty enough to keep us in eggs!). And the cows, yes, there will be cows, sheltered under their shed beside the hay loft. All of this still in my head, of course, but that is where dreams begin. Is it within our heads or within our hearts? I think maybe a bit of both.

We’re a long ways away from all of that. But we are close to the rough out state, and that deadline was yesterday. Maybe we’ll get it tomorrow, for today is a mess of rain and hail and a few other distractions that are never so bad though of course I’ll grumble just a little bit. And then, we move on to higher ground: plotting, planning and placing roof rafters, trusses and ridge beams .

Bob’s more casual about this forced break that the weather has imposed than I am. He manages to zone out into a nap or getting errands done elsewhere, while I’d be pacing the floor if there was room to do so. Neither way will change the weather or get the work done out there when we can’t be.

Yet even from within the little camper looking out at the (wet) work site, it’s getting pretty exciting to see some dreams slowly come to life.

As for deadlines, oh, I could blame the weather or the lack of skill and knowledge or our age or a hundred other excuses. Or I could just accept that this is how it is, and be pleased and proud of what we’ve accomplished already, and excited by what else we’re about to do.

As for discipline, there is no boss telling us what to do and some days it would be easier if there were. Or maybe employees or fellow workers motivating us to show up on time. Instead I suppose we could stay in bed all day binge watching and eating bon-bons (yes, this is a freak fantasy of mine, something I just want to try once!). There is simply the dream of seeing it all come together. And most days that is enough.

And as for days off… This summer, there have been only a few.

One we planned. (We hiked to the top of the nearest peak. Not really restful, but the view from the top and all along the way nourished me deeply.)

Two I really didn’t want (‘cause I lay sick in bed).

And a few were spent taking time for family and friends. These are things I don’t intentionally plan and often stress about ahead of time (as in: OMG, that means we won’t be working?!?!?!). And yet I know, as you do too, that this is what matters most. People. Connecting. Contributing. Doing something for others even if that something is simply sharing time. The work can wait. It will always will be there. Will the people?

With these few exceptions, that’s not only how our summer has been so far, but that’s how our life has been. Things don’t get done if you don’t do them. Water, power, heat, and food… The so-called simple off grid life means taking care of all those things yourself (and perhaps when we’re even older, having friends and family help a little more).

There is work to do every day. It may be building a wall, or simply chopping wood, carrying water, and keeping the home fires alive.

In the meanwhile, there is no Monday stress here. Likewise, no Friday relief.

Every day is pretty much the same. Get up at dawn and care for the critters. Savor our coffee together. Then get to work. Grind away. Keep going until the sun starts to set and the pup insists it is quitting time. Time to take him for a walk.

Thanks to the pup, those walks have been part of what balances me. Gets me out and away from the work zone. Connects me with the land. Allows me a mindless release and a chance to unwind. And serves as either my walking meditation or time in my wild temple.

All of which is why we’re here. Not just to get that roof up. But to be present. Every day. Where we are.  Who we are. With what we’re doing. Together.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Getting to know the neighbors.

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

The natives.

We’re not talking the people sort here, as the nearest ones are about eight miles away (though they are pretty great folks indeed).

We’re talking wild stuff. Plants. Animals. That sort of thing. Those kinds of neighbors. Who and what we’re really living beside.

Slowly getting to know the wild world of which I’m becoming a part.

Having lived year round in the high country not too far away for what felt like too many years, there are so many I remember, that call to me and say, “Welcome home.” And a new few that say, “sit with me a while and see what I’m about.”

These are the voices of the land. The plants. The wilds. The wildlife.

Quiet voices.

Plants call for you to sit beside them, and listen.

I do. I stop, lean in, look and listen.

What magic or medicine to they allow?

Honestly, more often than not, I question myself, snap a photo to take back to camp and research more about them in my many books and, of course, online.

Welcome to the wild life…

Sometimes it gets you down. In spirit. In body. You get sick. Strong as I try to be, it happens. It sucks. Yet even illness carries a lesson if you’re open to learn. I’m not always. Sometimes I just want a quick fix. Get over this shit and move on.

Still, I start with the plants.

There’s a philosophy of healing I try at least to live by, coined the Wise Woman Way by the wonderful herbalist and healer Susun Weed who is one of a handful I have followed and learned from for well over thirty years of living with the land.

Start by doing nothing. Healing often just happens. Otherwise, start with the plants.

Plant medicine, herbal allies, wild wonders… just listening to and learning about the myriad of nourishment and medicine that exists in plain air of sprawling parks, or in the mysterious shade of the woods, or alongside the life vein of the land that is the creek.

So much of the healing (physically and energetically) you need is there, right there. I was going to say “for the taking.” But it’s not just “taking.” There has to be that balance of maybe asking politely, of honoring the wisdom and power within the plant, and somehow giving back in kind, to make this magic happen. I think that comes with time. Just giving time. Time to hear, to feel, to understand essence, rather than grab and go and demand. Nature’s not real big on that way.

Start simple.

Listen to the land, respect what she has to offer, and see if her healing is enough.

If so, listen to her wisdom, and bow to her in gratitude.

Plants are a starting point. Sometimes they work wonders. Sometimes, they are not enough. Absolutely at times we all know we need the big guns, and must turn towards the powerful stuff when the need arises. Gratefully and indeed there is a place for and importance of modern medicine. After a bout of cervical cancer at age 25, likely I wouldn’t be alive without it.

But as always, I try to start simple. The land offers so much of what we need.

Starting with what is right there before you. And here, there, everywhere, really, there is so much.

As for the wildlilfe… The animal side of things…

Hunters and fishermen often ask us what we live with that they can come and take.

This is what I live with. A herd of mother elk and their babies grazing on our lower meadow after the sun dips down and the evening show of rainbows and magenta and dark clouds has settled down. A little band of bull elk meandering along our driveway, as curious and fearless about our horses as they are of elk. Mama moose along the fence with a yearling calf by her side, and a young bull moose trailing behind. She watches us as much as we watch her. Only she remains while we alter our route so minimize our impact upon her. Our fences and roads, our barking dog, the roar of equipment and buzz of tools, and the sound of our somewhat soft voices –we have disturbed her enough.

I feel I have taken enough.

That’s why I rarely snap and share photos of wild four legged wonders with whom we share space. I don’t need to stalk. I don’t want to be the creepy guy. I want to be a good neighbor. I want to live and let live with the respect, safety and privacy that I love as well.

Living with the land.

We are not here to take.

This is home.

We co-exist.

At least, that’s what we strive for. We don’t always succeed. Sometimes we fuck up. I’m sorry for that. I try to better next time.

That’s what makes good neighbors. Do your best not to disturb. Give more than you take. You don’t need to assume you’re being hunted, chased, harassed and stalked. Who the hell wants to live that way?

It’s neat to me to note that, if they are not chased by swarms of tourists and a continuum of traffic, the elk and moose don’t high tail it for higher ground. They remain in this elevation all summer long. It was not this way where I used to live, where as the flood gates of people opened, the wildlife hit the trail, vanished into tall timber, and headed high. I thought that was normal and natural, but am learning it’s just what they’ve done to adapt.

I get it… I do that too.

Living on the land is living with the land.

Tending to your soul as you tend to the land.

Connecting with the land comes not only with time but with intention. A quiet, still, commitment when you begin to breathe in the land, filling your lungs, your heart, your blood; when every cell becomes filled and fulfilled with and of the place, and feel your exhale feed the land in kind.

Thus is the reminder to balance giving with taking, as the inhale and exhale harmonize.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Going up.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

At times it feels as if what we are building is a sacred space as I supposed every home should be. A place of connection and belonging. A safe haven and creative oasis, no matter how small or what it is built of. A place built in part of prayers and dreams, alongside grit and gusto to bring both to life.

One by one we lift beams with the crane, lower them on sawhorses where we carefully measure and cut then manhandle into place, steady, fine tune and fasten as the definition of place slowly begins to take shape, and the feeling of space begins to come to life.

With each one we work on, we can trace a story back to the once towering doug fir that shaded our morning walk while the early sun dappled through high branches and dogs scampered below chasing rabbits through the underbrush. With beetles and drought and changing times, we observed the tree faded and paled and needles fallen and altered into the dead standing trees we felled, cleaned then dragged to our mill yard, then together hoisted and cut and turned and cut again until rot was removed (stacked and piled and burned separately) and all that remained was this solid center that is becoming a part of a home. Each one already containing the energies of how much time and attention and intention to get this far, to get us this far.

And yes, I’m out there working too. It’s all been a two person operation. But one of us is better with a chainsaw and backhoe, and the other better with the mill… and camera.

And she cooks… But that’s something I’ll dive into another time… (Look out.)

Now, when I prepare meals (which is something I do every day) I truly consider the energy that I add to the food I (usually) serve with love. There was a movie I saw years ago called “Like Water For Chocolate” that coyly played with this belief.

What we put into it, comes out of it.

Is it not the same with walls we build as with a pot of stew we stir?

Hope and passion, dreams and desires, strength and resolve embedded in every piece of the wall that together we then cut and carry and fit into place and secure into a structure that is a part of this home.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

 Slow dancing with the creative muse.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

The sky put on a display all day and seduced me back into love for life and this land after a day where she had knocked me out (quite literally) again. It was magic, reviving me, hour after hour, as my stomach settled and my feet found grounding once again. All the photos I share with you today are completely unaltered. God and/or this beautiful world graced me with this show.

As the painter cares not to color a canvas solely for the pleasure of her own eyes, so the writer is called to share words that you might enjoy; be it for entertainment, education, empowerment, and/or to find yourself somehow relating or releasing or escaping within the images the words spawn.

Yet what happens if the words I am called to share are not what I feel you will find pleasing? What if they are dark, as I confess, mine tend to tangle with? Do I harbor and hide them, or have the courage to boldly express and hope that you will not run away? Perhaps you might even shyly step closer, finding yourself still somehow in a similar state from time to time, knowing you are not the only one.

I’m not a sunshine, daisies and bunnies kinda gal. I’m more stormy skies and tempestuous wind and then a subtle glow in gray clouds to the east at dusk. Sometimes that makes for a pretty picture or enticing poem or captivating tale to share. But sometimes I’m afraid it might just scare you away.

And what about social media? Can it be a safe playground to play with words and hone my craft and reach out in the process? It is concerning as I find myself baring my soul as an outlet for both heart and art. This has always been something I have struggled with. I am an introverted introvert, and find my solace in silence and wild places. So what the hell am I doing trying to, if not master than at least muster, the craft of connecting online?

Is the intention to appease the ego or the muse? The ego is a trickster at times, fooling us to feel what we’re doing is “good” and “right” and maybe even for others, when I wonder if it is not more for her insatiable need for stroking. So does she fool me into feeling uncertain, unsettled, and a little absurd.

But the muse – oh my turbulent muse, she has a hold on me that I care not let loose of. I have always said I can’t not write. At times I wonder why. For the sake of the scratching pen, the alluring sound of words, or for the mood it imposes upon self and others when I manage to get those words write?

For when she dances within me, seduces me in her intoxicating embrace, she calls upon my courage to share. Boldly I open the curtains, as if ripping open a pearl snap shirt exposing a healthy breast, and let her fierce radiance flare outward without bounds. For she is stifled like a rained upon fire when I keep her under wraps, as a flower yearning to bloom bright from somewhere under confinement.

Oh, and as for progress… if you’re still with me…

After all those months of felling trees, clearing slash, dragging logs, milling lumber, stacking, loading and hauling across the West… to see the wood we loving harvested finally being put to use… It’s a thing of pride and joy, for sure.

And for those of you back in California. This is how deep you have to dig a water line in the mountains at 10,000 feet. Six to seven feet deep.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Crow knows.

/ Gin Getz / 8 Comments

Crow knows grief.

If you’re brave enough to live life full and rich and little wild, there is of course a downside. You will experience grief and loss and pain. It’s part of the package of life. You can try to play it safe, stay home, watch from the window or the barn stall and wonder what living really feels like. But even within castle or padded walls, there will come a day when grief will find its way in through the tiniest of cracks and fissures and fester in your heart and soul and oddly, make you something more. Something deeper, richer, fuller, wiser; something more compassionate for having experienced this part of life and living that none of us look forward to, but all of us intimately know or will know.

Grief is part of living. It is a burden we all one day will bare. A shared experience like one of those finely woven threads that bind us together.

We all know grief.

“Only those who have can lose.”

Years ago, Crow witnessed the loss of his foals, then his beloved, and then her daughter.

This week he watched me load his granddaughter in the trailer and roll down the dusty road, taking her away.

I wish he understood. I wish I could explain. I wish he knew we are simply hauling her away for a week, and she will return. Hopefully with a new family member brewing within her.  

Many years ago on my old blog (the long since deleted High Mountain Muse), I shared the story of how Crow got his name. He was a three year old stallion, green and fresh and wild, I adopted in hopes of replacing the horse with whom I had been guiding. He was a hellion when he first came to the ranch – never having left the barn in which he was born. Careful what you ask for. I wanted a challenge. This was more of one than I wanted, and I wasn’t sure I was up for it.

As I sat on a stump in frustration with him on “time out” behind me, wildly pacing the fence with his head held high and the whites of his eyes exposed like a mad man (that is another name for young stud), I heard his lungs rhythmically, rapidly filling and releasing, pulsing with powerful breaths, and I remembered how it feels to run in the open places with a healthy horse pumping beneath and hair and mane and tail flying free and that sound of their lungs like the beating of wings… and just then a black bird flew over head and I heard that sound in unison.

And so he was named: Flying Crow.

That was almost twenty years ago. Twenty years of training, riding, guiding, working together in the mountains, countless pack trips, a lot of breeding, and a lot of loss. Loss I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Not him. Not me. But that was the curse we endured.

And left behind.

Always remaining within us in a dark, tender corner of our heart.

Some days that feeling resurfaces, catches us off guard, takes the wind from our lungs and we stand there wondering what has hit us. It is an emptiness. A hunger. A void. A black hole in our hearts. How else can we each describe that which we all have felt?

That is what I saw on Crow’s face this week.

He has been my faithful partner, playing and working in the mountains, and crossing the West with me, through more miles, adventures and stories than he or I shall ever dare share.

Along the way, he learned the unfortunate truth that grief is. This has happened to me too. We say that going through grief is essential to the human experience. But those of us that have spent enough time around other species know it is not reserved for humanity. It is a shared sense of soul.

This morning she revisited me, a wave of old rehashed emotion washing over me, stirring current calm waters and I want it to just go away.

Demons disappear only when we muster the courage and strength, trust and faith to stop running, turn around, face what you fear is chasing you. Look it in the eyes. And in the depth of the eyes you will see the reflections of the still forest pool where real love resides. It’s one in the same. And in that clarity, somehow, not that scary after all. The essence within every pool, every eye, every fear is still love.

As you stand there before the calming waters, allow the mud of fear to settle as you witness the love rising, radiating from the surface. It does not eliminate the pain of grief. But somehow, it does even more than balance it out. It give you something more. You dip from the pool and taste that which you have been thirsting for.

Crow has been around. He’s seen a lot. Been through a lot. Done a lot. And some of that “lot” invariably has been grief.

Witnessing his grief now makes my own somehow more bearable. I know his will be relieved in just a few more days when we bring his granddaughter home to him, hopefully with a baby growing within.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

How we live now.

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Years back, Bob and I read a book by Dave Ramsey about financial security. It was interesting but not real relevant as I’m firmly planted against living beyond our means. That means, debt is a four letter word for me. (Well I guess it really is four letters, isn’t it?) I don’t like loans. In fact, I don’t even like bank accounts. I’m an odd egg for sure.

Our biggest takeaway from that book was a phrase we embraced then and continue to live by:

“Live like no one else now so you can live like no one else later.“

The premise being, if you don’t have money, don’t spend it. Live simply. Be thrifty. Do without. Save up rather than go into debt. Don’t be buying what you can’t afford. Frugal choices pay off in the long run.

It’s worked for us. We’ll drive a 25 year old truck rather than some “economical” new car that costs more than we make in a year, live off what we grow and pass on Trader Joes… but own the land on which we live.

Even if it doesn’t have a house?

I’m not saying it’s the best way, the right way, or the ideal way for everyone. But it’s worked for us. More or less.

(this is a sneak peak video into our little camper)

It took us a lot of years (like, um, around 50 and 60 respectfully) before we had the courage, grit and gusto (let alone the financial capability) to leave the old family ranch behind and break out on our own.

Finally.

Ours. All ours.

And now…

Here we are.

Still living like no one I know.

For better or for worse. Just how it is.

Go ahead. Laugh at how we live. We do too. It’s a little nuts. But we love it.

You can say it: We are living Red White and Blue. Red neck. White trash. Blue collar. And proud.

We live in a 14 foot camper circa 1964 with a nearby outhouse, no indoor plumbing, hauling drinking water from town and pumping wash water from the creek. We do our laundry by hand in an old churn style wash tub and hang it out to dry on a line strung along the horse fence. All in all, you learn to wash little things like socks and underwear, but realize there’s not much sense in washing the jeans when they’re just going to get dirty again. So, you don’t.

When you’re living at camp, cleanliness kinda goes by the wayside. Yes, I like a tidy home, but you can’t be real picky out here. There’s dirt. Lots of it. And mice, spiders, bats and flies and stuff that take some getting used to. I’m use to it.

Washing isn’t top priority. You save your fork after every meal and though I wash my hands and face in a bucket morning and night, I’ve cleaned my hair only three times since leaving California well over a month ago.

It’s a dirty life, but I love it. Sure, I look forward to keeping a clean house someday. Like when I have a house. But in the meanwhile, I love where we’re at and how we are living and that makes all the dirt and dust and grease and grime okay.

It helps too to have a very patient, loving, and a little bit blind partner living the life along with you.

(yes, that’s hail. and yes, it’s still freezing regularly in the morning, in case you were afraid to ask.)

As for progress and updates and the latest news from up on this high, wild land, well, our son was as usual a huge help getting our floor joists lined out (Thank you, Forrest!!!!!) and Bob and I got the plywood down (see the celebration dance below).

Now it’s time to start going up!

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Slow & Steady.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Things are happening.

Good things.

On the land.

With the building.

In my spirit and soul.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Down and out, way up high.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Because some times a gal’s gotta do….

Nothing.

That’s what I did yesterday.

After a month being here and a season before that preparing to be here (and to be gone from there), all of it caught up with me, wrapped me up hard and tight, and laid me out.

And I guess that’s okay. Can’t say I had much of a choice.

Maybe if I gave less, did less, demanded less of myself, you know? (Sometimes, don’t you feel the same?)

But I don’t. (Do you?)

As long as I’m living, I’m going to live. Fully. And yes, intensely.

Even in my own quiet, wild way.

Not half-assed, but full on. Building, living, writing, creating, witnessing, listening, loving.

Even when it does to me what it did yesterday.

Knocks me out.

Even that, I did full on.

Nothing part way about it.

Complete shut down.

A day in bed.

And today, this morning, with the cacophony of summer birds song filling the air with the same intensity of the strong light of morning sun flooding our wide open valley, and the pride of seeing the cabin slowly come to life (very slowly though it seems), and the gratitude for my husband for allowing me a day to shut down (and dealing with the normal high vibe intensity that is a wild wave he manages to float upon with ease), that intensity softens, just enough, as the rooster crows and the hens run around work site as if we churned up the ground just for them, and the horses lay prone in the morning peace, and the pup ever ready for play waits patiently for my energies to return…

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin