environment

The adventure of standing still.

/ Gin Getz / 9 Comments

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picnic spot

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Morning, warming by the fire, with coats and hats and mittens hanging, dripping, drying. Outside, the snow continues, amasses, piles a heavy load.  Just back from feeding horses. They  are worked up, snorting and running about because there’s a big old bull moose out there who doesn’t get that he’s not welcome.  Now safe and warm inside, I watch from the big south window at them milling around, but they’re still upset and won’t put their heads down to eat.  All but Norman, who has his head down and wastes no time on such silly things that the others can take care of.

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Evening, warming by the fire, with coats and hats and mittens hanging, dripping, drying.  Just back in from a ski with Gunnar along the river, oddly still open and full and shiny black against the flat white landscape. Blurred lines in heavy snow. Soft silhouettes of geese, duck, hawk and eagle.  Now warming my hands and pulling out dry clothes before heading back out to feed again. And still it snows.

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cabin this morning

 

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Winter.  So far, so good.

A big one rolled in and has remains with us for days.  White sky, white ground, white on the horses backs, the dog’s nose, deep up to our knees.  The truck is out.  We are in.  Here with a deep winter world. 

The horses don’t particularly like it.  It’s a warm wet snow which is harder on them than a cold dry one.  It won’t last, but the next couple of days might be not fun.  They are grouchy, short of temper, snip and snap and one another.  I will not work with them now, but feed quickly, and walk away and wait for this to pass.

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norman and cody

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The adventure of standing still.

Remaining.

Time to write.

And to keep up with friends.

“A very simple life.  I make it full yet not stuffed and filled, if that makes sense.  Time to walk, think, write, watch the snow fall, and feel the cold outside then the warmth of the woodstove inside.  We all rate success differently.  I wouldn’t trade my life for anyone’s.  And still a creation in progress, as you too show me, life always is, always changing.”

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steller's

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“I need seasons.  Here, there, where ever.  I need that balance of time like putting your garden to bed, letting it be, fallow and dormant, and then reawakening after a deep slumber.  In summer I work.  In winter, I dream.  I know that’s kind of weird, and very extreme, but it works for me, and connects me more to the land.” 

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geese along rio grande

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“Professionally, as a writer, I do not know.  What is my responsibility?  As writers… what matters most?  A wonderful challenge presents itself. Truth or beauty? Responsibility, environmental concerns, social ethos, pathos, or simply… entertainment?”

Except for my love of my family and four leggeds, my love of the land is my greatest passion.  Unlike Mr. Berry, who said, “I have never not known where I belong,” I have spent a lifetime searching.  I have been on this mountain only a dozen years.  I tried to leave her.  I could not.  Now I watch her standing strong in this volatile time when the trees are dying – not just a few, patches here and there – but mountain after mountain after mountain in these great big waves that turn blue and green into red and brown.  And then I saw her burn.  A hundred thousand acres up to a few miles away from my front door.  Not much press.  Not much people around here.  Just trees.  And trees don’t scream. 

So… I’ll write.  (No, I don’t scream much.) I’ll carry the burden of the world we love because we are here, we see, we feel, we are intimately connected with the land.  And because the land can’t speak for herself.  Or maybe she does.  We just need to listen.

I’m no greenie, no environmentalist, in fact, I don’t want a label and don’t want to side up with anyone from behind a desk who likes to call me names.  Maybe mother, wife, horsewoman, fencer, builder, baker, cook and cleaner… Mountain Mama. That’s about it.

Now it’s time this woman wrote about what she sees.

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gunnar in snow

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Final thought to leave you with.

On aging. 

Forever looking forward.

When I was a little girl, I used to flip through the fashion magazines and say, “When I grow up, I want to look like that.”  By the time I was twenty, I did.

Now at nearly fifty, I see a picture of a beautiful, classy older woman, like Doris Lessing at 90, and still I say the same. 

“When I grow up…”

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gunnar in snow 2

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A quiet voice from a high, harsh mountain.

And yet today, she feels so soft.

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snow ice rock branches

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Today.

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

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sun setting in the window

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Today.

Another week passes, with rain on the laden heads of grasses rich and bursting, waist high and ready to spread their store, and frost out on the flats along the Divide silver sparkling in first morning light,  and clouds white and heavy and full of mischief enwrapping the stoic mountains that keep their stone face in spite of the teasing and tickling of the continued rains that drip and cover and pour and wind little ribbons of silver down charred matte black hillsides and let you know really, it will all be ok.  Some day.

Some day.  Today.

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a ditch on the divide

 

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dog on the ditch on the divide

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And now the water flows.  In the ditch we have so carefully tended.  It’s not our water, but we watch it, mesmerized, dancing down the course we have cared for.

A rare occurrence for this time of year.  For our ditch.  Perhaps it is the rains.  Work is disrupted.  A bittersweet parting.

Dare I complain about that which I so longed for only months ago as the moss cowering beneath the barren branches of the stripped spruce trees shriveled and dried and the grasses wilted and browned and my spirit became still in the wake of the winds that stirred mighty fires?

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the ditch flows

 

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ditch on the Divide

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Today.

Now what? I ask myself as I stare at my hands held before my tired eyes. Eye lids drooping over a once solid steel grey stance. Do I already have too many years of squinting while working in the strong high sun?  Too bad.  I’ll take the wrinkles I have earned and hope my husband finds them as enchanting as the wild ride of a life that produced and continues to feed them.

My hands.  I see calluses I have worked for.  Only to watch fade away for now their work is done. For this season at least.  What will the next one bring?

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aspen leaf

 

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mushroom

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I hate to be done.  For where does that leave me, what must I do today?  Only that which I seek out and find, not that which is pressing and forced.  It’s a matter of choice.  And is that not often a bit more than we can bite off and chew?

Unless I knew the answer to the riddle for which I am always stirred to dance.

“What’s next?”

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going through the grass

 

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Weminuche Pass on the Divide

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What’s next?  Let me tell you as I try to figure it out myself.  Make it up as we go along.

We leave camp, leave even our Little Cabin by the Big River.  Leave silence, simplicity, hauling water, listening to the river roar brown and milky about the constant rains and the mud slide up river.  Leave the outhouse, the bunk beds, the cabin twelve by twenty which we moved, for those who remember when, by snowcat away from that which was to that which will be.  We’ll build some day.  Soon enough.  Bigger.  Fancier.  With a toilet and a kitchen sink.

As I move back up to main camp and luxuries like solar power and flushing toilets and washing dishes in the sink, I wonder.

Better?

Today.

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rio grande pyramid

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Wild. Life.

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

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Ditch diaries.  Year seven, week three.

One very wet week at the ditch.

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last light rainbow

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We ride up as a creek of creamy coffee colored waters rushes down the narrow trail.  The horses heads hunker low, manes dripping down long faces like faucets left ajar.  My hat collects and pools and dumps as I lean over the side of my horse, turning back to see that the packs are not slipping coming through the steep slope on slick footing and a wet back.

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We awake to a dark morning.  Rain all night, white noise in the tent, and continuing.  Beneath the heavy clouds, a blanket of fog spreads in the valley below camp.  Silhouettes of the horses seen from the tent.  No more mountains.

Somewhere I hear a duck.  Maybe a distant coyote.  The small commuter planes stay away from the mountains this morning.  Otherwise, nothing but the sound of rain on the tent as I sit with a silent steaming cup of coffee held tight as if in prayer.

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ditch diggers bgf getz

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Disparity.

I read the word on a piece of newsprint crumbled to start the fire.  Old news, I don’t even know what the article was about, but I do remember the word.  I write it in my journal so I don’t forget.

Disparity.

The mountain sheds tears.

Wash me in a river of tears… Cleanse me of my past…Dip me in the river of rebirth and let me live again…

Some days you wonder if you’ll ever see the sun shine, and if your boots will ever dry out.  Neither will happen today, I’m pretty sure of that.

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wet bark

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Before bed I peel off the wet socks.  I’m shocked to see brightly painted toe nails laughing back up at me.  Bright blue and green, each nail like a little planet earth.  I smile to think of my darling niece who spoils me (shouldn’t I be the one spoiling her?) and knows I secretly love those little lady like things, though they’re hard to find and live with under all this mud and muscle and layers of wet clothes.

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I can’t keep track of the calories we’re consuming, and still we’re cold, tired and hungry.  Sometime in the middle of the night, Gunnar takes over the lower half of the sleeping bag.  I tuck in, wrap my legs around my husband’s to make room for the dog, reach down to pat his still wet fur.   He is shivering.

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wet leaf

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The spring runs again and there are puddles in the ditch where we have never seen them before and my rain pants are soaked to my waist before we even start work.

The next morning, a deep frost.  Snow on the Rio Grande Pyramid visible when the fog lifts.  It is colder, feels like early winter.  The first of turning leaves and the last of fading wildflowers, and that’s the end of our luscious little wild strawberries.

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morning rain on turning leaves

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Really, I’d like to get over the sadness.  It swells sometimes like a crashing wave, catching me unprepared, out of breath, as if I fell asleep at the beach and suddenly high tide moves in and I’m under it.  Walking helps.  Getting out there.  Listening to what you might say is nothing.  A woodpecker tapping at a dead tree.  The soft trickle of a little spring over moss covered rocks.  Snapping branches beneath my feet.

One of these days you’ll disappoint me or maybe I’ll say something to upset you.  Human nature.  I try to find the good in it.  I’d like to think we are evolving and see some signs that give me hope but until I’m sure, I think I’m better off… far away.  Out there.  Here.  Alone.

Maybe with my boys if they can put up with me.

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fading flower

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These are wild times.

I wouldn’t want to have missed this.  You know how many left, how many stayed away?  Afraid to see it.  Or maybe it spoiled their view.

It’s real and raw.  It’s dead, buried, burning.  It is wild.  It’s my mountain.  And I am so glad to be here with her, on her, enwrapped in her, entwined in her needless arms that still hold power and grace more than I will ever see a human have the ability to embrace.

Sister soldiers standing side by side.

Stick it out.  Here, with her. Stand by her.  My mountain.  This sad stage in her mighty cycle.  What if I didn’t lay witness to what she is going through?  Leave when the going gets tough and come back when it’s all ok again.

Abandoned in heart and soul.

It will never be the same.  Life doesn’t work that way.  Don’t fool yourself.

My intimate involvement matters to me, and somehow, I feel, to her.  What else can I do, like a mother with a sick child, but be there, by her side, strong and steady while she weeps.  Pat her sweaty brow until the fever breaks.  I know it will one day.

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morning rain on white flower

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I was looking forward to being home.  It’s what got me through rain, hail, snow, freezing weather, soaked boots, muddy gloves, and shovels that would not let go of the dirt.  Dreams of a hot bathtub, fluffy bed, solid walls, dry boots…

Well, we got home, but then all of a sudden, I wondered what the fuss was all about, leaving camp, being here. The hot water heater in the guest cabin we raided wasn’t working well enough to fill a tub, and a family of pack rats moved into our cabin during our absence.  When you’re talking a little one room cabin, 12 x 20, there’s not room enough for us all.  At four in the morning, we set traps, grabbed our sleeping bags, and went to sleep in a vacant guest cabin.  One advantage to our grave business we’re dealing with this year.

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morning rain on turning leaves 2

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We’re back down in the Little Cabin now.  The rats are still here, hiding behind the built in pantry.  I’ve had better days…

Today, I’m done with the rain.  For now, I’ve had enough.  How about moderation? What I want does not seem to matter. That’s OK.  I know this rain is good… only right now, all I really want to do is go down to the river, lie warm in the sun, and knit.  I don’t know how to knit, but today it sounds like a really good thing to do.

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rio grande pyramid

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I’m at home now with the hawk screeching in the wind and it’s the only music I care to hear. Wilds stirring in the brown waters of the river than washes body and soul of the land and me clear from the worries of yesterday.

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A girlfriend travelling in Guatemala shared a photo of a handmade road side sign which translated to this: “It produces an immense sadness to think that nature speaks, while mankind does not listen.”

Listen.  The earth speaks in wild whispers.  The trees talk.  Even the ones that have already died.  Maybe they have ghosts. Their stories told in streams of sap now hard and cold on flaking bark.  What stories they share of changing times and battles fought and lost and tales of two leggeds with bright eyes that remain blind to the woods around them.  Listen.  There are stories to hear, beauty to behold, wisdom to absorb, lessons to learn. If we care to listen.

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gunnar east of the divide

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My dirty little secret

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

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purple flower

 

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sun set

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blue bells

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Another week worn and older and more work done at the ditch.  We do good work.  Life as a work of art.  Work as our palette.  No matter if it’s digging ditch.

Frost already in the morning.  Rain so hard you wonder if you’ll ever dry and suddenly fire becomes a treasured gift though I don’t know if I’ll ever look at thunderheads the same way and not see plumes of smoke rising from the raging flames.  Our views are tainted.  Maybe it’s just me.

Get on with it.  Dig. Sweat. Soak through.  Cringe when you pause, rest against your shovel and watch another backpacker in the distance not figure out the way across the great Divide.  The spine of the sleeping beast.  I feel her roar, tilt back my head, and join in her wild howl.  Maybe the backpacker wonders what scary beast lurks in this high country besides the usual fear of bears. It’s just me.  Some crazy middle aged mountain mama out here digging ditch for a living.

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visitor at camp

 

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ditch digging getz family

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yet another visitor to camp

 

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Wild life, changing seasons, strawberries beneath every step on the hill up from the horse pasture.  In camp come does, bucks, bull moose, mama grouse, and Gunnar flushes out a few little ones that spook the horses as we lead them to the river for water.

Here’s life’s simple.  It’s no secret, really. It’s about hard work, silence, the disturbance of airplanes, simple living, simple food.  Everything tastes better when you’re tired.

Dirt work, dirty work.  This week Norman packs in two hundred pounds of lumber and we lay down our shovels, pick up our hammers and hand saws for two of our days here in the wilds during which time we reframe the diversion box that was sagging almost as bad as an old barn ready to fall over under the next load of snow.

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packing in 1

 

 

 

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packing in

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I’m out there and I want to get further.  I fantasize about owning the valley. Maybe the whole mountain.  I don’t want to see the bright white or fluorescent colored pin point prick of a backpacker a mile away.  I want to be alone.  With my boys, my critters, my hard work, the wind, the wilds. A part of the elements. Even the dirt.  I’ll take it.

I never thought I needed money.  Maybe I finally do.  I want enough to buy a valley – both sides – so no one is in my view.  And no one is near enough to hear, to roll their eyes as I run around howling like the wild woman I can be.

I don’t think it’s that I’m anti-social.  I just like to be alone.

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early autumn color

 

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early autumn color 2

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In praise of the chainsaw.

Sixty four.  That’s the number of trees across the trail on the lower half mile of the North Fork of the Pine River.  Most of those down are beetle killed.  Trees dead, dried and snapped in the wind.  A few are still green.  Their needles now enough to catch the wind in this thinning forest.

Of course if the chainsaw were always allowed, like any motor or wheel, we’d be out of work in the Wilderness. Instead we have horses, shovels, the two person, cross cut saw where it’s all about rhythm.  Part passion, exertion, sweat. And part Zen, losing your mind to the back and forth push and pull.

The trail is still open.  In theory.  No “closed” signs or reports tell you otherwise.  Though crossing horseback might bring tears to your eyes and a few rips and tears to your horses’ legs trying to find a way over, around, through.

A part of the Divide system, it’s still not a popular section of trail.  In peak season on a normal year, you might get three or four groups passing by on any given day, going up, going down.  We know because we see.  Our ditch crosses the base of the trail and every once in a while a curious backpacker or lost Forest Service Newbie takes the wrong turn and comes down the ditch instead of the trail.  Water only flows down the ditch when “in priority.”  Otherwise, the ditch is a dry channel.  I guess I can see the possibility of someone mistaking it for one heck of a well used trail.

It’s not a popular section of the Wilderness.  Our use numbers are low, elevation high.  It’s far away, even to get to the trail head, away from any city, without cell phone service and internet access.  This is the real back woods.  The high country.  Left for the hard core. Left.

Well, I haven’t even mentioned the chainsaw yet and this section was going to be about that.

Here’s the deal.  The trees are dead and falling, and trails are being blocked far faster than a dandy group of young and ambitious Forest Service yes-men-and-women can get out there and clear them.  The trails are becoming impassable.  The point of the Wilderness, for man to come, travel lightly, enjoy the pristine and untrampled, and leave, is being lost.  Man – or woman – and the few that do come this far – can barely get in there and get around.  The place is a mess.  It’s a disgrace in places, and getting worse fast.

So, here’s my proposal. Tell me what you think about this. As chainsaws are about 400% faster than my dear cross cut saw, what if, for say, one week at the beginning of the season, early season, you know, when no one is really out and about up here yet for the year, we let them (or better yet, they let us, if you really want this to be about efficiency, but I know it’s still about more, like rules, regulations, control and bureaucracy…) take in chainsaws for just a few days and clear the trails, open up the access, clean the place up, allow our minimal use to continue and the tradition and dedication that made these trails possible in the first place to carry on in a respectful manner, to land and man, wild and curious.

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sawing

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Now we’re back home.  Guests have left early so there is an empty cabin with running hot water.  Showers feel especially good when it’s been five days and you’ve been out there really working.  So does bed.

Home is still simple.  For us now, a one room cabin, still propped up on blocks of firewood until we build something else, a little bigger, down here some day.  For now, we have bunk beds.  Forrest on the top; Bob and I down below.  In the middle of the night a cat forgets we’re back and jumps from the top bunk and lands on my face.  I awake to a bloody nose and can’t find a flashlight to find my way to a little water in the jug on the counter to wipe myself clean.  Sometimes a little too cozy.

Though earlier I visited the outhouse in the dark of night with the door open to the sound of the river below and a spectacular show of distance lightning in the sky above.  Beat that.

Simple pleasures.  You think it sounds like fun, but do you really want to be here? For how long? Are you ready to give up your bed, toilet and kitchen sink, medical insurance, job security, regular payments towards your debt which has allowed you a bigger better life? Trade that for bugs and cold and wet and dirt and sore muscles and regular cuts and bruises and a bloody nose at best? Is it not enough to come here one week out of every year and dream about if for fifty others?

You may have more comforts and luxuries and fancy foods and nights on the town and you won’t get me to want to trade places.

I’ll take my dirty life.

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sunny white flower

 

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gunnars world

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fishing

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Turn Around

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

 

tres and pink elephants

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monkshood

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indian paintbrush

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Finally the sound of children laughing.  Families out playing.  I didn’t forget.  This is good stuff.

Life as normal.   You might say.  Though maybe not.  Back on track?  Or is that backwards?  Maybe I’m ready to jump tracks.   Again.

The road is open, guests are here, leisure people in the distance sitting around with cocktails and chatter, the miller moths have hatched, this is the worst season for horse and deer flies we remember, and afternoon thunderstorms drive us and the flies to shelter. We’re finally heading off to work at the ditch, the horses are fit and shiny, the grass is green, the road is muddy, and a fire in the woodstove feels pretty good right about now.

The forest fires are out, fire ban lifted, the crews have packed up and left, the rains are plentiful.

These are the cold hard facts.  Pretty nice, I’d say. Now it’s only rumors still spreading like wildfire. Get over it and don’t drink the KoolAid.  No need to preach doomsday here.  Nor do I want to hear blind optimism and see shallow smiles.  Get real.  Look around.  This one’s over.  What’s next?  In the meanwhile, get to work and stay out of trouble.  Best advice I can turn to. That’s all I need to do right now.

We’re off to the ditch.  Nothing like good hard work to cure the blues.  This is about as good and hard as it gets.

The book on Ginny and the time in Argentina, by the way, was completed two days ago. I love deadlines.  There will be some revisions, modifications, refinements.  Hopefully not too much.  I want it real, raw, and most of all, a fun read and an inspiring story.  I think that’s what we’ve got here.

Now it’s back to the Ditch Diaries.  What are we into now, Year Seven?

Until next week…

Sending love and light from these wet wild hills.

Gin

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orange aspen leaves

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rainbow and heavy sky

 

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Into Tomorrow

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

A Celebration.

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lost trail ranch and pole mountain

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We have been blessed.

We have been untouched by smoke and fire, and now there is rain.  Sweet, sweet rain.  The smoke and plume that passed through lower ground is being replaced by afternoon sprinkles.  The sky clears.  The earth heals.

Our wonderful county, our beloved country, all those who worked so hard and risked their lives, we thank you.  You have been amazing.  Over a hundred thousand acres, and not one house or cabin lost.   We are so proud of you, so proud to be here.

We at Lost Trail Ranch have remained untouched by these frightening fires. The only scars we see are in the silence of this time when there should be children running in the damp grass, laughter in the woods, singing up the trails, and tight lines along the river.

In this silence, we are reminded of why we are here, these cabins built, Bob’s major renovations, Gin’s meticulous cleaning.  This is not for us. This is for you.

We await your return to your little bit of paradise.  Come share in the celebration of life.

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me and bob

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Know too that life is ever changing.

What we knew yesterday is no longer.  Today is something new.

And sometimes, to change, the past must die.

Now is a time of cleansing.

Tomorrow is rebirth.

I stand in the middle of time and worlds and shed tears for what I knew and have shivers of anticipation for what I will see tomorrow.  And no time, I see, is more rich than here and now.

I mourn for the mountain I already saw die, and now see strength in this purging, beauty in knowing what will come.  The great mystery.  Do more than open my eyes to watch.  Be alive within it.  Be a part of the rebirth as we are a part of the death

These words I write to Ginny and she tells me I should share:  “I feel the mountain, and feel the burning is cleansing, she rids herself of the century of suppression (the Forest Service policy for over 90 years of putting out wildfires) and the beetles which have taken advantage of the situation and have ravaged.  That for me was harder.  That is when the trees died.  This is in a way a release.  Caused by the skies.  She heals herself.  All we need to do is get out of Her way.”

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columbine

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What do we do now? Where do we go from here?  What have we learned, and how will we handle the rest of the trees that will burn?

And then what, we are wise to ask? Because there will be more.  And I’m not going to forget.  Brush it all under the carpet and call it quits and just be glad it wasn’t my part of the mountain that burned, because next time if could be.

I want to be positive, encouraging, build back my business that continue to be closed, but I also need to realistic.  Responsible.  And what matters more?  The income I have lost and continued to lose?  Or the mountain, mine, yours, the one that will be here for my grand children and their children that I hope will be here long after you and I are gone.  That is our job.  Mine and yours.

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afternoon rain clouds

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We are lucky to not have to rebuild.  We do not even have to clean up.  We just swallow the loss and deal with the debt, open our doors when the road opens and hope people come, carefully. That part is actually easy.

What about the rest?  Our neighbors down mountain with a charred back yard.  The river, the fish, down river for how many miles.  The rest of these trees dead standing.  The long term effects, including, as one friend brings up, the impact on our air.  What could be more basic?

At times I’d like to turn a blind eye. Out of sight, out of mind. Wouldn’t that be easy.  Today we’re fine. Who cares about tomorrow?

Only I can’t.  Never could.  And I don’t plan on starting now.

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forth of july reservoir

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It has been an interesting few weeks.  Holding out, holding up.  Remaining in the evacuation zone.  Trying to go on with life, maintain your balance, but life is turned upside down and staying upright isn’t so easy.

We stayed here because this is our home, and they knew that, and I shall always thank them for letting us remain.  Understanding. We fought to be here before.  We can fight for it again.

What would it have cost us if we left?  We are already losing too much.  But its money, only money.  Look what we do have, what matters most.  Home.  Each other.  That’s the biggie.  No money in the world could buy me better.

Day before yesterday, the boys head to town for the first time since well before the closed road.  I’m about out of wine, the silly little loaner hens haven’t been keeping up, and those darned squirrels are eating more of my lettuce, chard and kale than I can grow.

Our world is slowly opening.  A summer homer is hanging out somewhere up here and the cowboys are hard at work gathering cows that have been scattered for miles with open fences and closed roads.

We’ve managed just fine.  And not alone. The community, though far away, at times seem close. Among the many thank yous that I would like to say:  Greg for his compassion (not to mention hard work), Eryn  for her generosity, Sammy and Clint for their offers to help (and believe me, you both were part of the plan if push came to shove), Camille & Melvin, Betty & Jack – for helping feed us, and the Swansons for being the neighbors if you could choose you would choose, and lucky us, we can. The county, our commissioners and sheriff’s department and firefighters and EMTs. The brave and skilled crews that came from far away.  All of you who have written, shared your stories, reached out, touched in words and yes, that does mean a lot to me.  Karen… for more than I can put in a post…  And my boys. Always my boys. Because sappy as this sounds, they are the sunshine in the smokiest of days.

To all those family and friends that have cared, shared, reached out, expressed, thought about the future more than just holding onto the past.

Thank you.

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family on forth of july

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We will get through this.  You know it.  We will look back and say, “Remember that year with the terrible fire?” Only I know it’s not over.  Maybe now, for this year, this time. But not in the big pictured, the long run.

Sherie writes, “…Make your witnessing loud & vocal… Draw the line on the map… Do it, Gin, use your ammo.”

Wise and challenging words. Thank you.  This is what I need.  To see the big picture. When it’s too easy to focus on me, mine, here, now, and a little business in a big forest.

I’m between a rock and a hard place.  Support and encourage my business, or work for the mountain, the trees, the birds and fish and flowers, moss and air.

I feel I must.  I am obliged.  How can I say I care so much but be willing to do nothing?  As I would fight for the life of my child, so I feel I must for the mountains, the Earth.

Ultimately, I must choose the greater good.

~

forth of july reservoir 2

~

In the deepest darkness

light

A view from the charred hillside where a forest once stood

Green grass begins to grow.

Beauty everlasting

everchanging

Not what she was yesterday

now free to fly with great bright wings

into tomorrow

Finding beauty in a broken world. *

~

wet leaves

~

*From the book of that title by Terry Tempest Williams.

Ode to a Christmas tree

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

early dec 2

`

You get an appreciation for life when you’re surrounded by death, you know? Trees are that way for me.

Although decorating for and celebrating Christmas is something I love, the Christmas tree part just had never worked out well for me. First, Forrest was raised in the far north of California where in winter the only action on the one-lane hair-pin turn road beside the rare sighting of one of the reportedly two hundred people who lived scattered in those hills and you hope on those rare times the driver was not drunk and remained on the road which of course was not always the case, was the logging trucks on days they could make it through mud slides, the occasional snow storm, and ice slick like a buttered pan in the sharp curves of the dark draws. Clear cuts like patchwork quilts secretly surrounded us. We would walk through fields that were once forest. It was a way of life there, a steady source of income for as long as the trees were there and then they would move on.

Now we live amongst Beetle kill. Hundreds of thousands of acres dying around my home. The tip of the iceberg visible from the window I look out right now. A hillside more brown and grey than green. And I know next year will even be worse. These little beetles leave a mighty large wake behind them.

The idea of cutting a tree for pleasure is not very pleasurable right now. For years, we cut Christmas branches. Big boughs off of the underside of the giant trees from the Pacific Northwest. Asked the tree for forgiveness, dragged it home through the mud and rain, then hung it up with bailing wire attached to the uninsulated wall you could see right through to sunlight if there ever was, which was not too often in winter.

Here, even before the trees started dying, we set up a fake tree. Saved from the landfill. No one ever seemed to notice. Who would guess, these folks living so far away on the mountain wouldn’t even take one tree? We couldn’t. I guess that’s why we live here, and those that only think about taking… leave. (Ahhhhh… the mountain heaves a huge sigh of relief….)

The trees up here don’t need thinning. Man’s intervention, from what I see from this window, and any other window I’ve looked out of, has been more than plenty. Maybe leave the forest alone for a while. Though now you know it’s too late for that. We’ve got a half a million acres of matchsticks curing out there now.

But… if I may for a moment try to justify my actions… Forrest is coming home for Christmas. I want the house to be festive. You’ve got to have a Christmas tree. The big old trees I could normally poach a lower branch from are mostly already dead. Bob and I discuss bringing home a Beetle kill tree. A tree skeleton, brown and dried and stripped of needles. A sign of the times. Maybe start something new. Kind of misses the holiday cheer, we decide.

Let’s get a tree that needs to be gone, we say. You know, find one too close to the road. Nope. Nothing. OK, one too close to the trail? We walk for over a mile. This one is too big. This one too sparse. This one has enough room, see, you could ride a horse around it. Leave it. It’s hard to kill when you care so much. We keep walking.

We find a tree that I know from personal experience is one you have to kick your boots from the stirrups and lift up your legs to ride through. And that’s even riding my little Arabian. What if I ride Big Fat Mamma Tres, or heaven forbid, the draft horse Norman? Really, it should go. We’re convinced. This isn’t murder. It’s necessary. It has a purpose.

We took it. Dragged it home well over a mile from the horse trail across river.  It’s here now dressed up with colored lights that we can’t plug in because it is cloudy today. The downfall of solar electricity. A bit of a bummer after nothing but blue skies for what seemed like months. Grey skies today, and not even the reward of snow.

`

early dec

`

It is dry. Too dry. Remember, I live at an elevation of almost 10,000 feet. It’s supposed to be winter here by now, big time, and this snow which is not here is what should feed the river next year. The headwaters of the Rio Grande, wild and free above and around me. The drought continues. Ten years and counting. This year appears to be the worst yet. Warmest, driest.

Mid day and the horses are out grazing on last seasons grasses now dried and brown. The hawks sweep low and are rewarded with moles and voles still above ground finding no solace beneath the leafless cinquefoil.

`

early dec 4

`

 

Farewell to open waters

 

Still I trust the process
as longer nights will
shed more darkness that
turns the river solid

or so it should

these things must
Come
but have not yet

•

I am waiting to walk
on frozen waters
that now melt in the heat of
day passionless grey

skies skim over
Meaning nothing more
than the promise of returning

to blue
Which where I find myself

now unable to escape

the slow process of
silencing the river

•

watching sand
Fall between open fingers
That try to hold onto

What will not remain

the mountain turns
soundless as the river
freezes over and my

future lies before somewhere
in the twisted silver path thick

I think of mercury from a broken
thermometer dropped on a hard
wood floor and

Shattered

•

Holding no more weight than
a leaf from last season
scattered in the wind

waiting

I watch hillsides
fade to grass pale as snow

and shiver

`

early dec 3

`

Close to home

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

If a horse could cry.  I can.  And I do.

Tears flow freely; rain does not.

I cannot stop crying and know my tears do not help unless they can turn to rain.  I am not a religious person, but I find myself praying.  For others.  For the mountains. The animals.  The trees.  My beloved trees…

I think of all the wilds, the wildlife, and what happens to them now, what happens next?

Here, we have rain.  Just a bit, though I suppose it is enough.  Or is it just luck?  Lightning strikes aren’t taking hold. The fire to the south of us is relatively contained.  The rest of the state is not as lucky. This time.  Some time, of course, it will be here. It will be us.  Our mountain.  Our wilds and wildlife. We await. This year.  Next.  Three years from now.  Who knows?  The time bomb upon which we balance precariously in hopeful ignorance.

In my dreams there is fire and smoke.

I can no longer appreciate the red of sunset, for fear it is inspired by flame, for knowing it is enhanced by smoke.

My country is burning.  Though not yet close to my home, I think of all the other homes, built and feral, up in flames.  Now we know it is but a matter of time.

Computer data, scientific models, and the Forest Service.  They said the beetle killed trees wouldn’t burn as bad. This summer, we see they do. Dead timber forests are safer than green, they said. But what burns best in my wood stove? Pardon my lack of science here. I wonder what happened to common sense based on observation of the world around us.

I read an article entitled, “Screaming Trees.”  The tears begin again, for I hear their cry.  How few have heard the silent wail?  We wear our blinders, find a green patch, turn our backs to the ravished red hillsides, and think it is all OK.

Until it comes too close to home.