Author: Gin Getz

The process of unpacking

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

And now I hear the waters roar, already brown with the fury of an early melt.  The Rio Grande, here still untapped, untamed, wild.  The wilds I have been yearning for.  Releasing once again.

A premature spring, washing down hillsides, singing like the sound of wind through leaves, above the crackle and hiss of the camp fire as we sit there huddled in our down jackets and wool hats defiant of the cold, determined to celebrate under the light of the growing moon, illuminating silver patches of snow banks, drifts, the flat open expanse of the reservoir below, and the wide white open peaks standing sentinel above.

I was sure I’d have all kinds of time to describe it all – from how it felt to how it looked.  But truth be known, I’m tired.  Moving is hard work.  I’m not the first to figure that out, and you’d think that having moved just a matter a months ago, this would not have come as a great surprise.  But it did.  Somehow I was sort of thinking that maybe moving back would be something all together different, and really, a piece of cake.  OK, so I was wrong.  It’s just as hard as any move.

And still… it was worth it.  I’d lift my half of that leather sofa a hundred times or more to live a life so full and rich.

So, after four days on the road we arrived, cats and dog and Bob and me.  Within forty five minutes, all systems were a-go.  Solar electricity, running water, wood stove, cook stove, and (this one really blows me away) satellite internet!

And there we are, on the deck looking around and starting the lists that have for the past ten years seemed endless and prove to be still.

By morning I notice the crows holding vigil in the bare aspen above the abandoned chicken coop, the Steller’s jays on the deck already glad for our return and awaiting their first free meal in what seems like ages.  Then the clear sweet song of blue birds and robins blending in harmony with the wind, the river, the rush of my  heart, all somewhere between me, the mountain, the river and the seemingly endless sky.  I savor the scent of this thin crisp air.  Intoxicating is the altitude!

And then not in the plans, but often the best of life is not.  Visiting friends, good people, a necessary reminder that community is here too, along with bottomless coffee pots and plenty of no-occasion-more-special-than-here-and-now bottles of wine.

Some things may look the same, but nothing really is, this much I know.  And I like that. I take an odd comfort in that.   The unknowing.  The uncertainty.  The adventure.  The mystery, passion and uncontrollable wilds.  Keeping me on my toes.  Think fast and live well and don’t waste a moment unless doing nothing is exactly what I’d rather be doing more than anything else at this very instant.

Which does sound tempting right about now…

Waiting for the roar of spring waters

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

I hear the river only to realize it is no more than the rustle of last year’s life clinging to the trees, brown and thin and wrinkled like an old ladies flesh over bony fingers.

 

My Rio Grande awaits me.  I hear her in the leaves, the wind, an SUV driving before daylight down the gravel and snowpack road on the hill below my apartment.

 

And now I am gone.  Heading there.  Back to her.  To her wail and roar and brown fury bursting through frozen grounds.

 

The sound of the engine numbs me for hours today as I leave the past behind, a good past, a good winter, good people, the best friend I found since I was a child.  And we drive, the same truck we’ve been driving since we met ten years ago, now towing  a 24 foot trailer loaded down with horse tack smelling of the beasts I left behind, packed with snowmobiles, motorbikes and furnishings that transformed a little white walled north facing apartment into a cozy home. And three cats, one dog, and the two of us.

 

Loud rain on the truck, hard metal, cold pavement, wash away tears of goodbye.

 

If it wasn’t bittersweet, I wouldn’t be doing it right.

 

The forest wept a sweet farewell.  The mildest winter I have had in years.  Over night, it fell apart at the seams. Rain, pure and rich and heavy from the intensity of a magenta and steel grey sun rise rolling overhead so close I could almost touch it. Tenacious snow spilling white and wet from the secret sides of hidden trees on the north bank.  Soft rain on hard metal roofs, tapping a familiar tune on my window sill awakens me.  I am stirring back to life.

 

Farewell, I say, as I begin to leave.  Shedding a new layer of skin. Her soft ways have pleased me but not drawn me in.  Intense passions have been subdued.  Somewhere through the rain streaked window in the hum and splash of traffic, I consider the tangled commitment to the land like legs of a lover beneath sweaty sheets.  Passions reemerging.  Perhaps with a familiar horizon.

Where I’m coming from

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

(The following was drafted a month ago as we were considering how life was turning in such a way as to send us back to Colorado) *

 

Am I odd to define myself by where I find myself?

Here, now.  It is soft, mild, easier.  Words I don’t want to use to describe me.  I sound too old.

I would rather use strong, wild, passionate, stormy, intense, maybe a little bit gritty.

But those words don’t fit here.  And I see now, neither do I.

Here is “nice.”  It’s comfortable.  I’m used to extremes.  Isn’t that why we chose the mountains?  High, harsh and frigid.  Obviously not.  That’s why more people live here.  Comfortably.

What is it about those extreme elements of the San Juan Mountains that draw me?

Here, nearly seven thousand feet lower than where I was and about as far north as you can get in the Lower 48.

Here, where the thermometer regularly read a full twenty degrees higher than I was used to all winter as I headed out bundled like a swaddled babe to brave my morning chores.

Here, where the wind sort of puffs.  People don’t store spare tires on their shed roofs, hold their breath each time they drive through a snow drift hoping they’ll make it to the other side, and discuss afternoons in terms of how bad and damage done.

It snows, but one could hardly call it a storm.  More like a flat white sky slowly merging with boughs on these tall trees and then descending to the monotone curves of the ground which rise a little higher every few days.  It’s gradual.  I’m missing drama.

Here excitement is noted by current road conditions and the futile battle to conquer the slow, steady stream of the elements. My neighbors exude a passion for plowing.  No conversation is complete without discussing the finer points of snow removal techniques. Standards are based upon V-plows on pick-ups, push blades on ATVs, snow blowers, berms, banks, and the underlying assumption of a shovel standing sentinel at every front door and lurking beneath the hatchback of every Subaru.  The evolved philosophy of chains, studded tires and four wheel drive.

Snow accumulates, a few inches at a time, then is worked religiously, pushed to the side in monstrous banks traced with lines of mud and spots of gravel.  In the eternal freeze/thaw hell the road turns first to slush and then to a sheen of ice smooth enough to qualify as a skating rink, though not quite as fun due to the steep slope. And then as soon as one finishes sanding, a fresh layer of snow just sort of appears and consumes the sand and you start all over again.  How many layers of this sand/slush/ice lasagna will reveal themselves in spring?

Even shadows are pallid and mild mannered. The sun only semi-shines.  I swear. It too is soft, sweet, demure and polite. What’s with that?   Give me some gusto!  Burn me!  Let me feel you sting my chilly cheeks and smell you on the small bits of exposed flesh when out there in the wide and wild opens mid day you heat my garments enough to peel me down to pale skin.  (Forgive me for this confession, for I know it is hardly wise considering the known facts of the sun’s damaging effects on skin, and the ruthless wrinkles I’m revealing already at forty five are testament to the damage already done.)

I’m lusting for biting winds and burning sun and temperatures so low they freeze your breath before it leaves your nose.  For views that continue beyond where I can see until the mountains fade into a fiery sky and if I climb of any one of those peaks tempting and teasing me to make it to the top, I can let loose my hair, lay back my head, and howl like the feral beast lying dormant within me and know no one can hear me and wonder what the heck this crazy woman is up to now and I take great comfort in that.

I want to feel alive!

And so what would you do if you were me?  That’s silly to ask, for if someone asked me what I would do if I were she, chances are, the answer would be to play it safe and stay.  Grow up and give up.  And you’re not going to hear that from me.

 

* A disclaimer to all my Washington friends:   I allow myself artistic liberty when it comes to writing, but the last thing I mean to do is put down your beautiful state and my awesome neighbors (trust me on this:  I’d trade a few of those from Colorado for the crew I got to live near here in Washington).  However, sometimes I write because it sounds good, or feels good, or I like the way the story works.  Besides, writing about the better parts of winter, like skis/snowshoes with Tricia, Lynne’s Three Rivers dog training and our agility crew, open minded intelligent and stimulating conversations on one hand or Hobbit House destruction progress on the other with the best bosses we’ve had in years (the only, I confess too, as we’ve been self employed for years until now), and the best bitter ale from the Old School House Brew Pub… those things probably wouldn’t sell stories. (Or maybe, just maybe, they would…). So yes, my love for Washington, at least the Methow Valley and these people, I hope you know is sincere!  Only… different…

The nitty gritty

/ Gin Getz / 14 Comments

Here’s the deal.   Last fall, we packed up and moved out, leaving the home and business we built, saw the son off to college, and Bob and I flew the coop together instead of wallowing in our empty nest.  Took a few months away from blogging to finish a separate writing project.  Then suddenly I reappear only to say, “Guess what?  I’m moving again!”

Where?

Back where I came from.

I would tell you life is all about change.  Perhaps it is for me.  For now.  Of course it won’t always be.  This is my challenge. What is yours?

Friend and author, Laura Crum, reminds me, “…the still pond is not always stagnant. Sometimes it is clear as crystal and of an unimaginable depth.”

I remind her I have not been so lucky.  I am no Wendell Berry who has “never not known where (he) belonged.”  Some of us were not born in the place where we were meant to stay.  We have our work cut out for us in a different way.  Our lives are not about diving into the still quiet depths in the world around us, but in learning to find it within us while the world around us spins…

And yes, I do get dizzy and wait for this thing called life to slow down.  I too shall allow deep roots to take and spread some day, though the land on which they grow will be my choice and challenge, as finding it seems to be.

There is not one right way.  As I responded to Laura, “…points of view bring further wisdom if one is willing to listen (or read).”

For now, a few specifics. The nitty gritty.

First, about blogging.  I am glad to be back. Back to the blog, that is. Back at the ranch, well, that remains to be seen and is still a week or so away.  Though I think you can imagine how I might feel when we arrive.

I have missed this form of writing, sharing, bouncing ideas and receiving your feedback, not to mention the opportunity of keeping in touch with many of you. So, back to blogging.  To bouncing ideas and pushing myself to get my work out there, even if it is rough and rustic and falling apart at the edges.  At least I’m trying, writing, growing, evolving as a writer, slowly but surely.  Pushing myself.  I’m keen on pushing myself.  For now, I’ll try to post at least three days a week (Monday, Wednesday and Friday). Check back regularly; there should be something new.

Second, where we are, where we’ve been and where we’re going.  Well, this is a little more complicated.  I’ll sum it up by saying we’re in northern Washington State, somewhere between the edge of the Methow Valley and the North Cascade mountains. And we’re going back to our Lost Trail Ranch in Colorado. The rest of the story will come out in due time.

And third, what the heck are we doing with our life?

I’m not so sure what our plans are for the future, though we’re not running the cabin rental business anymore and the outfitting business is changing hands.  Time for us to move on with the rest of our lives and find our next calling. (No offence to y’all, but this one has been fulfilled.)  Still just a whisper, but I’m thinking it will turn into a song before you know it.

Where to next?

For now, we’ll stay firmly planted with our feet in the clouds.  We’re sticking to our land in Colorado, way high up in the San Juan Mountains and figure things out from there. We are oddly excited. Nervous as young lovers. Butterflies in our stomachs.  I just caught Bob whistling a John Denver tune. (Don’t tell him I told you that.)

So you see, same place we were, but everything has changed.  Life is like that. Guess it all comes down to how you look at things.  Right now I’m looking at a still pond that is very, very deep.  Only it’s not the land.  It’s me.  So I am learning.

Thanks for checking in.  See you Monday.

On Returning.

/ Gin Getz / 15 Comments

Am I returning?  Yes… and no.  I am not going back, but moving forward to a place I once was.  A place where I belong.  Now.

By choice.  My choice.  My land.

I’m moving again.

Remember this. Moving does not necessarily mean staying long enough to get comfortable.  (As if “comfortable” was what I was looking for?)

Moving does not always come with a sense of commitment set in stone.  Life is more like the flow of water tumbling rocks.  Still waters turn stagnant.  We must move, change, evolve, bloom.  Surge and swell like water and waves fed by no more than a gentle stream.

So we move. It’s what we do.  Or at least what we did before and are doing again.  I can’t say it’s been a conscious choice.  We did not plan for a short term move and back again. But I can tell you this.  We are living life full.

As I look back on my adult life (and at 45, that can read “only?” to some, and “OMG!” to others), there are the facts. Moving happens. For example, the first three years of my son’s life, as a single mom trying to make it on our own, we moved a dozen times.  Say what you will, it worked. More or less. We survived, if not thrived.

Sure, I’m looking to settle down.  And our ranch is (and was) the most stable sense of permanence, of home, I’ve known.  Crazy when you realize all the conflict and turmoil it came with.

And here we are. Returning on one hand.  Leaving on the other.

We wouldn’t be living right if leaving was easy.

Of course there’s more to say.  Another day.

Thanks for being there.  Wherever your “there” may be. For I am learning this. “There” does not define you.  I wonder if, if anything, it holds you back rather than sets you free?

Take a break!

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

My dear readers,

I am taking a brief break in posting while I’m completing another writing project. But before I sign off for a little hiatus, I believe a brief “thank you” is in order. A thank you to my readers – especially those who have been with me for years, who I now feel I know intimately though many I have never met.

(I always say I write to be read, to express, reach out and share. Not just to get the words out of my head. Though sometimes it feels like the latter.)

My gratitude is sincere though my ability to express it might be a bit lacking.

While I’m off for a while working on my “other” writing project, please continue to keep in touch, through this blog or by writing me directly. I’ll be here. Writing, and reading, and as always, thinkin’ and dreamin’.

For now, I leave you with a list below of a few of my favorite posts written over the years, just in case you have a few minutes to share here with me a while over a good cup of strong coffee.

Warmly,
Gin

The Night the Chicken Blew Away
Moving the Little Cabin by the Big River and a few words about Hillbilly Ingenuity
Untitled (The death of Artemis)
Grains of Sand
Losing the Bull
The Homestead Bear
Grill Chicken
Ditch Diaries
On Truth
Newcomer
Lucky Girl
Return
More on the Fear Factor
Two Poems by Two Special People
About Not Getting Lost

From a New Perspective
 Cowgirl Up
Leap!
An Open Letter to My Son
Seduced by Earth and Sky

A song for the autumn river

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

 

Upon returning from a stunning day skiing (yes, skiing…) atop the frozen Methow River… I was inspired to rework this poem originally started back in October of 2010 inspired by my beloved Rio Grande.  Thank you to new friends and neighbors here in Washington for a feritle seed of inspiration, and to those who put up patiently with my longing for where I was.

 

The water lures me as she has so many times before
Now emerging discreet as a delicate muse in the woods
Her hollow voice tempting in a distant primordial chant
Of silver coins tossed from teasing fingers
Her sweet smell and silky sway and wave taunting down the mountainside

And if I stand here long enough will I see her freeze
Watch the surface relinquish to the stagnant state of frozen waters

Am I no more than a voyeur
Standing safely out of reach
Dry on her precarious banks
Enthralled
While she takes no heed of my presence
I am but a hunched form like a leaning tree casting shade across her face
As her struggle to keep fluid ebbs and flows in thickening waters below

Watching the last of her dazzling dance down the mountain
A spray of glittering waters splashing over rocks worn smooth by her impassive force
As the last of the lowering sunlight sheds long shadows across her ever changing shell
So soon to be concealed for the drunken duration of long winter

The surge of ice shall spread expand swell and cover
Suffocate the last of this seasons song
As she gives up gives in and can no longer hold her own
Succumbing to the weighty swathe of ice and snow
Cooling and calming her passions
Reducing restricting constricting her rage
Held back at bay by the season

The expanding cold takes charge of her course
Secrets and sounds still
The long static expanse being laid out above her
A white ribbon winding between two hills of black timber
Silent

The end of a white noise louder than the clatter rolling around in my mind

I lose myself in the last of this frigid rushing
The conclusion of open waters and her alluring voice
Soon to be suppressed
Numb and stifled with no words of her own
Tucked away behind her hijab

I lean over and dip in my hand
Calloused palm seared by cold waters
Fingers outstretched seeking searching
As if I might hold onto something solid
Perchance an understanding
But all she does is move around me
Unconcerned with the minor inconvenience of my flesh and blood and bone
Appearing a ghostly white beneath the slick surface

I pull back my hand now red and throbbing
Anger at the violent cold
And allow the water to continue without me
My futile interference leaves not a ripple
I am allowed to watch but nothing more
The river is stronger than I am

And to think of how many spend a lifetime
Struggling to subdue control alter and own
That which is mightier than you or I will ever be

She will have her time again
Singing loudly with fierce abandon
As the ice recedes and she releases her pent up rage
Wild with furious brown waters
Six months from now

Last night I dreamed of horses

/ Gin Getz / 9 Comments

Last night I dreamed of horses, running towards me on an open field, wild things, tossing their manes in a rhythm of tempestuous waves on the open sea, tails whipping like tattered flags, louder and louder the pulse of primordial drums until I feel the earth trembling beneath my still feet as I wait for them to near. They close in, mob about me, as they’ll tend to do when they see me out on pasture. Coming not for treats as that’s not my thing, but as children vying for attention, of which I still never have enough to satisfy them or myself.

Long noses, round brown eyes and prickly hairs under the round balls of their chins. Their scent a pacifying perfume, a mix up of memories of leather, sweat, and sweet grass. I try to comfort them in turn, a gentle touch on the firm flat space on the side of their necks where my fingers hide beneath the shadow of their manes, or a soothing stroke starting just above their eyes and rubbing in a line down the front of their extended noses, feeling the weight and density of bones beneath, so close to the surface, the skull I am too familiar with after seeing the remains of plenty who have passed before me, with me, near me, in my arms.

I slide onto Crow’s back (clearly a dream, for little as the horse may be, the older I become, the harder mounting bareback becomes) easing my leg over his back and hoisting myself upright with my hands pressing against his withers. There, where I am comfortable, comforted, where I have spent so many hours before. My buttocks firmly planted in the center of his back, a perfect fit, my thighs wrapping around and down in the hollow between scapula and ribs, lower legs draping below his belly, my boots loose and relaxed, suspended as if weightless and barely attached. I reach forward and touch the poll framed between his pointy ears, a window through which I’ve seen so many mountains and trails. I lean further, run my hands down his neck and around in a knotted embrace, my chest to his neck, my nose deep into his mane. And we stand there, nothing more, me on he, my patient horse awaiting word of what I want, and yet I want no more than to be there with him. Soft and smooth and gentle on his warm back while the others mill about, contented simply to be there too.

Back to a world of white

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

The obscurity of a mid-night with no moon
Silent stirring of a shadow hiding in shade
A flower unfolds in this darkness
Bright blossom petals
No one can see
A blind woman roused by the fragrance
Feels the colors
Emerging