Into morning fog so thick it leaves sheen of droplets covering your heavy coat and the dogs’ coarse fur.
Turn to close the door to the comfort of the woodstove and Christmas lights and a still half filled cup of coffee behind you.
Suddenly engulfed in wet whitewashed morning air, you feel as if you’re swimming, trying to stay afloat on solid ground, your head above water, somehow struggling to breathe.
Step out into it, shrouded as if in a daze, a dream, an altered state, as the season spirals around you like sufi whirling, almost a madness to dance the year to an end. Heading into new moon, as even the night sky darkens before solstice this year. A powerful dark presence stirring within, feeling somehow more so than most years, or is this how you selectively forget each year?
And all around you, defused energy washed over in morning fog and sparkling frost as if waking from a dream while the sun finally clears the hill to the east and you watch horses stand like sundials, flat side to the sun; a heron sitting stoic in the tree in need of the warmth it brings.
And the day begins, beautifully.
Back in where the wood stove hums and Christmas lights twinkle and that coffee is still warm in my favorite cup.
And my mind is haunted by places I have been and am reliving in words alone.
My stomach bunches up in a twisted knot as I write along with where we rode along.
It’s scary to tell you what I did, how it happened.
Tangled in the isolation of writing, as it was in the isolation of riding.
Writing about it takes me there and my breathing becomes tight and shallow; nostrils flare, jaw tightens, teeth clench and my heart feels like it weighs as much as the saddle I hoisted up on the horse each day.
It was the loneliness I have ever been. I don’t want to be alone now. I want to take you with me, sharing the smell of damp leather, fresh sweat, horse hair when I brush them each morning or better yet at the end of day as I slip off the damp saddle blanket that will be the pad upon which I sleep that night, and the horses heads are down in some place lush with field grass, tangled barbed wire off to the side, and the primordial call between a pair of nesting sand hill cranes like a beacon, leading the way, for where they nest, we always find tall greenery and fresh water and a safe place for the horses, and me.
And just out of reach, just beyond the thread of searching for a sense of belonging, that ever and continuous theme for me as it is for some many of us, I thought that journey was going to be about inner strength and independence. Prove to myself (and everyone else) that I was strong and capable. Beyond badass.
Found out I wasn’t and don’t need to be.
See, I set out expecting some solo trial for me and my horses out on the open road.
No people, please.
People scared me more than all the bears, bulls and bugs I slept beside; barbed wire gates and snow banks that stopped me cold in my tracks, as well as maps and apps I never could figure out.
I just wanted to be alone.
And then I was, and no longer wanted to be.
Funny thing is, people turned out to be what the trip was about.
I’ve had a lifetime trying to perfect the art of being the outcast, outlaw, outsider, off gridder, misfit, black sheep, stray cat and/or rebel without a cause. I daresay I’ve done rather well.
People were not my thing.
That journey turned me around.
Rather than it be an adventure based on independence, something I’d always known, I had to learn about interdependence. That was new to me. And it was force fed. Trial by fire, thrown under the bus, sink or swim – call it what you will.
This is what it taught me.
People are good.
Yes, you heard me right.
Never thought I’d say that.
If you know me at all, you never thought I’d say that too.
It’s hard to relive it. Though of course not as hard as it was to do it.
But now the challenge is in sharing it. Writing the real story.
And my fears are no longer about finding good grass, fresh water and a safe place to rest my horses.
It’s finding the right words. It’s wondering if I can write this story well.
Humbly I bow my head as my fingers get work.
No longer gripping well worn reins, lifting packs or pulling cinches tight. Now dancing freely across the keyboard, watching stories come to life.
Lit from a window with dark and drama as if a Vermeer farm house woman painted on old canvas, weathered and worn with time. Where is my pitcher, my cup, a book held just so, or an open letter draped in my perfectly poised hand?
Instead, I loom mighty over a laptop, screen cold blue and buzzing, surreal, unimaginable back in baroque days. Both the computer and me.
The window is open. Damp air thick, smelling of wood smoke wafting from another clean up fire Bob is burning. And the sound of roosters competing in a crowing match, one on the river side, one by the garden. Diligent guards, knowing the hawks are close by. Allowing their ladies to peck and scratch through the fresh layer of damp decay.
And always, over and through it all, here has an ever present thrum of river. The sound a ubiquitous murmur, something that’s always there though so familiar you don’t always hear. Similar to that of traffic I was once used to in other days and feeling far away lands. This is what I hear, here and now.
A gray day. Ancient oaks with spindly outstretched arms like old woman’s fingers, gnarled and swollen from too many years gripping the shovel, the hoe, the broom, the wooden spoon; stand silent over ground matted with leaves still a robust brown covering ever green grass and rich black earth.
The writing desk, before which I’m perched, and upon which my lap top resides, this week brings me out beyond this familiar view to strange places on the open road where I once was. It’s that vibrant green and lush of late spring. The sound is of horses walking in unison, clip clop on some unnamed logging road or alongside a foreboding highway where cars and trucks zip by without meeting eyes or noticing the oddity of a woman riding along miles and miles of barbed wire fences, locked gates and “no trespassing” signs, still somewhere in the north of California.
A Long Quiet Ride, coming back to life in words. It’s not always easy to share. Of course it was harder to do. How does one share what happened out there? How do I bring you with me?
Conserving my words as I sit and stare out the window above my desk.
Wanting them to flow forth for the work at hand.
The book that’s stirring, simmering and working its way out of me now.
Yet poems are what mess around in my mind.
And what can a gal do but play with them, with a mischievous smile and twinkling, rolling gray eyes?
Evening now, leaning back with bent knees.
The familiar feel of warm worn leather holding the bones of my back.
I’m on one side of the sofa.
You are on the other.
Your feet are bare, broad, firm and warm.
While mine look half your size, wrapped in striped wool socks, holes in the toes worn through from wet leather boots left by the door beneath a dripping slicker.
Feet entangled, intertwined. An easy touch. Mindless and comforting as toes play with one another, finding familiar places to be.
While rain pounds down outside onto saturated deck shiny with water coating each old wood board, shimmering alive with pounding rain. And inside the old wood cook stove crackles and casts an amber glow into the half lit room smelling of the last of this seasons roses, rubbed down dogs drying by the fire, and chicken soup simmering on the stove.
We’re quiet.
You are softly spoken.
Teaching me to conserve my words.
A challenge for this rambling mind.
Lost in thought as silent phrases spill across pages of the notebook pressed against my thighs.
As I look up to meet your eyes, looking into, through you and back into me.
Entangled.
With words.
Sitting alone with my muse.
This weekend was rich with poems, poets and a coffee buzz. It’s hard not to succumb to the words that dance in my mind and twirl along my tongue as I read them aloud.
Tonight I watch the waxing moon rise as I lean back into the damp bark and moist moss of my favorite ancient oak. The air is soothing with the sound of crickets in thick woods, now low as if played on tired wings, and the ever present sound of the river, as steady and familiar as my lovers warm breath.
They say a big storm approaches. Be it rain or snow, I am ready. The wood shed and pantry are full. And like the bear still finding plenty on these moon filled nights, we are prepared to settle into the season of dark days.
With stiff shoulders and hands swollen and sore, I am as tired as the leaves that fall, and long for the season of rest. Of turning within. Life, death, pause and rebirth.
Acceptance of the seasons. Of change.
What else can we do?
But for now, right now, the moon and me and the dogs close by, the haunting call of an owl not too far away, all of it, a part of the season, of the land.
A spider’s silk, twinkling from moist air that rises as soon as the sun goes down, is moved by the evening breeze pushing up from the river, and gracefully wraps its silver thread upon my lap.
I take it as a sign. I do that a lot.
Considering the eternal connection, separate as it feels at times.
Wondering how my life has become.
And imagining where it will lead me next.
For now, it feels to be a story more beautiful than I ever imagined life could be.
Here now, the air is gentle, laced with gold as amber leaves fall in the light of bright moon, and the earthy scent of fallen leaves becoming a part of warm wet ground, a salve for the unsettled soul.
Time to return home. I take leave of the substantial oak, signal to the dogs and head towards the glow of the kitchen window. Mushrooms break ground beneath dark timber, and I find myself watching my step as I wander the forest floor in waning light.
The land has yet to freeze and the garden, always a place of solace, lingers, sharing vibrant bounty and beauty surrounded by a golden halo of autumn trees.
This is our first year to harvest zucchini into November, and as we were away for the main season, no, we’re not sick of it yet.
Leaves of tobacco, the sacred bold noble of the garden, are still harvested, ready to be cured and dried.
And roses, the beloved wise women of the grounds, still bloom, fragrant, rich and a little wild.
Yet I feel the natural close of season and have begun to cut back flowers and herbs and am eager to prune the fruit trees, though the flowers still bloom, herbs still aromatic, and fruit is still producing.
The quiet season unfurls. All we can do is settle back into it as if slipping into a warm tub and letting yourself go.
It begins by allowing time. Time to rest. To recover. Time to reflect and plot and plan.
And time to write. Something I still don’t know why I do it except it’s one of those things I can’t not do. I am incomplete without it. Perhaps it is creative passion, an expression of the feral soul, and/or the one thing I have always somehow felt I had that was worthy to give to others.
Lost at my desk, I’m found diving in to words, stories, places, time… some deeply moving, some simply hard, just as was the story I am starting to put into words.
For now, it’s still called, A Long Quiet Ride, because that is what I called it then. Though I’m open to suggestions, and hope you may share some ideas. The title, they say, is one of the hardest parts to write. And yet, possibly the most important words a reader may ever see.
And so it is that mornings are at my desk going places perhaps I should never have gone.
Maybe writing will help make it something you (and I) might finally understand.
Likely not fully, for every good adventure, every good story, should hold an element of inexplicable magic and mystery than can never be fully shared.
“What are you looking for?” I was asked time and again.
“Myself,” was the first thing that came to mind.
“A reason to live,” was the second.
And the third, was something beautiful.
I leave you today with this thought, something that followed me on that journey like a mysterious fragrance from a flower I could never see:
Remember to find magic, everywhere, everyday, in everyone.
It is there, waiting for us to find it, if only we take the time to see, to listen, to feel.
Where autumn gently unfurls, brown and gold, rich and lush, closing us into the season with winds stirring from a distant sea and majestic trees dripping with mushrooms and moss.
Where deciduous leaves turn from vernal green to glowing gold and burnt crimson while wild skies turn from unbroken blue to strata grey and the steady sound of rain dancing on metal roofs equals that of the swelling river.
Oh the river, the placental web of this wild and free land, where salmon appear like magic this year, making their maiden voyage and a splash in the news, glimmering and slithering their way through rapids as we watch in awe from the kitchen table while the coffee gets cold and homemade bread and farm fresh eggs are left lingering on the plate pushed to the side so we don’t miss a moment of this magnificent show.
Where I’m fed generously by the land, pampered by spring water and warm moist air, the abundance of the garden, and luxuries of indoor plumbing and a queen sized bed.
Yes…
And at this very moment, there is no place I’d rather be.
Except maybe there.
Where ice spreads like wildfire, snow settles in and brown grass stands strong, defiantly poking its way through wind drifted white, and the ominous sky stirs a primal hunger somewhere deep between our ribs, buried tight beneath layer after layer of wool and down.
Where expansiveness and spaciousness and intensity of thin air, and the bigness of high and wild that rip your breath away make you realize what it means to be fully alive.
My heart is torn.
Torn between the good boy, and the bad boy… It’s always been a thing for me.
Between high and wild, and low and lush. Between strong and gentle, between hard and soft. Maybe there is a middle ground, but I am not a middle person.
How can I love two lands?
It’s as complicated as having two lovers.
Can a person dream more than one dream?
Can we love two places at once or must we be monogamous? I yearn to be wed to a place, tied to the land, faithfully remain, grounded…
As I am committed to my man, so do I long to be to the land.
Twenty something years ago, I finally found a man willing and able to live the wild way I want. And as luck would have it, we fell in love: hard, fast and solid. But finding “home” together, the place where we both belong, has been a trip, a joint quest, twisting and tangling our way as far south as Argentina and north to Alaska, and too many places to count in between.
At the end of the day, at least for today, we find ourselves back where we started. Only, I’m from a different place than he. Must we decide between the two, between his and hers, when what we have both found is that we love one place as we love the other, as long as we are with one another?
The apple does not fall far from the tree, some say.
But some of us have planted more than one tree.
I am no closer to being decided where I belong. I know it’s not the people. There are good folks here, and good folks there. It is the land and what it does to me somewhere deep inside, the stirring of dreams, both of which I never knew could be so tempting until I tasted them.
Here, at Riverwind, we are finally caught up.
After months of preparing this place for our being gone over summer, milling timbers to take, sowing seeds to plant, preparing this place for our absence; followed by four months in the high country where we were either working or tired or hungry and too often plenty of all three; then returning to get this place back in shape, ready to show, and in the process meticulously tending the land we have nurtured and groomed and polished like a hidden gem found within a river rock finally allowed to shine…
As we sat by the fire in last light of day, we gazed around in awe. Tired and sore, it felt good. We have cared well for the land. It’s what we do. We’re worker bees. Stewards of the land. What would we rather be doing?
And where would we rather be?
At this very moment, right here, right now, I am content. I am where I am meant to be.
For now there is settling in. Acceptance. Grounding. And I know I am where I need to be. What tomorrow brings will be revealed when tomorrow comes.
For now I need time. Time to write. Finally. Some days it feels long over due. Other days, it feels just right. There has been time to soak it in, to let it ripen, and now time to pull the cork and savor the story as it begins to pour forth, dark and rich and robust.
Finish what you start. This past summer I committed to get a cabin built with my husband with lumber we harvested and milled 1250 miles away. We did. Two summers before that I committed to heading out horseback across the west, out there on some inner journey, to see where the open road would lead me. I did. A long quiet ride.
But you know what? When I set off on that journey, my intention was to write, to share the story, have it be my next book.
Now it’s time to get that done. Write that story. How it really was. Much more than I could share from the road, the little bread crumbs on my blog posted to keep my family and friends assured I was still alive.
Writing the story of the journey will complete that chapter, sharing what I set out to find, and what I found, and sharing the reality of the trip along the way. It was a wild ride. I think you might enjoy. Maybe it’s true. Maybe it’s all make believe. You can decide for yourself.
And then perhaps I will finally be to the point where I no longer have to prove myself to me.
And then what? Maybe after that summer, and last, maybe just maybe I can slow down, settle in and savor just being.
I’m back after a couple weeks of silence. Staying silent somehow helps me find my self.
Back. Where? Here. For now.
Today I am at Riverwind. In the far north of California that most of you will never know exists. A peaceful private place along a wild river, tucked away with safety and secrecy, and a sense of the unknown, unknowable. Laden with moss draped from ancient oaks, the eagle, king fisher and dipper trace the river’s course, bear tracks in the sand, a pair of heron in the sky, and always, always the sound of the river – all of which is part of what makes this real place so unreal.
Today the rain falls and the leaves begin to turn and the season that came to a close back in Colorado where I was has just begun to unfurl here where I now am. And the river I watch from the kitchen table as I write to you begins its winter rise and swell, though I’m not ready, we just returned, and there is still so much that needs to be done. All of which adds to the uncertainty of wondering where the hell I am and what am I doing here.
Back. I don’t know for how long, but I am here now.
You know how it is, or can be.
There you are, just walking along. Let’s imagine you’re deep in dark woods but still holding a feeling of fresh and warm and light. You’re minding your own business, thinking you got this, you’re rocking it, when suddenly WHAM. You hit a land mine. Or trip and fall down a rabbit hole. Not the distracting internet kind, but the seemingly bottomless, looming dark pit that catches you unaware and there you are: falling, falling, falling – or at least somehow suspended, maybe even stuck, wedged in between time and space – just wishing something else would come along to break your fall and maybe even get you back onto solid ground.
Sure enough. That’s where I’ve been. In that time and place between here and there or maybe somewhere else, but no where firmly planted. No solid ground beneath my feet, at least none that I could feel. Funny when I thought all I really needed was dirt beneath my nails and earth to let my toes root in.
~
Life is a succession of transitions. Nothing stays the same nor lasts forever. It’s a series of endless waves in the ocean of time, though more often than not we feel we need to rush to get to some distant shore, though the shoreline is ever changing, and really it’s when we learn to simply float that we find we are exactly where we need to be.
Somewhere in the ever middle.
That is where mystery stirs.
Thus is the Bardo.
A fancy word for:
Lost.
Maybe it’s more simple than I make it seem.
Maybe it all comes down to home.
That space inside, indeed. But what’s around us, with whom and where we are, matter just as much.
The familiar scent of wild mint when the horses pass by the creek. Some sticky sweet fragrance of fall blooming flowers mingling with falling leaves. Fresh bread pulled from the old wood cook stove, like the seeming simple extraction of a chicken laying an egg.
I thought I had it figured out. I don’t. Somedays I think I’m just as confused as when I started. At my age, surely I should have this solved. But as one friend reminds me, when and if I find the answers, let him know. Because everyone is just kinda sorta hoping they know enough to make it through but we’re all just finding our way around the labyrinth that is life and hoping we do a good job, are good to each other, do something good, make this world (or at least one person) somehow a little better off for having lived.
My father died this week.
He was a good man. How many of us will have others say that about us? And really, think about it: what would you rather have someone say?
This reflection of my dad from dear friend Dick, who was like a brother to my dad, and who gratefully shares his wonderful writing from time to time on my blog:
“Humor is the best medicine. Jack with his upbeat attitude always made me feel better. I summon that up when I need uplifting. I also think often about his kindness and respect for others. We need more Jack’s in this world, a world gone crazy lately.”
Yes.
We need more Jack’s.
More good guys.
More people who are thoughtful, and brave enough to be nice in a world that seems leaning towards anything but.
We need more love in this world.
All of us.
More love.
More light.
More laughter.
We need to be good.
Really. We need it. We all do.
Nothing matters more.
Except for love.
And my dad did love.
Even as he approached death with grace and dignity, he continued to care so dearly for my mom. He’d worry and be concerned or proud, holding her and touching her gently as they spoke together with us.
What better lesson would I wish to share, if I could one day be as blessed?
Of course there is both grief and relief. Though after 67 or so years together, no one will experience the loss deeper than my mom.
Me, I was blessed to have him present right around the moment he died. It was early morning. Bob was still sleeping. I was out on pasture doing chores, letting the horses out and going to retrieve the wheelbarrow and manure fork when lo and behold, there he was in the sky.
Good bye, Poppy. Peaceful passing to you. See you on the other side. And please keep me posted with each weather report and severe storm warning I hope you’ll still share with us all.
There is no one right way to grieve. There’s no protocol, no path, not set standard, no how-to manual. Best we can do is be real. What ever we feel is real. There is no wrong. There is only right. Sometimes found simply in connection, support, that which we share, give and receive. Sometimes it’s found in solitude, in silence. And always it’s found in that gentle place when we have the courage to be with mind and heart open wide.
This past week, I had to fit a quick trip to Denver in between finishing windows, walls and doors. And since I never did get a truck (remember, I got the horse instead), and the bus route I used to take is no longer, I flew.
No matter how it happens – by foot or horse, truck, boat or plane – I’m one of those that loves travel. There is something about stepping outside my box. Like throwing the curtains of your mind open wide. And in that place of being challenged beyond your comfort zone, in that state of vulnerability – expectations, demands and judgments disappear and you see the world for what it is. Like the opening of this season, travel encourages us to let go of our armor, have the courage to step out vulnerable and exposed, and see the world for how it really is. Mostly, I’d say, it’s beautiful.
And the best of that beauty is usually found in chance encounters, in meeting folks and hearing stories. Everyone has a story. Ask. And listen. That’s where the magic is.
Short as this overnight trip was, it was no different. And the magic started before I even got to the plane.
As Bob was driving me down the mountain, we stopped to let the pup out for a quick break. Where we chose to pull over, two guys were pulled off in the shade with touring bicycles. Now, I got a soft spot for people out there on long rides, be it horse or pedal bike or motor bike. So before we loaded the pup back up and headed on our merry way, I searched around the truck and found a couple healthy snack bars – the only snacks we had in the truck. I brought them over to the guys. Felt kind of like handing out goodies at Halloween. Told them I wish it was something more sticky and gooey. But the young men received the gifts with great appreciation none the less.
And of course, though I was already running late for my plane, I couldn’t help myself. I got to asking question. Talk about opening up a can of worms. Though this wasn’t wiggly and creepy crawly – this can was jam packed with goodness.
Turns out these two guys were from Finland.
Long way from home, I said. How did you end up in La Garita?
Long story short, they explained: they got here via Alaska. And they got a long ways yet to go. They’re riding all the way down to the tip of South America. And if you have any doubt these guys will do it, they told me about an adventure they already completed: riding their bikes from Finland to Singapore. Seriously? Seriously! Wow!!!!
Two beautiful friends, Valterri and Alvari, of “Curious Pedals,” out there living life full, rich and wild… Daring to dream and having the courage to create their dreams come true. OMG I was so impressed! These guys were so inspirational. So open and grateful and positive.
We briefly shared stories and compared notes after I mentioned about how I had my own little adventure – going horseback from California to Colorado, alone. Nothing quite like the adventure these guys had, but we shared some similar feelings of time on the road.
The biggest thing we were all amazed to have found out there was something I told you about many times before. It was the greatest lesson of my whole trip. It wasn’t “where” but “who.” And “who” was everyone – strangers you meet, people who stop to talk, folks who share their camp site, their home, the guest room or kids room or just their front yard. People who smile and wave and roll down the window and cheer you on. People who share their table, their meals, their snack bars.
The kindness of strangers. Something very near and dear to my heart that I learned during that Long Quiet Ride two summers ago. Valterri and Alvari said it’s been the same for them. The unexpected beauty they have come to expect: people are good.
So here’s something really cool that I think is really important to share, now more than ever.
We briefly talked about the anger and hatred that you read about all the time in the press that’s supposedly all over this country. Interesting to note: they hadn’t felt it, seen it, experienced it. Neither did I. Instead, we both talked about the kindness we encountered. The openness. The generosity. The warmth. The goodness.
Sure some of us may have hard shells. Tough to crack.
But we’re not as different as some may (want us to) think.
Inside, we’re all the same.
People.
Good people.
Human beings.
Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Don’t drink the kool-aid. Hatred does not rule. Hatred does not win. Hatred does not help.
And goodness does prevail.
Believe in goodness. Believe that most people are good. Be good in kind.
If you don’t believe me after a life changing adventure that spanned over a hundred days and 1500 miles, that crazy solo ride that would never have worked had it not been for good people I met along the way, then please believe these two young men, who have totaled well over a year on the saddle, and over 10,000 miles out there in places I don’t even know where to find on a map… That’s a helluva test of humanity. And guess what? People passed the test. They ran into bad dogs, wolves, and stuff like that. But no bad people.
Have faith in humanity. Please. We’re all in this together.
If you don’t believe us, get out there and take a wild ride yourself. It doesn’t have to be a long ride. It can just be around the block or around the world or wherever your can make it happen. Be open. Be curious. Drop judgments and pretentions and defenses and fears and just be open to who and what’s out there.
I don’t know how to explain it but it’s like, you gotta put yourself out there. Be vulnerable. Trust. Try. Have faith. Believe. In people.
Try it. Please. Try to believe in our common humanity and the goodness that resides within us all. If you dare do that, and I hope and pray you will or maybe already have, please let me know how it goes. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed in the beauty that really is out there, and inside most every one.
Anyway, please find Valterri and Alvari, of “Curious Pedals,” on their website, follow them on Instagram , and watch their documentary which Bob and I did last night, and it was incredible, just wishing it was longer than one hour as there was so much: CuriousPedals documentary on YouTube
Finally… I’d like to share something that they had posted, regarding six lessons they had learned from “life on the saddle” that I fully whole heartedly agree with, having tried “life IN the saddle:”
Cherish the bad days, for they will teach you the most.
Don’t hope for things to happen — make them happen.
Focus on the process, not the outcome.
Always challenge yourself.
Stay physically active.
Put 100 per cent into what you are doing now and it will open doors for you in future.
They concluded: we could all do with “less planning, more living”.
And I’d like to add one more that I think they would agree with:
Seems like it’s early this year. When the clouds cleared this morning, I looked for snow on the peaks around our valley. Not yet. It’s close though. I feel it.
There’s frost on my boots in the cold gray morning as I let the horses out for the day. Breaking ice upon the water bowl as the chickens remain in the coop until the sun brings promise of golden warmth.
Across the valley, grasses brown. Flowers are fading, turning to seed. The landscape changes to earth tones. Browns and tans, greens and grays. Late blooming gentians and asters and ever blessing yarrow remain. Tips of the willows along the creek and a few patches of aspen start to strut their stuff and we are stirred with the excitement of changing seasons, the promise of vibrant color, and then the ensuing calm that will cover the land when the snows begin to fall.
I long to be a part of the seasons in one place, continuous and connected in the ever changing cycle, a part of the quietness that winter brings with her heavy cloak of white holding us down tight. I want to witness the frozen air of dry brown autumn wind turning pale as grass clings fiercely to its seeds, defiantly refusing to bow under the first snows of fall. And then I will yearn for swollen buds on the tops of aspen to promise new life in spring and await the late greening grasses to fill the horses’ bellies after a long, cold winter sustained on dry hay.
I may not be here to see that, feel that, this year, but I know it will happen some day soon. I am eager, but will wait my turn, will wait for this cabin to be finished, the barn built, and a wood shed stocked plum full.
Now I sit in our little camper, waiting out another rain storm loud on the thin metal roof, staring out of rain streaked windows at the solid cabin calling to be built.
In here with seemingly incessant drumming overhead, having trouble sitting still when what I want to do, what I’m called to do, is get that roof going up… it is a test of patience, when after all the tests of patience I have endured, what is one more? I will not pace the minimal floor space of the tiny camper; instead take a deep breath, inhale, exhale, let it go, and get to work… writing.
Out on the deck, beneath stars and under branches of old oak trees, I lay in bed, sheets still warm and worn, enwrapped by gentle wind, the song of the river and my husband’s gentle breathing. He lays beside me, already asleep, our limbs still intertwined, back to belly, belly to back. A lullaby of crickets and tree frogs and the honey fragrance of flowering madrone enchant me. I listen to white noise wafting up through night air to where we made our bed, serenaded by sounds of water flowing over smooth rocks, ever moving, ever changing, reverberating with the promise of impermanence.
It is both time and love that heal all wounds.
As for that bomb we dropped? Yes….It’s true. We have chosen to part with our beloved Riverwind , and be with this high wild land.
Please may I share the song of Riverwind and boast of an ode to that haven of a homestead tucked away in the mountains along the wild and scenic river? It was a transformation of heart and hearth, healing the land as we healed our souls, creatively toiling to bring the land to life. I will share it all some day. For now, I will let the silence of that peaceful place sing for itself.
It will not change hands over night, as it was not built nor brought back to life that quickly too. Things take time out here. What’s the rush, you say? And part of me longs for the tranquility of the place that healed our souls as we healed the land.
Yet there is also the part that says, when you are ready to move on, move. Why cling to what you must release?
Sounds easy. It is not.
The hardest part is the people. Leaving people. Leaving community. Leaving the family and friends I have known and loved on and off for nearly thirty years. My closest family (G&S), my sisters (Jan, Cindy, Lori, Christina and more who have opened their heart and soul to include me over all these years as we wove our own stories and shared seeds and recipes, roots and cuttings, and a camaraderie and connection that I will never replace.
But really… I don’t want to write of that now. It’s hard. It hurts. And I’m not gone yet.
So yes, there’s lots more to say and share but for now, I’m changing the subject. It’s not really denial. More like just distraction.
So without further ado, here are some updates on cabin building.
We’ve been at it almost three months. In that time, we got a solid access road built, dirt work/site prepped and foundation dug out, wash water system in, well and pump, concrete footer and stem wall poured, floor joists and subfloor installed, wood beams defining walls, windows and doors roughed out, and most recently, ridge beam and rafters hoisted up and into place.
Next, we’re going to get those roof panels raised, metal on the roof, and close in the windows and walls. And of course, install a wood stove.
I’m thinking it might actually all get done.
Before the snow flies? Well on that, we’ll see.
Here are a few pictures and videos explaining how it works.
I know… Seems like it’s all Bob. Some days it feels that way. I’m just the back up guy. The one with the level and tape, pot and pan, handing him the drill, trying to manhandle the timbers, climbing the ladder, catching the beam, and trying to get it to land just so. Remarkably, it often does. But Bob, he’s the chainsaw guy. Which means, he’s been the one to actually fell all the trees, prep them for milling, and once hauled clear across the west as he’s done, then cut the timbers to length. That means a lot of handling and cutting for each log that goes into place. For Christmas last year, I got him this really cool tool. Not real romantic, I know… It’s called Big Foot, an attachment to a chainsaw that enables you to cut angles really true. Not just 90 degrees, but whatever angle we need. Figure, adjust, set and saw, and there you have it. We make it sound easier than we make it work, but it does work. I mean, look at all the angles he already cut. Most are 90 degrees, but those gable ends end up beautiful (beauty being in the eye of the builder, of course).
It’s going along good. Right on schedule, which is a pretty impressive thing for a couple of older folks who should be wise enough to know better than to start all over again.
I am getting there. Closer to that place deep inside that whispers, “Welcome home.”
Connection comes, with land as with people, in time and age and stories. It comes with living through droughts and floods, fires we fend off together and snow storms that keep us apart. It comes with seeing our children grow and our parents age and our dreams emerge and some things fall and fail while others take root and grow.
Some of us are seekers. You know, always looking. For something. Usually ourselves. That’s what I think I’m finally finding.
And in the meanwhile, I will settle in some days, and move around on other days. I will try and sometimes fail. I will give and sometimes falter. I will work and tire and wake again and get back out there again and again. I will tend and plant and nurture. I will dream. I will love. And I will live. Not like my parents wanted me to. Not like society expected me to. Not like I thought I would have, should have, could have. Probably not like anyone else. But finally at fifty-eight, I’m growing my own skin, comfortable with my bones, able to look in the mirror and though I may wince for a moment at what I see, for the woman looking back at me is much older than I thought I’d ever be, I’m learning to feel at home in that skin and bones that is me.
I am growing up.
That does not mean I will suddenly be serious and stern. I will not wash up and get a desk job. I will not be that boring, stuffy, straight, sensible-shoe sort I used to think all grown-ups had to be. I don’t plan on cutting my hair nor keeping my fingernails clean. Chances are I won’t ever become the one to say the right thing at the right time, and certainly won’t ever have all the answers. Nor will I stop making mistakes, dusting myself off, and trying yet again. Maybe I won’t ever settle down.
As you see, I’m not there yet.
Maybe we never arrive.
Maybe this has all been growing pains, the changing of the tides through the turbulent sea of midlife and menopause and the pursuit for finding the forever place, as I furiously worked my way out of one shell and built a new one around me.
We all have a story. This is mine. Chances are, you have felt this too. It’s a simple tale, old as time. A story of seeking, forever seeking, some sense of belonging. And getting to that place of realizing what we’ve been running after is within us all along.
This summer was meant to be about more than building. It was a chance to see if I’d fall for the land.
Guess what?
I did.
A part of me woke up here. A feral part, admittedly, but a part all the same.
The wilds. Drive me. Wild.
In wild places, with room to roam, my soul not only stirs, it soars.
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.
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.
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.
Gin Getz 