Homesteading

Wide Open: An Ode to the Wild West.

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

Somewhere along the way 

of this long, quiet ride that life is

a calling becomes lucid.

Maybe even glaring. Too big to brush aside.

Listen. Deeply.

And if you dare, heed the counsel:

Throw open the gates that define and confine you

and set the wild horses of your spirit free.

Open. This is the initiation. The invitation. Again and again. Over and over. The eternal unfurling. A boundless break to something far bigger than you and yours. You feel it out here in a land raw and vast as the shades of sand and stars and a transient autumn storm and the rugged landscape passing between the rapid beating of the windshield wipers offering temporary clarity to the road ahead.

Open. To something you cannot tame, you cannot hold, you cannot confine nor contain, but you can be with, a part of, like one more star in that starry sky. Some complete connection of space in a land so vast it does not separate us in these distances, but allows us each to be. Each of us. Those who dare to be out here. Together, though not too close. We come here lusting room to roam. After all, some of us weren’t made to fit in. We’re made to step out. This is the land of black sheep on the outskirts of a field of white ones bunched in a flock of concrete and pavement, chairs in a row, drawing within dotted lines. Out here, even the misfit fits in, between the sand and stars and amongst the wild beasts that we are, just enough feral and free. 

We’re driving across the Wild West. Once again on Highway 50. Nevada. Eastern Utah. Between sorrel earth and stormy sky, corrugated mountains and swaths of seemingly endless basins in between. 

It is a land that coincides with the opening of one’s soul, synchronizing with the opening of time and space, all of which out here appears unbridled. This is the land of freedom. unable to be tamed, conquered, claimed and branded. Not a place to set your plow, build to code, and remain safe and sound. No, it is a land that will rip open your armor and test your true strength, of body, mind and soul. 

Opening as we drive across this Wild West where I am reminded how to breathe.

I am driving the 25-year-old van decorated with chipped paint as camo-covering and a window replaced with roofing screws holding tight a piece of a plastic tote in an attempt to keep out rain. It works. The van is where we and the two big dogs camp at night close enough to our horses to see them in the big moon that this last week afforded, rising later each night, lingering longer into the white light of morning each day.

Bob drives the flatbed with racks. My people use racks. Showing our true colors. Red may be our necks. White may be our trash. Blue may be our collars. Black may be our sheep. As brown and tan are the landscape that allows us a place to be.

The West opens to us. Not holding us in, but letting us be. This is the way of the Wild West. It is not a land to contain you, confine you, though in that freedom, it may define you. It is a place to let you be.

There’s lightning in the rearview mirror. To the side, a band of wild horses with wind swept manes stirring up a dust devil in the distance. Yellow blooming rabbit brush and the soothing scent of sage speckling silver across the sunburned auburn ground framing the pencil straight road ahead. Sunflowers burst in between tumbleweeds along the road that leads into a view that goes on for a hundred miles. Tan earth, dried grass, the color of dirt, of the desert, of mountains, high and harsh and ancient, changing into autumn bronze as it weathers my skin and fades my hair and turns my blue jeans brown.

Ahead the only lights are the taillights of Bob’s flatbed and the horse trailer loaded down with three horses, a flock of chickens, a thousand pounds of garden plants I can’t help but try to grow (indoors) at ten thousand feet (thank you Bob, for allowing this of me) and another thousand pounds of a wide assortment of home-canned jars of home-grown produce, since where we are going is not like where we were.

Opening. To what feels like home. Coming home like the Joads, the Beverly Hillbillies, with everything but the rocking chair where laughingly I would like to be; for there’s no person, no place, I’d rather be than in the true grit of this Wild West. How could you not fall in love with these wide open spaces? 

In my reverence of this land, I may be blind to assume this wild vastness is what everyone’s soul longs for. It is not. It’s not for everyone. Certainly not for those who prefer to remain held, helped, where they fit in, conform and are confined as they cling to the comfort of their castle walls, not seeing the shackles they have chosen to wear, or so those things feel to me.

Out here a person feels stripped of those restraints. You may not be safe, but you are free. Safety is a myth we cling to like the search for the place where we belong, until we wake one day and realize that where we belong is where we are, who we are, and no matter where we are, we are a part of this big bright beautiful world. 

Open up and strip yourself of the burden of fitting in with the flock and keeping up with Jones. And in that nakedness, freedom is found. 

What do you choose? 

The only right answer is what your soul says. Listen deeply to what she says.

Mine calls for freedom. 

That is what I choose.

I choose this rugged land and life. 

Somehow in my forming, conformity was not a thing.

Out here in these wide open spaces, with every breath, an opening, calming, welcoming, home. This is my Wild West. This is my home. A land where outlaws and outcasts have room to roam beyond confines of social media and social norms; a land where black sheep remain untamed outside of the fluffy white flock.

Opening into the Mountain West as we move onward. Opening like wings unfurling, catching air,  rising high, soaring upward, as we move from outside one small town to outside another small town and along the way is this big wide open space like the endless sky that rips open your fears and you realize you have been holding your breath for too long.

Open. Open your heart, your mind, your eyes. Soften your gaze and let the magic in. Magic can’t be found staying safe in your box. Open the lid. Have the courage to step out. Magic is there waiting for you. The invitation. The initiation. It doesn’t appear suddenly while you’re still sleeping in the same old box.

Opening to the ritual of moving, in our case across Hwy 50, from the far North of California, back to the Southern Mountains of Colorado. Opening as our convoy rumbles eastward with the sound of down-pouring rain drowning out the chugging motor and scratchy western ballads on a distant FM radio station and the snore of sleeping dogs as I drive down the loneliest road in the mesmerizing trance following the horse trailer’s taillights.

This opening is a return to grit and gusto, high and wild, cold and harsh, rough and rugged. 

And yet into this landscape, I soften. My heart opens. My spirit soars.

And now…

Opening. To a new life, a new world, a new homestead waiting to be created. Roll up my sleeves. Get to work. There’s lots of work be done. Starting over. Again. Building from scratch. A home. A homestead. A dream. A fiery passionate way of life not for the mild mannered, yet nor for those needing to be heard. Not when the nearest neighbor is eight miles away.

The open road ends, horses unloaded, chickens and dogs and a stray cat picked up along the way find their way, settle in, heels and hands grounded in black soil while spirits soar into this wild open starry sky as never before though something I have always been.

Writing has been bumped to the back seat for a while. Social media too, but admittedly I am enjoying the distance from that distraction while enjoying the reality of face-to-face, one-on-one, real connection, real touch.

Beginning again. There is always a before and after. And in the middle, there is the real-deal cliche of blood, sweat and tears. There is tending. Nurturing. Caring. Stewarding. Giving. And a good dose of dreaming.

Beginning again. Starting over. It is hard, but I’ve always said easy isn’t always good. Security is a false hope to hold fast to. Stop clinging. Leap. And if you don’t find a net at first, get to work; start weaving one.

And so I weave. With calloused hands and soiled jeans, dusty boots and windswept hair blowing like the tails of those wild horses.

And a fear arrises as I see how far I am, how far I have come, how far I have yet to go. Can I do it all over again?

I imagine myself someday in the hopefully not so distant future when we have a hot water tub and a safe chicken run, a warm barn for the horses, fencing for cows and the garden grows.

I will be standing there, strong, leaning into the wind. Hair ever wisping like that of the wild horses. The brown a little grayer. Arms and legs a little more wiry. I hope to stand proud not against but with, into the elements as I wear the weather with the roadmap of my wild life etched across my face. 

And one day years to come I will think once again of before and after, knowing that in the middle there is seemingly endless work, dirty floors and dirt imbedded in the skin, bruises and sore muscles, broken tools and re-framed plans, using the outhouse and stuffing insulation between logs – all of this and more along with a good dose of dreaming and laugher, awe and love. Always, always, love.

For now I am there. Here. Deep in the Wild West. In the transition of ever opening. Into a new world. A very old world. A world we are only beginning to bring to life.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Ode to the soil.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

I’ve spent more time than usual sitting the past few weeks, the only way to gain momentum and leap ahead with progress on a book. It’s working. But you know what they say about all work and no play.

I reward myself with time in the garden. Sipping hot tea while wandering through the rows, touching and talking to tender growth. Tending to spring crops, watering the greenhouse, planting cover crops, spreading wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of compost and manure – manure that has been ritually shoveled every day without exception that I am home, for the well being of the horses and health of soil. This is why the garden grows.

Most days it’s hard to tear away and return to work.

Right now I lay on the grass with my fingers penetrating the soil like little rounded trowels, pulling a weed, disturbing an earthworm, connecting with soil and space.

Soil is humbling. A basic need. From which it all grows. Life, hope and dreams.

Funny how one learns to love their soil.

The dogs traipse it in after every rain. It lingers under my nails, between my toes and the creases of my soles are emblazed with it. It also grows my food and feeds my soul and brings the community of life, wild life, together.

Digging deep into the soil now, I pause to watch the earthworms wriggle around wanting to return to the cold, moist black gold they have helped me build.

Couldn’t find one worm when we moved here. They may have been there hiding, but in my haste I ordered a bag online (yes, you can buy live worms) and got the magic moving.

Couldn’t find a garden either, of course, because there wasn’t one back then.

Now, nearly seven years later, I look around and can’t say I created this unless I am some magician – though often it feels like there’s magic here – I simply helped awaken it, brought it to life, and moved a helluva lotta dirt along the way.

I’m grateful for the experience of witnessing the awakening of the land, as if it were waiting, just waiting, to be tended to.

It is an honor to be steward of the land. Growing respect and responsibility to leave land better – healthier and more beautiful – than how it was found.

It all pays off – not just in ways you want and what you can get out of it. You must ask yourself: what can I give the soil, not just what can I get in return.

And oh, I get so much.

A  beautiful place.

A healing place.

A sacred space.

It is far beyond the food it provides. It’s the nourishment it brings body and even soul, feeding the collective realm – beneficial bugs and birds, earth worms, grass that welcomes bare feet and rolling dogs, and clover that will shine all summer to feed the bees and reaches down into deep dark places, sharing some secret goodness with the soil.

And yet, it does provide. Bountifully. It might not be a gourmet grocers produce dept all year, but it is plenty. We eat simply. Seasonally. I am hardly lacking. I may not have a tomato in April but my artichokes have already started, the asparagus are almost obscene, there’s onion and garlic greens and last year’s leeks, lettuce overwintered in the greenhouse, spinach just about ready, kale left from volunteers that reseeded in last year’s cover crop, cauliflower cabbage broccoli fresh chard and kale nearly ready to be shared, and last spring’s chard has yet to bolt.

And then the crown jewel of the soil, of the garden. Next week begins the show. Well over thirty rose bushes will begin to share their abundance. The symbiotic relationship with soil in all its glory, ever growing.

Oh, the beauty, bounty and blessings of soil!

Alright, woman… go back inside and get to work…

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

A new chapter begins.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

I know I need to explain, and I promise to do so soon.

For now, I’m just dropping the bomb.

I’ll be back to clean up the pieces later this week….

Here it goes:

Have you ever dreamed of place peaceful, private, safe, simply sustainable and attainable, beautiful and blissful, an off grid sanctuary tucked into the mountains along a wild river that symbiotically nurtures and nourishes as you tend lovingly to the land?

Me too.

Riverwind.

In the far, far north of California, there is a land that few know even exists. A land of wild mountains, untamed rivers and free spirits. A land of outlaws and outcasts or folks often just a little off kilter that somehow balance one another beautifully, caring for the land as they care for the community. It’s not the California you know. Most don’t know. We’d like to keep it that way. Safe to say, it’s a hidden gem, a secret treasure, a forgotten  bit of paradise that feels so far away from all the stresses and pressures and problems that too many have come to think is how the world has come to be.

There is another way.

Nearly thirty years ago, by some serendipitous situation, I found it. Six years ago, I returned. It was like returning home, though a home neglected and in need of the blood, sweat and tears, dreams and vision, that Bob and I were able to pour into this place. We healed the land as we healed our hearts… and in the process of this symbiotic nurturing, Riverwind came to be, and we have been blessed to be a part of her story…

The story continues. It’s time for a new chapter. We have chosen to move on. It’s complicated. I’ll explain later. But for now, I share this.

Riverwind Ranch. For sale.  

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/8480-Saint-John-Rd-Hyampom-CA-96046/338169837_zpid/?utm_campaign=zillowwebmessage&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=txtshare

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

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

On plans and places.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

(looking back at the healthy forest surrounding our little bit of paradise – that little clearing in the center – here in the far north of California)

~

Contemplating slow living and the complexities of the simple life.

So much of that is based on making the most of what you have, and doing it yourself.

As in, if you want lumber for building…

You fall trees, skid them, clean the slash, load logs on the mill, saw them to size, stack them.

And then in this case… haul them from here to there.

California to Colorado.

Simple living, sounding somewhat complicated.

I’ll explain.

This is my first attempt at sharing a video on this blog. I want to show you what milling is like. However, it’s hard to hold a device in one hand AND crank the mill with the other. So I may have some figuring out to do. In the meanwhile, go ahead and say it: Cinematography is not my strong point.

Bob did a lot better. This is the video he took after I whined about how bad mine was.

~

So about the mill.

It’s slow, old, free and ours.

It was left behind at another “high and wild” property we once owned, just for a little while. Another fixer upper. That place was a little TOO high. At an elevation of 11,400 feet, turned out to be too much even for Bob and me. We got headaches, bloody noses, had trouble sleeping, got battered by the elements… but we did fix the place up nicely and flipped it.

And, bonus: we got this mill out of the deal.

Yeah, I know, it’s old. Go ahead and say it (Bob does all the time): too old! It’s crazy slow. You gotta crank the wheel for several minutes just to raise or lower the carriage that holds the blade, then crank some more to move the carriage as the blade inches it way through the wood. Crank again to raise it, crank it back to the beginning, then lather, rinse, repeat. It’s a lot of cranking and a helluva a test of patience. Apparently I have a lot, because even as the one doing all that cranking, every time Bob shows me pictures or starts talking about a new mill, I’m quick to shut him down.

“This is what we have,” I remind him (and myself). And though it’s slow, check it out: it works. We’ve used more modern mills. You know, those fancy ones with bells and whistles, flashing lights, keyboards, electronics or at least hydraulics that cost about as much as a mortgage. This one is gear and chain and crank drive, do your own measuring and your own math, and it was free. Simple. Slow living, slow milling, see what I mean?

Slow as it is, I love it. Yes, I love milling. I love the smell of the wood, and working out in the elements (most times). I love watching dead trees turn into valuable lumber. And I love working with my husband, which after twenty something years building together has brought us to that place of operating in relative wordlessness and this flow that feels almost like a dance. We know what needs to be done, move in unison, use hand signals, nods and knowing glances (and probably a few grunts) to converse. Slow and steady, it works for us.

Despite clothes, hair, and all parts of exposed (and somehow even covered) skin getting enrobed in sawdust every afternoon, the pride in making our own lumber from our own trees is a thrill for me. Maybe I’m an odd sort, but I’m in the right place.

And slow as the mill and the process is, it does work. Beautifully. We milled all the dimensional lumber for that “high and wild” remodel with this mill. There, a buddy milled all the logs for an entire cabin from the beetle kill trees on that land. When we moved from Colorado to California, we brought the mill with us and processed all the lumber for this remodel we’re living in now (you can see some of it HERE.). And maybe when we’re done milling here this spring, chances are we’ll move it back.

Here and now, because of that mill and the beetle killed timber on this land, the majority of materials for our upcoming build are free. (Oh and a big shout out of thanks to my sis and her man for the incredible windows we scored as they replaced theirs!) Beat that. Makes slow somehow okay that way.

The process starts with Bob doing most of the work you forget needs to be done before you even get to mill: falling trees, delimbing and clearing slash, skidding logs, loading them onto the mill. Then I get to do my magic.

I’m the (not necessarily) smooth operator of this old roaring beast, which entails a lot of cranking as I said: cranking her up and down and back and forth, moving the blade through the log with each pass. Sloooooowly. Like everything about this process. Yet… beautifully! At least it’s beautiful to me.

We’ve used it so long, done it so much, by now it’s muscle memory for me. I’m so used to the sound and feel I can do it with my eyes closed. And often I have to. Because when the wind blows my way, which often times it does, so does the sawdust.

And after almost every pass, there’s the joint effort of rolling the log on the mill, which involves a bunch of prying with peaveys and few grunts and groans, then carrying each board off to be sorted and stacked.

Board by board, beam by beam, slowly we’re amassing what we need to build a new home.

It’s exciting. Rewarding in so many ways. Not the least of which is that in the process of taking down trees to mill, we’re cleaning up our land. See, a lot of the doug fir is dying. Beetle kill. Not even close to devastating and depressing as it was back fifteen years or so ago in southern Colorado when we witnessed the demise of 90% of the blue spruce trees there. Year after year, mile after mile, mountain after mountain, a giant wave, gradual and all consuming, turned the hills from green to gray. All those trees, killed by a tiny beetle no bigger than a grain of rice.

Pine beetles, bark beetles, call them what you will. They’re in California too. Only here in Trinity County, at least on our land and the hills surrounding us here, it doesn’t feel devastating. It isn’t. See, here, when one tree dies, another spreads it wings and seems to take flight in the newfound open space. So as some of our doug fir die, the black oak, white oak, live oak, oregon ash, alder, dogwood and madrone already in place, open with the added air space and water that the crowding conifers otherwise devour. It feels somehow natural, normal, beautiful to witness this change over the past nearly six years we’ve been here, as parts of the land unfurls like a giant exhale, revealing the sky and a sense of spaciousness, and we watch as part of our land shifts from a conifer forest to a healthy oak grove. The diversity of species here is remarkable. You barely notice the loss of evergreens were it not for the low stumps left behind.

Thanks to these beetles, we have plenty of trees to build with.

Damn. After the devastation our Colorado mountains endured due to those little buggers, I never, ever thought I say something nice about them.

And so it goes: if you want lumber, fall trees, clear slash, etc. and then… haul to Colorado.

So about that part about hauling to Colorado…

Really?

Yes, really.

See, even after milling off the rotted two to three inches that many of these big trees often have around their girth, what we’re left with is a lot of lumber. Good lumber. Really good, and better than what we’d mill in Colorado. These dead doug fir have heavier, heartier wood than beetle kill blue spruce. Wood strong enough for framing, thick enough to stack for walls, and dense enough to hold heat inside the cabin they’ll one day be.

That’s what this work is all about now. Like mining for gold. Getting down to the good stuff. And this wood is good.

And here’s the thing. Time is of the essence. Sure it would be great to take our time and log and skid and peel and notch and slowly stack logs from our Colorado land where this house will be. And for our next project, that’s what we plan to do. (Yes, knowing us…)

But for now, for starters, for just getting a cabin built, quick and simple and safe and sound, lets be real. We won’t have that time this year. The only chance we have of getting this project done and having a roof over our head and solid structure to winter in (which in the high wild mountains of Colorado is a serious thing) is to do it this way – mill the lumber now, while we can, before the crunch of summer building begins. Or spend a lot of money we don’t have and hire some crew to do it all, wham bam.

Tempting as that sounds some times, that is not what we’ll do.

Slow and steady, we’ll get it done, by making the most of what we have. A lot of beetle killed trees and one old mill. And we’ll work around what we don’t have: time! Building a house from the ground up in the short season between the ground thawing (May) and the ground freezing again (October) – and building something solid and secure enough to winter in – is already a daunting project for a couple that some say have a few too many years behind them to be taking such a project on. Oh yeah, and in addition to the cabin… there’s getting the solar, septic, greenhouse, horse shelter, chicken coop and wood shed (full) done during that time frame as well.

Geez, when I think of all that, I wonder how the hell we’re going to get it done. I probably shouldn’t be sharing our plans as it’s not going to help with our mounting stress.

Just get to work and get it done and stop whining.

And all the while, try to have fun, find the magic and joy and awe all around, be good to each other, each and every day, no matter how slow it goes.

And really, that’s what we do.

So that was the part about “plans.” Haven’t even started sharing the part about “place.”

Guess I’ll save those deep thoughts for another day.

~

Until then.

With love, always love,

Gin