Standing Still Beneath Blowing Branches (Lessons Learned from Trees)

May 5, 2015 / Gin Getz / 8 Comments

Standing still beneath blowing branches.

Lessons learned from trees.

These are changing times.

Turmoil around, within. I stand beneath budding branches, the promise of the continual struggle of life, and suddenly it all makes sense, or maybe nothing matters, and everything finds its place. Can I let myself cry, selfishly, foolishly, like an innocent child so wanting comfort in hard times yet not knowing how to ask?

Late spring in the high mountains. I write from home on the edge of the Weminuche Wilderness, high and away in the heart of the Headwaters of the Rio Grande in Colorado’s San Juan Mountains. I am flanked by a hundred thousand acres of charred woods and a few hundred thousand acres more of dead standing beetle kill and Aspen fading and falling randomly. A forest full of kindling waiting to ignite. Finding new growth, green needles, sweet sap, life existing, tenaciously holding or ferociously fighting to survive. Life is precious.

In all their simplicity. Trees.

Go through it. Let it out. Tears fall like raindrops. Nourishment to parched lands and thirsty roots. No one to hear them fall but the trees. Allow it. Breathe in, breathe out, standing beside a tree.

These are the wise ones. They carry not a passing fancy but wisdom of the ages. Powerful, deep and rich. They make no loud claims, but hold their ground, tangled in their roots. Powerless to the pretenses of our demands, greed and ignorance. Eternal, I used to think.

Here they have lost ground. We have been hit hard by the changes. A sign of things to come, a premonition, or is this just a warning to heed? Are we too late, and does it matter anyway?

Here our children’s children will never know the old growth through which I used to wander.

Even in their ethereal presence, this graveyard of barren branches, I feel them breathe. I hear them sigh. Down deep if no where else than in their roots, the soil, the earth. That’s where life remains. And life will come again.

Standing on fallen needles and listening to the Wisdom of the trees.

Breathing in, breathing out, seeking the scent of fresh sap and plump needles. I have almost forgotten.

These are the lessons they teach.

Stand with me now, still and silent beneath bare branches of a seemingly lifeless tree. Close your eyes. In the wild spring wind, feel the remaining presence of these great beings. Listen to their wisdom.

This is what we hear:

The earth matters. Give more than you take.

You can’t control the seasons. Learn to let go.

You can’t rush the seasons. Practice patience.

You can’t change the weather. Stand tall in the rain and dance in the wind.

Storms come, storms go, the sun will shine again.

Be still and listen.

Be wordless. (So hard for a writer to do.) That’s where our truths are found. (Write about them later.)

Everything changes.

Seasons come and seasons go.

Leaves fall and blossoms return time and time again.

Life stems where you least expect it.

Last year’s leaves are next year’s fertile soil.

Be willing to shed and grow again.

Be grounded. Grow your roots deep and strong.

We share the same soil. Our roots are connected. We are one.

Stand tall and strong, not hard and rigid.

Be flexible in adverse conditions.

Learn to bend in the wind.

Adapt.

Seeds blow in the wind – new life starts where you least expect.

Be willing to break new ground.

Don’t expect ideal conditions.

Grow where they least expect it.

Know you are never alone. Others will grow beside you, and together, you can create a forest.

Look around at others growing above and below you. Respect differences. We need each other.

Provide shelter to those who need it.

Nurture indiscriminately. Practice non-judgment.

Give what you can, and then give more.

Don’t take it personally, and you can’t change others. All you can do is grow.

Allow the world to come and go around you.

Learn to let go.

Nothing lasts forever.

What’s coming.

April 7, 2014 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

A request for readers and reviewers! Of special interest to writers and avid readers of non-fiction. This request is on behalf of my publisher and friend, Sammie Justesen. Wouldn’t you know? She’s also a writer…

A select group of pre-readers willing and able to share reviews is a great help for the writer and the publisher, as well as for other readers considering this book in the future. Ever notice how much time you take to read reviews and how much it helps you? Your help on this one would be most appreciated by others.

I was honored to have the opportunity to read a pre-published copy, and this is what I had to say about it:

“Sammie may have set out to write about dialogue – and that she does – yet her conversation with the reader goes far beyond. Dialogue Mastery for Writers is about writing, for writers, written by an author, editor and publisher.

I was hesitant to read another ‘how to’ book on writing. This is not that. Nor is it strictly about dialogue. As a memoir and nature writer, I was attracted to Dialogue Mastery for inspiration in developing further depth in my work through the use of dialogue. What I left with after reading Sammie’s book is a brain swimming with ideas she has generously shared based on her years of experience in all aspects of ‘the industry.’ She shows us, not just tells us, with style, humor and an easy, comfortable voice. Her examples bring the points to life. Sammie indeed practices what she preaches, and shares with us as reader and writer a fun to read and handy compilation based on experience and insight.”

This is a great opportunity for those of you who’d like a chance to read this book on writing, and begin a conversation with fellow writer , former agent, editor and experienced publisher, Sammie Justesen.

If you are interested, would like some more information, or just want to introduce yourself to this great woman, please write her an e-mail at: sammie@norlightspress.com . Thanks in advance for helping out!

A dozen winters we have watched fade from the mountain as spring slowly creeps up the thawing land. I can’t say it really feels like it’s here yet, but if you know what you’re looking for, you see it coming.

It’s coming.

Not a day goes by without the magnificence touching me. Some days, it is overwhelming. Stops you in your tracks and your breath is held, eyes wide, and you want to cry for the sheer splendor of it all. Other times, softly, lightly, a little bit magical and mysterious, as this morning when the I’m out there feeding the horses in the single digits after a dusting of fresh snow came last night and clouds are still clearing , and each branch of the aspen and surface of tired snow covering the ground is twinkling as if with a thousand stars around me as the sun inches over Finger Mesa and spreads long stripes of grey shadows nearly a quarter mile long across pure white from the tall trees that stand alone across river.

Not a day goes by without appreciation. And now, astonishment.

Interesting indeed the things we are seeing.

The swollen buds on a group of Aspen at the bottom of Elk Trail have burst open, pushing out the first of that fluff that looks like snow in June. Only it’s April. And there is still real snow on the ground.

On an open patch of dirt a little further up the trail, the first cluster of flag poke up through the exposed damp ground covered only now with last years rot.

We snowshoe to Snowmobile Point. That’s a lot of dead trees, I say to Bob as we stand there, leaning on our ski poles and staring. Crazy, he replies. There is nothing else to say.

You forget what a live one looks like and start to assume they all might be. For if you look close enough, even the green ones don’t look so good. I would guess that this mild winter has been good for the beetles. It will be fascinating what happens next. Something. Nothing stays the same.

Maybe it will look like Patagonia here some day. We agree that won’t be too bad. We like Patagonia.

Time with my horses is still limited. For a few days there was a little mud that gave me a lot of hope for working with them soon. That’s been since covered back up with snow.

At least I’m out there, day in, day out, every day, with them, for them. A part for me, a part of them. I don’t resort to automated horse handling, feed and water that the horse think just appears and I’m just some human somewhere in the distance that comes to get them when I need them. We’re in this, on the mountain, together. Waiting for the spring. Waiting for shedding coats and brushing and afternoons out there together on dry ground.

What do you do with them when you have to go somewhere? A friend asks. I don’t, I reply. I haven’t left the mountain in five months and that’s okay by me. And them. Only now we’re both ready for more. Not leaving. Just more up here.

They run up when I appear and kick up their heels and seem to tell me they’re angry at another snow storm and I don’t blame them. They are getting stir crazy. They need more now than snow and steady feeding. They want dry ground upon which to run and work to focus their energies and tire their minds, and sunshine and green grass on which to relax in the morning before hand.

Maybe it’s the longer days. They know spring is slowly approaching. And by the time it finally comes, will I be too busy building then to be with them?

Stirring frozen waters.

March 21, 2014 / Gin Getz / 12 Comments

Stirring frozen waters.

This is dedicated to the angry old man who was so afraid of noise all he could hear was his own shouting for silence. And for the folks so busy tooting their own horn they miss the symphony behind them.

I wrote this article a couple months ago for a magazine I thought would be brave enough to publish it. They were not. Am I? Silly question.

This piece may break some peace, stir some waters, ruffle feathers, raise fur and churn up mud so comfortably settled at the bottom of the still forest pool. My sincere apologies if I offend any individual and I hope to hear your response and opinion if so. You matter to me. My intention is to share my view, and in doing so, open eyes. Maybe even open a few hearts, minds and souls along the way, but that is asking a lot of a little article. It’s long. Take your time. I hope you will enjoy.

So the other day…

We’re at the Rio Grande Reservoir Dam. The westernmost edge of the nearly 110,000 acre West Fork Complex fire that burned deep into the Weminuche Wilderness last summer. It stopped here in part because of the powerful prompts of the powers that be. The District that owns and operates this dam, and depending on how you look at it, owns a lot of the mighty Rio Grande. When the fires erupted in June, the crews were here working on the hundred year restoration of the dam. Water is powerful. Here in Colorado, powerful enough to hasten firefighting efforts, mechanized and otherwise, into the Wilderness and keep the fire from damaging more of the fragile water shed or dam restoration efforts.

In the snow, the charred trees to the south and east look like the pencil hatch marks of a black and white drawing. The hills are somewhat sensual in their stark exposure, now revealing the undulations, curves and crevasses. It’s beautiful in a different sort of way.

I forget about the burn some times. Out of sight, out of mind. Finally. The scars on the land will last a lot longer than ones within me. Left quite an impression on us in early summer as our family remained on the otherwise evacuated mountain while the hills below us burned. And then later after the rains began we’d stare at the gathering thunderheads and wonder. I remember friends in San Fran after the big shake up of ‘89 that would wake in a sweat when they felt a rattle for a long time afterwards.

An hour ago, my husband, Bob, rode his snowmobile here to meet his cousin, Ty, who is coming up from the farm on the valley below to play in the mountains for a couple days. He’s also delivering the Cat tracked skid steer. Bob’s new toy. Yes, you could say, Bob’s Cat. And our big splurge. The secret weapon for building our new log cabin. We’re cutting down all the beetle kill, which I guess means all the trees, on our land along the Rio now while the river is frozen, dragging the timber back across, and stockpiling, all in preparation for building our new little family home this coming summer on the bare bluff above the Rio.

That’s why I’m here now. I need to ride that snowmobile back with Gunnar on my lap, the almost eighty pounds of semi-feral- almost-four-going-on-like-six-months-old German Shepherd dog, while my husband slowly follows in that Cat. Otherwise, I’d manage pretty well to stay away from even this white ribbon that hints of leading to civilization. It’s not that I’m anti-social; it’s just that I like to be alone.

On the way here, Gunnar and I alternate between running and walking along the six and half miles of packed snowmobile track from our home to this spot. Just past Halfway Hill, there’s a dead moose spread across what would in summer be a road. The head, spine, and a few legs are still intact. It’s like a speed bump in the snow. I can see from the tracks that Bob drove the snowmobile right over it. I lift it up and drag it to the side of the road. Gunnar sniffs. He does not care for rancid meat. Not much remains. The spine is already speckled with bird droppings.

Just past the pile of bones, I feel it before I hear it, and hear it before I see it. I’m like Radar. By the time the helicopter comes round the mountain, I’m standing there pointing my big old SLR camera with telephoto lens (no, I do not own a smart phone with built in camera, or any phone for that matter, there’s no cell service around these parts anyway; and yes, I do run with this big beast of a camera around my neck). I recognize the yellow. Same one that came up two weeks ago in a storm looking for the Big Horn but I think when he got this far, they were happy to leave. The pilot flew directly over our house and all he got to see was my horses huddled against the fence and maybe some crazy woman running around in the snow. Wild life indeed.

There’s not a lot of noise around these parts in winter. You learn to recognize motors. We’re at the kitchen table at breakfast and walk outside if we hear an airplane. Funny thing, funny for lack of a better word, is my horses get buzzed a few times every winter. They no longer flinch when the copter flies over head. Let alone run like we watch the moose do from the kitchen window, out there across the deep white pasture trying to seek shelter in the trees. I don’t know if the needle-less timber provides much shelter anymore.

Now, the pilot sees me and does a quick 90-degree maneuver, high tails it over Finger Mesa and out of site. I wonder what he thinks when he sees some woman way out here ready for him before he knows I’m there, with a camera pointed at him? Better that than a shot gun. I’m guessing he’s heard of me. Not a lot of other half-feral women live out here.

I continue on, Gunnar blazing the way, following Bob’s track to the dam. This is where the plowed dirt road that eventually leads to a plowed paved road that after a while leads to a little town ends. And this is where the snowmobile track that leads to our cabin and then into the great white yonder up to the Continental Divide that may seem like the end of the world to some and the big back yard to us begins.

There are people around in summer. An abundance of Texas tourists, ATV riders, fishermen fixed up in Cabela’s finest, hunters in camo and blaze orange with big diesel trucks that they drive even to their office in some flat land town but here actually might get dirty and kick into four wheel. Maybe.

I live for winter. That’s our time. Me, my husband, our four legged and feathered friends. Our son, when he’s not off to university or like this winter, working at the South Pole. (You might say growing up here was in preparation for such a position.) No one has lived here before us, and probably, no one would live here after we move, if we ever do. High and harsh as this mountain is, I’m in no rush to leave. And it’s not summer now. Those tourists are a long ways away right about now.

Only, here they come. One, two, three, four, five, six… a parade of big diesel trucks moving up the mountain and pulling into the little snow packed parking area at the dam. Safety in numbers. Only that’s not why I live here. The wildlife would probably say the same if they could speak, or if we would learn to listen.

It’s not tourists. Not really. It’s the Colorado Division of Wildlife. I wonder what they’re here to chase down, shoot, tranquilize or trap today.

The herd of trucks drive up and stop dead in their tracks. They’ve arrived at what they may think is the end of the world, but for us is just the beginning. I can be sure my presence is not a welcome sight. My support, or lack thereof, is not unknown. It’s kind of fun being a little woman intimidating a bunch of big men.

Turns out to be the moose’s unlucky day. We cringe to hear this. Last time they went for the moose, four were killed in one day. The tranquilizer didn’t work very well. Oops.

One more cow moose was left for dead a mile below our ranch. We watched over a span of several days in sub zero weather as she lay there still in the open snow, and then she was gone. She was one of the lucky ones.

Before that, there was the lynx project which I understand they finally tiptoed away from with their tail between their legs. It’s 1998. Global Warming is getting hot in the headlines. But hey, let’s see what happens if we trap some lynx from up in Canada and bring them over 1500 miles down to the Southern San Juans! There might be a few that remain. Most starved to death, or high tailed it back north where they belong. I hear a few got hit crossing a highway on their way. Several years before they scrapped their attempts, I read the program was called a success based on numbers. That year, they counted more kittens born in the litters than they recorded deaths. I always wondered: how many dead did they count?

Today, they’re here to collar the moose, they say.

Right. So, I’m thinking, the plan is this: they’ll chase down the already taxed moose from the air, sharp shoot and tranquilize it, hope the tranquilizer works this time, strap on a collar, and hope the animal makes it so they can go back to town and watch the wilds from the comfort and convenience of their computer on their desk in their office.

Today, I keep my mouth shut and fire up the snowmobile instead, call the dog who jumps on board and off we go, back up the mountain to the safe haven of our home, wait for my husband to slowly follow in the Cat, and then sit back and watch the helicopter fly back and forth for the rest of the afternoon, right over our house or across our pasture. I know my horses won’t be any more bothered than me. But I worry about the moose. I hope they get the tranquilizer right this time.

In search of a living blue.

February 20, 2014February 20, 2014 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Allow me share this with you first, a minute of Book Business since that’s what seems to be consuming the majority of my time right now. And then come with me, back to the mountain…

The Color of the Wild is almost a week old. I still haven’t seen a hard copy. I understand it’s beautiful, and have the publisher, Sammie and her team at Norlights Press, to thank for that.

Again, sincere thanks for all the reviewers. Please keep them coming. They also mean so much to me.

Starting today, GoodReads is having a Giveaway for The Color of the Wild. For those active on GoodReads, you know it’s a great chance to get a free copy. The promotion lasts today through the 23^rd. If you’re a member of GoodReads, give it a try, even if you already have a copy. You could always share one copy if you win another. If you’re not a member, and you love books, it’s a pretty neat sight – I’m new to it, just learning, and definitely enjoying.

A special note to Bookstores, Book Clubs and Libraries. Thanks to those who have expressed interest and inquired. For all of you, and any others interested in carrying The Color of the Wild, please contact Sammie, the publisher, directly at publisher@norlightspress.com ; or give her a call at 1-812-675-8054 .

Everything you read tells you the Amazon numbers are the Big Ones. But the numbers only matter so much to me. What I’d like to see is people reading what I wrote to share, and old fashioned as I may be, I still think a lot of those readers are finding their books at the local library and corner bookstore. As it’s been three months since I left the mountain, I confess, I’m grateful for Amazon.

So, please keep the book in mind when browsing your local shelves, and ask for it if you don’t see it. If y’all hadn’t noticed, I’m not a big name yet. (Gin Who?) So they might not know about it otherwise.

Now, let’s put the Book Business aside and get back to the mountain…

Muddy horses for the first time in months. It’s early for mud season.

Big brown circles of fresh, wet dirt beneath the trees. Odors I have not savored in months. Earth. Rich and raw.

The air is alive with song stronger than the coming of the spring winds. Redwing blackbirds, chickadees, juncos, grosbeaks. The Woodpeckers this winter here have been as plentiful as flies on a bloated carcass Yeah, yeah, I know, that’s an exaggeration .

Lovely birds, but I know what their presence means.

Where there are woodpeckers there are bugs. The more woodpeckers, the more bugs. This winter has been good for both. Not so good for the trees. You can see it coming. Or rather, now you know it’s here. Hidden beneath the bark.

The thermometer reads 47 F (over 8 C) and I don’t know what to wear. It’s warm. It’s snowing.

I strap on snowshoes and hope the snow is too warm to stick.

A walk in the woods. Or rather, a snowshoe. The temperatures are unprecedentedly high and have been all winter up here but for the most part, our world remains white. The blanket it getting thin. The only patches of dirt are on the south side of the cabin and exposed steep slopes. The only dirt I step on still is three, maybe four steps with my snowshoes grating on rock and mud.

Thunder. I’m sure I heard it. A quarter mile later, I hear it again. Ten thousand feet elevation, mid February, it’s almost fifty and still it snows.

In search of a living blue.

I’m on this photo safari looking for a live Blue Spruce for the cover of the next book. I’m inspired. A wild woman on a crazy mission.

At first glance, you’d think there they’re all over the place. A whole bunch of trees with blue green needles. Right. Now take a closer look. You don’t see these things from the airplanes flying over assessing damage nor from your truck window rolled up to the cold.

Yellowing of the needles on the lower branches.

Slipping bark.

New growth of mistletoe.

Pin holes and dripping sap.

Needles on the snow.

And a pile of chipped bark around the base of the big ones.

You get good at it. Seeing through the last of the green to the tell-tale signs behind. You get used to the yellowing color, like a child sick with fever. And the slipping bark. As if the very core of the tree has given all it could to rid itself of the beetle and pushed its own life out in the process. The bark looks loose. I don’t know how to describe it. Like a snake skin preparing to slough off.

You get used to seeing the signs and learn to find them fast.

I try to find a live spruce tree. I’m not so sure I see one.

I hope you’re still with me. I wanted to share this with you.

Calm now, in the soothing comfort of remaining snow and silence. The time of solitude remains with us, allowing us healing, the mountain and me. I rest, she recovers, my pain and fear are comforted. Life goes on. We adapt, adjust. Find the beauty in the beetle kill, in the burn.

I want to walk in the burn.

I have not left the mountain since sometime in the middle of November. I still do not care to leave her, but want to go down to her darker places, below the Dam, in the still long blue shadows and grainy snow that has not and will not set up, and post hole through and be out there, in there, with her.

I think I can handle it now.

The burned face of my beloved.

Progress.

January 25, 2014January 25, 2014 / Gin Getz / 13 Comments

Might look like no more than a pile of logs to you. Looks like my new home to me. I see walls, window frames, floor boards, shelves, a kitchen table.

And on that hillside across river where these trees came from, all I see now are small green trees. No more big brown ones.

I know it won’t last. Those ones will go too. But in the meanwhile, it looks so… alive. I had forgotten what a living forest looks like.

Quick updates, and back to work. Got the weekend off from being Lady Logger. Instead, diving in, finding myself caught up in my words, at times struggling to stay afloat, as the next manuscript emerges like an all consuming wave. So much for moderation.

Stop. Breathe. Sit back in the sun and pop open a cold one. (Actually, I’m not much of a beer drinker, but it sure sounds good, sometimes. Especially since it’s our first batch of home brew.This coming week we’ll be bottling our next batch. I call this one Logger Lager.)

Last I heard from the publisher, the first book is off to the printer for proof copies! Yippee!!!!

And now, I leave you with this.

I finally found it. (Rather, Bob found it first.)

Beauty in the beetle kill.

A natural work of art hiding on the inside of every log. Just peel the bark and there it is, waiting to be revealed…

An intimate view.

January 20, 2014January 21, 2014 / Gin Getz / 11 Comments

An intimate view.

Stand here with me on the mountain, exposed to the elements.

Look closely.

A mid winter thaw.

Can you see it? Feel it?

Little secrets softly revealed.

hike 7

A snowshoe breaking trail along the river in among the dying trees. Well, I guess anywhere you go here, you’ve got dying trees now. The New Normal? I look to find the lighter side of… death. Where? How? (See, I’m asking new questions. It’s not just Why?)

Before & after (or still in between)

Some of you are probably way ahead of me and have seen this one before. (Where have I been?)

“We abuse land because we regard it as a commodity belonging to us. When we see land as a community to which we belong, we may begin to use it with love and respect.” A great quote by Aldo Leopold from “A Sand County Almanac.”

I found my community, the neighbors I was seeking, the friends with whom I would belong, among the Blue Spruce. And now I watch them leave me.

For the aspen behave like summer people, shedding their vibrant foliage as the tourist close their shutters and leave for the season. Aspen are a shorter lived tree, averaging perhaps 60 or 70 years (without drought and warming trend). Yet the spruce are harder to start, slower to grow, and once they get going, live one, two, three hundred years or more. Usually. Now I watch the young ones die.

To hell with this damning death! I’m turning my view to something full of life!

For those who read the article in Ranch & Reata and might just be wondering… This is Bayjura today.

Some thoughts on horses. For those who have chosen a life with horses. And for those who wish they would, and maybe someday will.

Insight to the heart of a horse(wo)man.

A horse(wo)man is a different breed.

On one hand, she can move with a simple suggestion, a subtle signal, an animal weighing ten times more than she does. On the other hand, she’ll climb back in the saddle after being bucked off onto hard ground. Once. By the second time, she might be too mad. (A good time to keep your distance or walk away.)

She acts not through force yet the horse finds comfort in her direction, not because she is sticky sweet, but because she is strong enough.

In her consistency, she creates trust; the horse becomes confident in her solid strength, and at the very same time, she becomes stronger because of the horse at her side or beneath her.

She has a sense of responsibility, beyond but not above daily care, continuing through all interactions and communications. She works with a steady course and direction, for the horse chooses chaos no more than the handler. It is an unnatural state for horse and horse(wo)man.

She strives to be the person her horse wants her to be. The gentle leader. She leads with softness, clarity, point and purpose. Calm, consistent, clear communication. Fairness. Firmness. A balance of confidence and compassion. She is learning when to push onward; and when enough is enough.

Reminders for myself as well as those of you who are going through the mid-winter no-can-ride blues.

Don’t let anyone stop you if it’s your dream, but don’t expect it handed to you on any silver platter. It is more than likely going to show up in the form of a manure rake.

Enjoy. It is a wonderful life.

… and Out.

January 15, 2014January 16, 2014 / Gin Getz / 11 Comments

Another big one goes down.

Two more logs for a wall.

Finding the bright side does not make the dark go away.

So, you learn to see in the dark. And laugh. We definitely manage to laugh.

It lightens our tendency of taking it all too seriously. Taking ourselves too seriously. Yeah, lighten up.

From across river looking back at where we work, with the dead knocked down, burned up and dragged out, it begins to look fresh and young and alive. Green. The blue spruce are blue.

We are not fooled. This is Round One of our work. The smaller ones will be next. We see the signs. They already bleed.

At times I’d rather look at the surface and see only the remaining green. Not deeper through the branches at the slipping bark, pin holes, dripping sap, and first of the yellow needles down along the base, but I am here, and I do see.

Out of curiosity, I’ve started amassing before and after pictures. Here, before and during. Starvation Gulch. Twelve miles up the mountain. Maybe my favorite place in the world. The first picture, three years ago. The second, last year. What do you think this summer will reveal?

Maybe it will stop. Just like that. Maybe the devastation will end at the boundaries of the Weminuche or the Upper Rio Grande or… wherever the damage has now spread to.

Maybe it won’t continue. Maybe all the trees that still look alive will remain alive.

Maybe I’m wrong, there is no real problem, it’s all just me and my over active imagination and my sense of drama.

Maybe the trees will all survive and beat the beetles, the drought will end, the climate will cool, and we’ll all wake up next week and the hills will be alive with deep, dark timber once again and our children and their children will run through the big beautiful old trees and celebrate… life.

But I don’t think so.

We’re not going backwards.

Even if we don’t go any further. Look at what we lost.

Me, I’ll have a new house. Cheap.

Cleaning up our little pin prick of a piece of land in this big wide wild expanse is all we need to build with. What do we do about the other half million acres around us?

This affects us all. If you don’t see it, you’re denying it, or you just haven’t been down (or up) to these mountains in southern Colorado where it slaps you in the face.

I hear from readers who have survived the fires. Their scars are deep. They still cry.

I have dead trees. I am awaiting whatever is next. Will life return quicker in an area cleared and cleansed by fire?

Maybe that’s the big lesson in all this: Learning to believe in, if nothing else, the Great Mystery.

The big picture.

Little things like hundreds of thousands of acres of dying trees help you open your eyes, which in turn, may help you open your heart and mind.

There’s much more to it than my trees. This is just a little window. I guess I’m lucky to have this chance to see.

One night last week, I tried.

I tried to see the aurora borealis. Rumor had it, and science confirmed: they were going to make a showing this far south into Colorado.

So that night around midnight I bundled up in a fat coat and mittens and chunky boots and wool hat, and headed out with the barking dog. Bob was in town; the nearest human being was probably eighteen miles down a closed road and I’m out there running around looking like the Michelin Man in the middle of the night with my camera and it’s okay to let the dog bark all he wants for a change. Who the hell is gonna hear?

Have at it, I say. And he does.

I’m safe. In fact, I rarely see any wildlife any more, day or night.

I’ve got the wide angle lens on the camera, a tripod already attached, and the settings set for night photography. I’m gonna get me some amazing pictures of the aurora borealis.

But a snowstorm blew in and stayed in and here we are three days later and only this morning did it really blow out. No, I didn’t see the aurora borealis. I could barely see the moon.

Now I see, it wasn’t just me. Even if there were no clouds…. Would there have been no show? Depends on what you were looking for. No, I wouldn’t have seen the northern lights. But what of the light of the moon and stars across the deep winter sugar snow of the southern San Juans and the wonder of the winter sky?

Plenty of magic for me.

When was the last time Forrest saw a star? Forget the big events of the northern lights or even a shooting star. Just a star, up there, twinkling.

So, there we are.

The Great Mystery. The Big Picture.

I want to figure out why, not why me.

I am here. I can not turn my back and close my eyes and tell you it’s all okay and pretend it is natural.

The last count I saw said our loss of trees was over ten times greater than what Mother Nature has ever done in the Lower 48. And that’s before the latest figures, which are remarkably hard to find. Maybe it’s morbid, but I need to know. The death toll in my back yard. Southern Colorado. The Weminuche Wilderness. The high end edge of the Southwest and Four Corners. The beginning of the Rio Grande.

Finally, I’m getting warmer (not just me). Getting some answers. I’m not surprised what I’m finding.

Here’s the secret to bark beetles.

They only get the weak ones.

Weak trees.

Tell me, what does that say about the nearly half a million acres of Wilderness that spreads from my front door?

Rather than blame the beetles, let’s start thinking about what’s making these trees so weak.

I know, I know. I’ve spent too long on this. Let’s move on. Think of my poor husband. How many hours have I spent on the web searching in vain for current facts and figures?

Take a break, he tells me. Let’s go fell a big one. Take out your anger by burning the slash.

At least in the burned areas, recovery can begin. The past is gone and there is room for the future to take hold. A clean slate. If it does not wash away.

What will it take for the rest of the forest to recover? Rot is not really an option. We’re high and dry here. This is not a rain forest. This is the edge of the arid southwest.

There’s a log we sit on at camp. Rainy Day Camp, we call this place. At the Forks of the Utes, maybe three hours in by horseback if all goes well. Bob tells us the story of how this log was already dead and down when he and his buddy Doug were camped here on a rainy family pack trip when they were maybe ten. They hacked at that log as boys will do and finally cut it in half. That was forty-five years ago. The log is still very much there, and no, nothing is growing out of it yet.

Things don’t happen that fast here.

Can you say, “There is nothing we can do,” accept those words and walk away?

I walk away from the work site today. A growing pile of timber for my new home. For a moment I look back to the other side. It’s a green hillside. Green as I remember it, only without the big trees.

Before we finish felling the big ones, the next group of browning trees appears.

It’s the bigger picture. We’re trying to make the most of a bad situation.

That’s great, you say, but that’s not enough. Take my trees and build my house and pretend it is all okay and not look beyond my little bit of paradise to the big wide world beyond.

Felling our trees is not the answer, only a small solution to a bigger problem that most aren’t seeing, and those that see, deny or do nothing. I don’t know what to do either, so I fell my trees, plan my house, stomp my feet and raise my voice. What else can I do?

It’s not about my logs on my hill for my house. It’s not even about a half million acres of dying trees, in this part of the state alone. It’s about what caused that.

Is she beautiful now that she is a mountain of dying trees? Yes, she really is, she always will be. Will she be beautiful after she burns or rots or whatever will be her fate? Yes, I believe she will be. But can we not see beyond her surface beauty to her silent cry as tears flow like dried sap down the last of her old wise ones, and her pained wail is in the dry wind which strips her bare of needles on even her young trees?

Can we not be wise (or is it compassionate?) enough to wonder WHY and realize our answers so far are superficial, the questions deeper, the truth still out of reach, and we should be reaching if we care?

Needless to say, I’m not done. But that’s all for now. Enough food for thought, or what ever you want to call it. I might just call it fuel for the fire.

Down…

January 7, 2014 / Gin Getz / 14 Comments

~

~
Most days we’re down by the river. You can’t hear it or see it but it is there. Like blind faith. Or common sense. Dormant under the frozen surface. Silenced by the season.

Underneath, I know she rages. The Mighty Rio. Uncontained by elements and as strong as tide, she flows.

Without concern to her, we are on top, dragging logs, back and forth by snowmobile, snowshoes, culling dead trees, wondering if any will remain. Looks like we might be working here a while.

I thought it would be healing. Maybe eye-opening is healing.
~

~
The things we are seeing.

We’re deep in dead wood. Dang it, you can’t even find an undisturbed aspen grove around these parts without a great percentage of death.

But the spruce, the once blue spruce. That is what I see. Red.

I don’t know the numbers. You can look them up yourself. All I know is we’ve been watching the beetles kill mountain after mountain year after year. Like a wave. Starting at the top and spilling down. Then onto the next. And going back to finish off the stragglers.

Please don’t tell me to cheer up. I’ll be just as likely to tell you to wake up. Open up your eyes. Get out here and see for yourself.

It’s quite ruthless. Not what I have seen in other parts. I read we’re not the only ones, but right now, we got it bad. And there’s no end in sight. I just came back from a snowshoe on this side of the river and saw the tell tale signs. Again. It’s making its way down Pole Mountain and hitting the trees behind us. Pin holes, sap and slipping bark. Will they be red by summer?

I’m not hiding the truth or sugar coating this to find the pretty parts. I’m telling it like it is. Don’t read it if you don’t want to know what’s happening in this part of Colorado, here in the Rio Grande National Forest, here where the Weminuche Wilderness borders our land. It’s easy to avoid. There’s not much out there on the subject. I’ll share with you what little I’ve found. Though some of it is nonsense, and the rest, well, you probably don’t want to know.

Remember the year the deer and elk were trapped by the sudden snow? Remember how many of us had broken hearts watching our wildlife starve to death? We started to feed, until finally the Department of Wildlife was tired of being the bad guy telling us it was “natural” as if that would make it all OK and they got in on the action too and tried to help by distributing feed. Sometimes sticking with your heart, doing something rather than nothing, helps. It didn’t save most of the deer. I remember driving to Gunnison that spring and seeing a carcass rotting on every hill, far too many for the coyote and crows to finish off.

But do nothing? Easy to do if you leave. Go home. Don’t see. But if this is your home? You would do something too.

What can I do except share with you what I see?
~

~
Secrets unveiling.

For those daring to dive into the depths, dig in, cut through to the dark blue wood.

Bundle up ‘cause the sun don’t shine down there where we’re working, the sugar snow is deep and loose, and the wind still blows.

There, I’ll show you what I see.

Nature’s foul infanticide. As small as we see they can grow, we see they can be killed by beetles. It only takes a few pinholes.

Mistletoe on most every tree. Odd. I’m not going to turn into a biologist and claim to have the facts but sometimes, many times, I wish I knew more. Why are these parasites thriving as the tree puts out their last sap, and then goes down with its sinking ship shortly after?
~

~
Last night two owls were talking back and forth in the tall green trees behind my cabin. What are the chances of those trees being green this time next year?

A chickadee lights above me on a branch of healthy aspen as I’m fiddling with my camera. I talk to it. It chirps back. We discuss what will become of all of this. We agree (I think) we will adapt.

Next tree over is a big old spruce. One of the elder trees. At the base is a pile of loose bark chipped by the woodpecker seeking out the larva already within. Farewell for the old wise ones.
~

~
Knowledge. How do we find answers? I would have thought quoting science would give me backing. Instead, it seems, if I mention “climate change” or “global warming” I become political. No thanks.

I grew up in lefty liberal world; my husband in a righteous right wing one. We chose to sit back, watch, and think for ourselves. What a concept. What I see is this. People accept politics as they do religion, with just as much blind faith, but lacking a god or the golden rule.

I’m for thinking, observing, making up my own mind. I’m not going to try to convince you to believe what I believe. Beliefs are personal. You can (and should) make up your own mind, be smart enough to think for yourself, change your mind when you learn and grow (assuming, that is, you do…), and then… keep it to yourself. Those with the loudest voices tend to have the least to say. One more reason to stay up here on the mountain and keep away from town. I never was much of a conversationalist.

So this isn’t about science, data, or personal beliefs. This is about cold hard facts. OK? What I see before me. That’s it. Maybe you see something different. Like a paved street or sidewalk or another concrete building or pretty suburb street with groomed lawns and a shiny new SUV in every driveway. Fine. Whatever.

Me, I see trees. Dead standing. Hillsides of them. Big hillsides. Entire mountains you can find on the map with names like Ute Ridge and Simpson, Pole and Finger Mesa.

Come stand before my kitchen window and look outside with me now.

Tell me what you see. Not what you want to see. Not what you are told to believe.

I don’t care about who or what you believe in. I care about what you see.

~

~
Enough, already, I hear you say
So I’ll save the rest for another day.

New!

January 1, 2014January 3, 2014 / Gin Getz / 10 Comments

New life. New dreams. New hope.

A new way of looking at the old.

Start by washing the windows.
Get a clear view of this new day.

OK, so maybe I’ve cleaned cabins for part of my living for far too long.

But I’ll never mind cleaning up the view, especially when the view is as spectacular as it is from these windows.

~

~

Farewell to old ways, wishes, holding onto the past, wishing it were all the same, what you had, what you were. Or waiting for someone to hand it to you. Sooner or later you figure out it’s up to you. Maybe you already have.

What are you today?

What will you be tomorrow?

That is what matters to me.

Maybe I’m just a window washer. Today.

(Ah, but I’m getting a clear picture.)

And somehow I think you know. I’m a hell of lot more.

~

~

2013 was an interesting year. What other word can describe it?

A year of shaking up.

Waking up.

Some of it, I am happy to leave behind.
But it’s not behind. It remains ahead. Haunting.

Part of what I had to do this week was look back through photos of the past two years to pick out a few for the new book. I’d catch myself at times laughing out loud at the crazy antics of my boys and me, like donning welding helmets in the front yard to witness the solar eclipse, or porcupine hunting in South Park p.j.’s.

Other times, I’d have to hold back the tears.

Somehow I forgot. Once upon a time, was it last year or the year before, our trees were green.

Then I skimmed through the pictures of June and July. Quick. Don’t look too closely at the plume, the smoke lingering over the reservoir, the flare ups, the charred earth. It really hurts. Still. Time to heal, you may say. How can I when it’s not over? You know that, don’t you?

Maybe I shouldn’t have looked. I didn’t realize I was not yet healed.

I wanted to thank so many of you for being there with us. In spirit, in soul. I kept waiting for this to all be behind and then I would find strength and peace and could stand tall and calm and share my gratitude. Only I’m not there yet, and still I want to thank you all. Thank you. That’s all.

~

~

New.

What do you choose to take with you into this next year; what do you choose to leave behind?

What will you keep? What will you let go of? What will leave or bring? We have choice. Obligation is choice. Where or to whom we were born was not. Some people got to get over that part and get on with life. Their life. The life they choose. Hold onto it if it works for you. If it doesn’t, get over it. Tell me once, and move on. I don’t want to hear it again.

Love it or leave it.

Unless you want to keep it. Then embrace it. Or at least accept it silently.

~

~

So, like I was saying, I’ve been spending a good deal of time over the past few days doing two seemingly unrelated things. Only they’ve come together in a most interesting circle.

First, going through pictures from the past two years for the upcoming book. Second, logging. Clearing dead trees from our land across river, dragging them across the frozen water, and stacking them for use this summer in building our new home.

The green trees in the pictures. The dead trees in my view.

We’re barely making a dent. A few a day and the more we cut, the more we see. Those that look still green have the tell-tale signs of dried dripping sap and slipping bark. Some, the needles are starting to fade to the yellowy hue. Others still look vibrant. We hold hope. Can’t cut them now. Wishful thinking.

I can’t clear my whole view of this death. It will happen. They will burn. What else can their fate be? I’m open to suggestions. Whatever their fate, I will be happy to have them gone, rather than holding onto to memories, dead standing.

~

~

Allow the hills to purge and clear and make way for new life.

What will the new life be, and how will it come about? Below us, it’s burned. Most of us assume that’s the fate of the rest of it. We shall see.

And in the meanwhile, what do we do? Sit and wait?

There has to be more.

I’m reading that up in Alaska where similar devastation hit years ago, the dead trees fell, rotted, and new ones are growing. (Now don’t be an ignorant optimist, and keep in mind that the beetles aren’t gone, so the likelihood of these new trees growing into the big old beautiful ones we remember is… nil.) Rot here? Doubtful. Not in the drought conditions that expand from California to the Four Corners to the Head of the Rio Grande (that’s us). A twenty year drought and counting here. Rot will take a long time at this rate.

Just some things to think about. I do because I’m here. I see. I wonder. I care. Chances are, most folks don’t and won’t. Or they’d rather not. It’s still beautiful. Yes, like staring at loved one in an open casket.

~
Look at what we have already destroyed.
Look at what we have already lost.
My children’s children won’t get back a forest of deep, dark rich blue green spruce.
Maybe it doesn’t matter to you.
Maybe your kids don’t care.
I do.
And it matters to me.

New years resolution.
Speak up.
For those who need my voice.
Some of you won’t listen.
It’s not always pretty.
But can I get you, if not to think, at least to see?

Maybe my camera is the more powerful tool. Better than my words. Who has time to read?

~

~

See?

These are the trees at the forks of Lost and West Lost Trail Creeks. Notice anything different?
Not so different around these parts, now is it?

Just a bunch of dead trees. A few green ones left. Look closer. You’ll see they are on their way out too.

So what do we do?
Get used to it, I heard some say.
Go ahead.
You sit back and take it.
Learn to live with it.
Embrace the changes!

Blindness. Denial. Acceptance.
That would be the easier path.
If only I could.

This is my home.
My life.
I’m here.
I can’t turn my back on that which is before me. All around me.
I have to try.
Something. I don’t know what.
Telling you is a start.

It’s in my face.
My tears are on this land. Here more than any other place I have tried to live. I live here.

Maybe that doesn’t matter to you.
It does to me.
I cry because I care.

I’m going to at least try.
I don’t know what else I can do.
I don’t know what anyone can do.

But nothing is not the answer.

I am sorry your children’s children will not see these mountains as I once did.

I wish my tears were part of the cure but I see they do nothing at all.

Maybe I should leave the mountain and find the source of this destruction and devastation. Where would I go for answers? The big cities and their consumerism and capitalism where I was raised? The oil fields of western Texas where so many of my friends are from? The Forest Service, Government, politicians… someone from whom I would want an answer but we know they would not provide?

I’m angry. I want to point fingers. I can’t. I want to know why, and then I want to know what is next. I just don’t know. Do you?

So I stay here. Wield my pen as sword though I see it does little good.

And I will share this with you. Whether you want to see it or not.

~

~

I looked in the mirror today and saw I was older. The wrinkles, sagging, grey hair. When did this happen, really? I didn’t see it coming.

I’ll take the grey. I don’t like it, but it seems somehow… natural.
My dying trees? Natural? Oh, really? On this scale?
I won’t take. Not sitting, at least.
I’m going to stand.
To fight.
Whom?
How?
I don’t yet know.
But please, at the end of the day, when I sneak a glance in that mirror above the bathroom sink I lean over while brushing my teeth and see that strange woman with leathered skin and paling hair, I want to know what she stands for.

Everyone should stand for something. What is the point and purpose of life… without point and purpose? Find yours, and fight for it if need be. Life is worth fighting for.

Think about this. (I do.) This is death. I can mourn, accept, heal. But I’m afraid there is more to it than these trees. Something killed the trees. Something bigger than a beetle. We can’t see it as clearly as a tiny black bug or a blue stained tree. Think about it. That’s a start.

That odd middle age woman before me that I don’t quite recognize?
She stands for the wilds.
And she’ll fight for it.
Look out.
As my son might tell you, she can fight.
Not much scares her.

Maybe people.
But she’ll learn to get over that.
She has a reason now.

~

~

Reflections.

So I’m looking back and you know what I see. Green trees. Here. Across river. Ute creek. Starvation Gulch. It’s weird. It really hurts. It seems so long ago and far away. It’s not.

When you live with it day in, day out, you see the little things. You share an intimate view. You know your trees, your wood, your forest, your undergrowth. You have sat with your back upon the dripping bark, your butt in the fallen needles, your feet on the dried moss, you remember the smell of fresh sap, green needles, a healthy tree, but that is not what you smell.

No one has seen this before. What’s next? Is this the end or the beginning?

You try to look without emotion, without trust in experts who continue to remain clueless. Just look.

You see the tops of the mountain dead before the bottom. These beetles work their way down. But they don’t stop part way. This winter we’re harvesting the dead trees from the river bottom.

I’m so glad to see them going. We cut them down. Burn the remains of their dried branches. Drag them across the frozen Rio. Being stewards of our own land. Getting rid of this crap. I’m sick of it. Maybe we won’t be left with much green and standing when we’re done. But our land will once again feel fresh, young, not dead or dying.

And looking forward. To tomorrow.

I share photos that make me cry because it shows hill after hill of dead standing trees, but the people I show to don’t get it, don’t see it, or don’t want to, and see only how pretty it is. Denial, optimism, call it what you will. What about reality?

It will always be pretty, they say.
But it is dead, I say.
You are seeing what you want to see.
I don’t want to see death.
When do we wake up from this nightmare and see it fresh and green again?

The fire woke some up. They finally got it. Only not really. They saw sadness in the lands that burned and happiness for the lands that survived.

Survived? I ask them. But… they are already dead.

The beetles killed the trees. The fires clean them up. What caused the beetles?

~

~

An open response to Kathleen Moore’s A CALL TO WRITERS.

Dear Ms. Moore,

You already have me.

You have been a mentor in your actions and words. There is nothing I need (or desire) to write about more than the change I see from outside my front door. Even inside, looking out.

For the mountain, I will write.

For the mountain, I will dream.

I dream of green trees. Thick air. Running wild, naked, a doe in heat. Smell the sap as I brush against soft blue branches, bouncing back with life.

I dream about belonging, fitting it, being accepted, being liked.

Instead, I’m here. Hiding out. And my cover is fading as the trees are dying.

In my dreams the trees are still blue.

Those who have walked or been on horse through the dying woods understand. Most don’t. They drive by. Touch the surface. Remain in denial. See what they want to see. Trees. No matter that they are already dead.

Life. Life of this beautiful planet Earth. I was going to say fragile, only I am starting to see, she’s even stronger than me. Let her trees die and she’ll come up with something else. I dunno. Bunch grass. I hear that’s what happened in parts of Alaska. Grasses six feet tall that snuffed out seedling trees that tried. Maybe.

She’ll be fine. Better off without us, no doubt. But we’re so tied up and tangled playing God that I don’t see that changing any time soon.

Yes, she’ll adapt. I see the pika doing the unexpected and moving to lower ground, the moose that are dying elsewhere and were oddly relocated to this unnatural environment of the Southern San Juans doing just fine. At the moment. I see rare wildflowers, Calypso orchids, moving to higher ground, and sharing their beauty with me now in my back yard.

She’ll adapt.
Will we?

Of course I know what I must write about. It’s not as easy as I thought. It hurts, you know? Me, the writer. I don’t know how (if) it will affect the reader. If I can’t reach the reader, I have failed. This is the risk I’m willing to take. I’m willing to try. I am no more than a quiet voice for a silent suffering.

The forest does not weep as she dies. She remains silent and stoic and maybe if you listen when the wind is whipping through the branches of the needless trees and you pause in the dappled sun and hold your breath for just a moment, for that is all we can do up this high, maybe you can hear her quiet wail.

The last of the living blue.

December 3, 2013 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

White washed.

The snow mounts while the temperature drops.

The last of the living blue.

A live Blue Spruce. Vibrant blue green.

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

Now take a closer look.

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

Another tree is lost.

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

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

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

This is my community.

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

And then there is hope.

Baby Blues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Look.

I have less of some things

More of others

Learning to let go of

identifying myself with

how many hours each day I toil

And still I must justify myself to you

for no longer

keeping myself too busy to think

Now is the time of

intentionally slowing down

Taking time to see

to smell and taste and touch and feel

And listen.

Yes, now is the time to listen.

Hear the shiver in the wind.

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