On this Christmas Eve.

December 24, 2013 / Gin Getz / 12 Comments

I wake this morning feeling out of sorts. It’s my first Christmas without Forrest. What’s the point of Christmas cookies without him here to eat them? (Bob would rather have pies.) My son never got a house of flashing lights, Santa, singing and Rudolf, but baking, and lots of it, I did for him.

We do our best to raise independence. Give them all we can, everything we can.

Put him down, they said,
Come on, get out, come with us, leave him, get a babysitter… he’ll be fine.
No, I said. Because I wanted to be there for him.

This is what matters most, I said. And it did. So now, what does?

The theory was to help build a solid foundation.
Upon which he would build his rocket and take off.

He’s taken off. How far away can you get? I think the South Pole is good.

Of course I am proud. And couldn’t be more pleased.
This is what we’ve been working for, what we really wanted, but still it hurts, you know? Not pain, so much as a void you don’t know how to fix and fill.

No, not sad, he reminds me (he, the wise one, of course…). Bittersweet, he’ll let me have. But not sad. “We’ve both got so much going on…” and yes, of course, he’s right. Good stuff. It’s not the time to be sad.

Well, heck, then, I say, it’s a day to get high. I’m heading to the high country. Nothing cures my blues like extreme white. Me on my snowshoes, my dog in my track. Breath deep of thin air. This is what heals me. Solitude, silence, wind, hard and harsh elements. The power of powder, intoxication of the elevation. Solace of the season.

No presents this Christmas for Bob and me. We have all we need. Instead, we’re gifting to charities. It gives us as the giver just as much pleasure, and maybe the receiver even more.

Glad to have Justin here to share the celebration, the logging, the lamb, the snowmobiles, the high country. (He might tell you otherwise after riding with Bob today.)

The tiredness of the darkest days, lullaby of deep winter, forced dormancy, how incomplete I would be without this tranquil time and muted days. Forever summer is not for me. I didn’t know how much I would miss winter until I left it. Like a lover. Left with a cold side to the bed.

And thanks to Bob, even on the coldest nights we spoon and wrap about each other and I no longer know where my limbs end and his begin and I think somewhere deep inside they really have become connected.

The enjoyment of the long, dark evenings, so much time together inside, finally catching up on reading, baking, writing to friends… thinking. Do you remember when?

Time for bed. For sweet dreams. For they shall be.
And to you all, my friends, I wish happy holidays. May they be dear, sweet and holy to you, whatever your practice, faith, believe or choice.

The burden and blessings of home.

November 18, 2013 / Gin Getz / 9 Comments

The burden and blessings of home.

The dirt road out (and in) blends into white hillside, disappears with the last storm, strong winds set it smooth, a white horizon before the black timber. Defining lines disappear.

(before the last storms, looking back at the burned mountains from far down at the paved road)

Naked aspen and stripped spruce hold the bounty of another early snow, fat and plump and plentiful on otherwise blatant branches.

Smoke in a steady stream trickles into the pink morning sky from the cabin I find myself living in this time.

Passing time. A season. This one of change. After a decade of dormancy.

Funny it would be now, in the snow, the time of year you’d expect us to curl into our cave and slow our breathing and wait out the long white season.

Instead we’re out there
in
of
a part of
together
with the elements

In snow so deep the horses have stopped pawing
we learn to breathe again.

Deep powder
Deep thoughts
Bury my burdens and cover the past
Watching each flake land on my hand
Remain for but a moment
Whilst a fairy dances within each one
Then turns to a drop of water against my humid flesh
And disappears
As will my burden
Vanish into the comfort of husband, home, four legged friends and a warm afternoon.

Maybe it will melt out. Some of it. Not all. Not for this season.

It begins. I accept, embrace, welcome with open arms.

The season of white descends, I tell to you with a shiver of excitement.

Silence in the snow as the river begin to freeze and traffic (what little remained from summer) has come to a halt. No one’s around for miles and miles and miles. No where I need to go. And next thing you know, the snowmobiles are out. At least the big old beast of a work sled with its gentler purr than the play sleds. Hauling fire wood. The best use yet for all these beetled killed trees. My version of a controlled burn. In my woodstove. And second best is this: Logs to build the walls of the next home we shall build together.

Death upon our own land becomes new life.

A grove of young trees
Needles blue green
Laden with seed cones
Red and ripe with life

Odd how beautiful and exotic it seems now here in the snow. Something I remember but have not seen in so long.

(Desire cultivating devotion.)

Lettuce seeds in the planters along the front windows have sprouted.
Things grow.

We say it’s too late to leave Nature alone to manage Herself, but I laugh to see her power of rejuvenation no matter how much we mess up. I may not have much hope in humans, but the Earth, I think she’ll be just fine.

Seeing the forest for the trees. Alternating with seeing the trees for the forest. Every needle. Brown and fallen on the snow.

And then suddenly.
The young ones bust through the whitewashed landscape defiantly. Holding the colors of the deep sea. Here so far from the warmth and waves.

Are we better to live our lives as sailors navigating in the wind
Or the seed gently accepting and landing where the wind will take her
Or do we strive to balance the two
Manning our own ship, but when the storm sends us off course, recovery may be found only in letting go.

I let go.
Toss the seeds to the wind and will see them only again when they have flowered.
Their sweet smell will draw me back.

last seasons remains
blushing
in the Early winter
as the young lover peeking from beneath
the comforter of freshly
fallen snow

I leave you then with this, this week, words of wisdom not my own, but those shared by the wise, wonderful, beautiful soul, Amy, of SoulDipper. She who sees well before me what seems to take me so long:

So be it.

I am done.

And back to living.

And then there was… snow.

September 30, 2013September 30, 2013 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

And then there was… snow.

Snow!

It happens every year. Lots of it, sooner or later. More or less, starting sometime early in fall.

This year just a little earlier than some. It’s been one of those kinda years. If you think you can predict it, you’re wrong. If you’re counting on it, don’t.

In this case, what I did expect, I got. Here, snow scares people away. Those that try to remain a little longer hole up indoors. Or maybe they were there all the time. They’ll all be gone soon enough. We’re still the only nuts to remain. Slightly cracked as we three may be.

Meanwhile, the mountain makes her silent transition. This is the part I love. The slow silken slide into Winter. The voyeur without a voice, only the written word within me, hiding behind a tree or out there on a browning withering slope, exposed, watching as she returns to her soft, serene existence. Sharing her secrets, this intimate time, with those who care and dare to step away from the safety of a dirt road, rattle of trucks and warmth of cabins. Far away.

Coming to life in the snow and ice. Fifteen degrees in the morning (that’s minus nine and half Celsius) and she only begins her long season of deep, dark blue days of frosty breath and sparkling white nights.

Cold and snow bring the wilds back to life. Wild life.

On the surface, the dormant season begins.

For us, it just begins to stir.

We head high.

Now is our time to play.

We ride up and across the Divide.

The snow teases, leaves us wanting for more. I see the boys on their horses and know their hearts and souls are gone, lost in deep powder and blinding sun and wind, fast and wild on the back of a snowmobile, where the white world is theirs and they are a part of it.

Nine hours in the saddle. Wildlife sightings include eagles, hawks and coyote sitting to watch us on the ridge of the Divide, one moose, more deer and elk than I have ever counted in one day, and only one other human being, a solitary bow hunter probably a little surprised to see us riding down through the snow where no tracks lead up and in.

I’m not political, prefer keeping my opinions to myself, wish y’all might do the same, and in general, like politicians about as much as big business.

But today, I let lose a roar. Why not? After all. I am woman…

Our government is again on the brink of a shutdown. Many of us have already shut down. We have lost hope in a government and people who support and vote in those who think it’s funny to read children’s stories instead of taking charge and initiating change from a place of business and a house of our government.

I am not impressed. In fact, I think it’s disgraceful.

Good riddance to this government? If so, then all of you. Does this mean the politicians won’t be paid and their benefits will be frozen? Or as usual, is it just those of us who vote, not those for whom we vote, who are affected?

I’m sorry for what it will do on the global level and all the jobs that will be lost because of this foolish choice. As for me on this mountain, all we’ll see are things like this: No more decorative fences built for the fun of it, or new hitching rails installed beside old ones left in disrepair. Shucks.

Selfishly, I can hide out up here and ride out the wave and wait for someone who really cares enough to act to wake up. I’m an optimist. I still think there might be someone in Washington who will.

Otherwise, I see a nation quick to point fingers and slow to take responsibility. It’s not just our leaders. It’s all of us. Wake up and look around.

What is the excuse the politicians (and perhaps, us?) play with this time? Fear of change?

Change, damn it.

Some change is better than no change, unless you’re too afraid to let go of the past, and are too dumb to see that past is already gone.

How silly I feel to allow myself to be down when I see how easy happiness is.

Just do it. Be it. Now.

When I was nineteen, the rat race I was born and raised to run in New York City proved to be not that which I wanted for the rest of my life. I found – or rather, made – a way out, and left.

In time, I built a life that I didn’t know then could exist and that if I wasn’t the one living now, I’d be wishing I was.

It starts with a dream. And then you have to have guts.

Or not, and be happy where you are and with what you came from, because I look around and know many who actually are.

I wasn’t one of them. So for those of you who are more like me and who had to write our own rules, I recommend this little bit of a reminder. Inspirational reading. I read it this morning on line and printed it out and pinned it on the fridge so I read it every morning.

Twelve Things Happy People Do Differently

It starts with gratitude.

Look around. See how much you have to be grateful for.

Maybe I have it easy. It’s beautiful here. Last year I invested in a good camera. Now it’s even easier. Through the lens, any lens, we can learn to see, to look, and even, to feel.

Harder still is looking within. And finding the beauty in there, too.

I leave you today on a happy note.

For all those who have helped to make this dream come true… thank you! Indi and Carlos are home in Hawaii!!!!

Farewell my friends! What a wonderful new life is beginning!

Diving in… the Ditch Diaries continue

August 25, 2013August 25, 2013 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Diving into the Ditch Diaries.

Twenty days in camp and counting.

After a week off, we’re feeling good. Strong, in shape, recovered, ready to hit it hard.

Not bad for a middle aged woman from the Big City, I think.

Some ask me why I don’t volunteer, help the Forest Service crews clear the trails, stop complaining and get out there and get it done. I can’t afford to, for one. Volunteering is a luxury many cannot afford.

And as much as I love working with my old fashioned tools and have utmost respect for the simpler ways, I also love an outlaw.

Besides. They don’t want me. I know. I’ve tried. Maybe you’re either a Yes-Man or a I-Don’t-Think-So kind of person. You know which one I am. My reputation precedes me. We can leave it at that.

Woke this morning to an odd scratching sound and a beeping which reminded us of a back-up warning signal on a dirt mover machine. Not something you’d expect to hear out here. What we found was a porcupine with his head hiding under the log on which we store our saddles. Glad I saw him before the dog or horses did. He’d already done some damage to Bob’s old heavy saddle, chewed on the fenders and back cinch strap.

Always something.

Early morning after putting the horses out to graze. Gunnar and I hike up the North Fork trail. It has been cleared. Traditional methods. I’m impressed, but glad I wasn’t around to witness. Mid season, and I can guess by the number of trees I had counted that need to be removed and were – what was that, sixty four? – that there may have been a good size crew or it took a while.

Yes, it’s sticking to the rules, but is it lower impact on the forest? Or the visitors to the forest?

First time in how many years I could walk without climbing over dead fall. I’m grateful, but skeptical. A usual reaction from me.

A friend tells me she tried to hike up the Ute Creek trail to Black Lake and spent too long finding her way up, over and around to make her destination. Could have sworn there was a Forest Service crew parked there with horses and a group of volunteers for about ten days. What did they do if not clear the trail?

After my indecent proposal of suggesting we take chainsaws into the Wilderness once a year, early season, before the tourists, and properly address the growing problem of dead and falling trees and resulting closed trails, the reactions I received will not surprise you.

Those in the Forest Service were adamant about sticking to the rules, the traditions, at all costs. Everyone else, not so much…

The rules, the traditions… but folks, it’s all changing. Wake up. It always does, only now, more so than ever. Things are happening, fast. Haven’t you seen? The trees are dead or dying. Now they are burning and we all know the risk and know it’s far from over.

This is a growing problem. First the beetle kill. Then the burns. It’s not going to go away any time soon and if we bury our heads in the sand (or under a fallen log like my chubby porcupine), it’s still going to remain. And probably grow.

This is my mountain. This is my forest. These are my trees. These are my trails and my back yard and my home and my business and you know what? I’m going to do something about it. If nothing else, I’m going to grab you by your shoulders, give you a good shake, and make you open your eyes and look.

It’s yours too. What are you going to do? Tell me to hold onto the past and stick to the rules? I’ve never been big on either one.

Open your eyes. Open your mouth. Breathe in the thin air that’s probably going to be a little thinner when all these trees are gone.

Maybe that’s all we can do. But I swear, that’s a helluva lot better than burying your head and pretending it’s all the same today and maybe even tomorrow as it was yesterday and everything is just peachy.

It don’t look so peachy to me.

Gunnar is lying in a big nest that is our double sleeping bag, still warm from a night of tangled flesh, while steam rises from his wet back and his nose is tucked into his fat fox like tail. Bob is getting the fire going, the coffee is done percolating, condensation on the tent roof drips, the moon has set behind the wall of fuchsia sunrise, and the horses are hiding head down in the sea of fog that settled at the base of the mountain where the thick grass grows.

The changes we are witness to. Needle-less trees provide less protection from hail, rain, and I remember when in the years before we allowed ourselves the luxury of a tent, Forrest was at ease tossing out his bedroll under the boughs of a big spruce tree and that was usually enough.

Now the birds of prey fly through and hunt in among the trees.

Grass grows taller when not in the shade.

Raspberry bushes take hold.

There’s no shortage of firewood.

There are some silver linings to these clouds of dying trees.

The first flock of geese flying in formation for this season, heading south.

We step outside the tent to listen.

No motors.

Silence after they pass.

That’s the best part of being out here.

Solace of solitude.

No, I don’t want the chainsaws all the time. Don’t be silly. You should know me better than that. Don’t you remember what I asked for? Just one week, early season, to let my horses ride in safely. I even offered to help.

And what about the noise pollution of small planes that fly low over camp and buzz our horses out in the meadow regularly enough that they no longer lift their heads?

One hundred and forty feet of ditch in a day. Not dug from scratch, but cleaned up. Vegetation removed, upper bank cut to the perfect slope, bottom slipped and shoveled, lower bank raised, compacted, re-seeded.

At the end of the day, you lean on your shovel, look around and think it’s all a work of art. The ditch. The dirt. The slope. The calluses on your hands. The view. The sun going down behind the Pyramid. The horses grazing in the thick wet grass. Hillsides, even with dead red trees. Maybe even when they’re black and burned.

I’ll find beauty. I’m here. I’ll look. Closely. An intimate view, connection, touching, tasting, finding. And in the meanwhile, I’m going to care. About every fallen needle, deer in the distance, slope of the bank, and tiny little transparent green-grey trout fry swimming in the still pristine waters of the North Fork of the Pine River.

And caring sometimes might mean speaking up, stirring the waters, and splattering a little mud. Otherwise, like that porcupine, all you’ve got is a shallow view and a sense of self preservation that probably won’t last too long.

At the end of the day… you sleep pretty well out here.

Enough of a good thing. I’m tired of the rain, wet boots, cold hands, heavy shovels, soggy Levi jeans.

What a strange summer.

Sadness in the air, heavy as the sky cries.

We mourn the loss together.

Something about our team. The three of us. Links in a chain. The secret ingredient to making it all work.

At the end of the day, we balance each other out. With chores, interests, humor, drive… You take this tool, I’ll take that. We’ll get it done, together.

I’m the one to give lectures. They listen. Conversation is killed.

Follow your passion, I tell them, live like no one else. Life is an adventure, live the life you’d be envious of if you knew someone else was living it. Be the person you want to be. Start now.

Dare not only to dream, but to make your dreams come true.

They put up with me. I don’t know if they listen, but at least they don’t interrupt.

Just before lunch another hail storm hits. We’re in the tent, steaming ramen in flimsy paper bowls perched precariously in our laps, looking out the tent flap to a ground turning white. It’s loud on the tent. Oddly enough, it makes you sleepy. Why not indulge? It’s not like you can get much done out there in this, and you know it won’t last too long…

Rodeo.

All hell breaks loose around ten a.m.

Norman’s been on edge this year. Something about his confidence. I need to help him through it. If he’s part of the team, he’s got to work too.

In the meanwhile, he explodes, all fifteen hundred plus pounds of him, bucking, four feet in the air, head down, sacks of rocks flying off, metal racks tossed in the air, and away he goes a half mile across the big wide open meadow on the Divide with the dog and me behind him.

No matter how I tried, this time, I could not keep hold of the rope.

Work season is winding down. Then the fun begins. Hikes and rides and pack trips with nothing more in mind than to be here, appreciate the wilds, make the most of where we are.

I hope to do that every day.

Even while digging ditch.

Into Tomorrow

July 9, 2013July 9, 2013 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

A Celebration.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. *

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

An update from the Upper Rio Grande

June 24, 2013June 24, 2013 / Gin Getz / 20 Comments

Updates from the Upper Rio Grande

I’m sorry – I’m unable to respond to everyone who has written to check in with us as in depth as I would like. I know you care. I hope this helps answer some of your questions, relieve some of your concerns.

I’m overwhelmed with the current situation and still understand everyone’s interest in what’s going on. I especially appreciate your concern, your compassion. I do not mean to be impersonal by writing one post and sharing it with you all. It is written for you. Each of you. All of you. Anyone who cares enough to ask and then to read.

I can’t tell you what’s happening. I can only tell you what I see. Here. On the mountain. My eyes. My words. From my home. Read them if you want. Don’t if you can’t. They’re not always pretty. But they will be real.

What do I see? Morning smoke rolling up from the Reservoir like a heavy fog. Afternoon plumes like mushroom clouds over Finger Mesa. This morning I see clouds. Real clouds. I see hope.

I’ve seen other things. Like a dead calf on the outside of fence line. Mother on the inside. A fence weak enough to let in a bunch of free range cows. Tight enough to keep in an abandoned horse. Things like a horse trailer half full ride right by the pasture where that horse has been left. Things like a woman more concerned with the contents of her fridge spoiling than the well being of her fellow man (and another so quick to think of us up here, and offer us those contents). Or a guy hauling out four truck loads and two trailers worth of “stuff” from his summer home (and another showing us the keys to his and the vehicles he left behind “just in case” we need them).

What matters most? Stuff? I think of people who built here, people who live here, people with no other place to go. I think of how many have their homes threatened, places they built or built onto, their livelihood threatened, their back yard and within feet from their doorstep charred. Stuff doesn’t matter. The three of us each packed a backpack with what we thought we’d really need, still hanging by the door, just in case. That was evacuation day.

The mountain has been evacuated. The fire is below us. We are still here.

If you want an update with facts and figure on the Papoose Fire, now included in the West Fork Complex, there are some good web sites. These are a few: http://www.inciweb.org/incident/3436/ ,http://www.hinsdalecountysheriff.com/Emergency_Incident_Info.php, http://www.acemergency.org/. Look at them. Don’t listen to Facebook rants and e-mail gossip, please. Or if you choose to, take it with a grain of salt. Some of it may be right. Much of it is wrong. And trust me, it will be emotional. This whole deal is. It’s frightening, humbling, sickening, sad, and confusing.

Suddenly you realize how little you are. How little control you have. This Mother Earth is far stronger than you or I will ever be. That should give you hope. No matter what we do to mess up this beautiful place, She will heal and be OK, long after we are gone. I take comfort in believing that. Everyone has their own beliefs.

Anyway, let me tell you where I’m at. Lost Trail Ranch. Our home. Our guest ranch. At least it was. I mean, it’s still here, standing, untouched and rather unaffected by the massive fires and smoke. Except we have no guests, and it may be a while before they are allowed to be here. So the “guest ranch business” currently isn’t. It’s like winter – the half the year here on the high mountain that we’re used to blocked access, closed roads, and no people around for miles. Only it’s warm. The horses are on green grass and the chickens are laying eggs. And people are supposed to be here. This is how we make our living. Or not this year. But that’s just a minor detail. Money. What matters most, you find, is your family. And we’re fine, here, together.

Yes, I’ve seen a lot from up here this week, and much of what I have seen has been glimpses into the best and worst of human nature. Once again, I’ll stick with Mother Nature.

But I’ve also seen the best of human beings. I’ve seen bravery. Kindness. Reaching out. Generosity. I’ve seen compassion. So much compassion. This makes eyes swell hot and full with tears, because this is really beautiful, and this is really what matters, and this, compassion, is what at the end of day allows us to remember everything else around us – from the minor unpleasantries of our fellow human beings to the huge, overwhelming destructive fire we watch rip up an acre of dead standing timber in a matter of minutes as we sit back against at rock and watch. And for all this we send prayers to those brave and strong, dedicated and determined enough to be out there, in there, doing what they can to help. And because of that we can still sleep at night.

And that is what you need to remember when you think about your back yard burning up, a forest once lush and green that will never be again in your lifetime or your children’s lifetime, homes and lives threatened, businesses blown away in the ashes, wildlife fleeing or worse, remaining. You do have to think about it all. The good and the bad. But make sure you end by thinking about the good. No matter how hard you have to look to find it.

There are brave people, good people, great people. I’ve seen a few. I don’t want to name names. They know who they are. I’ve got a lot of thank you letters to write when this is done.

I also must put in here a special word to our guests and to all those reading this who may be scheduled guests for other places nearby: This road is closed and the area evacuated. Today. (Who knows about tomorrow? I’m not going to try to guess.) Lost Trail Ranch is too currently closed, though we are living here, watching, waiting.

We understand how this affects your vacation plans. This is currently the case for scheduled guests for resorts in South Fork, Creede and up in these mountains. The losses are tremendous and continuing. This is a natural disaster and emergency unlike anything we have ever experienced here. We cannot predict nor assume how or when the fires will subside and the road will open. We thank you for your patience, your understanding, and so often, your kind words and your compassion.

There are no answers we can provide at this time. We ask that you please follow the links provided and other official sources to keep up to date with current conditions in the area. We are inundated with trying to communicate with county, Forest Service, guests, summer home neighbors, family and friends during this terrible time.

There is much more to say, to share, but you only have so much time to read, and I only so much time to write. So, that’s all she wrote for now. Until next time.

Sending love and light from these high wild mountains,

Gin

The introduction

January 6, 2013January 7, 2013 / Gin Getz / 12 Comments

Three months ago we met, though still not face to face. A strange coincidence. Those seem to be the best kind of meetings, have you noticed? Something about the things we cannot explain. She told me there are no coincidences. I don’t know what I believe, but I do believe getting to know Ginny has been somehow magical. I wonder how much more so when we finally meet. In a way she’s turned my world upside down already. Because of her, Bob, Gunnar and I are heading to the other side of the world. Patagonia.

Let me tell you a little bit about Ginny. Oddly enough, I know a lot. I have spent these three months pouring through notes, writings and information on websites that she compiled over the past several years covering her life stories, from birth to present. What a life it is!

Gin and Ginny. You might just get confused. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it if you stick around a while.

I am Gin, and just the writer. Working to put the pieces of the puzzle together into hopefully one beautiful picture. A memoir manuscript with consistency, interest and intrigue, capturing the essence of this remarkable woman.

The story is Ginny’s.

The adventure, well, that’s all of ours. Even yours if you’re ready to go for the ride.

Tomorrow, we leave our mountain and begin the journey south.

The fun begins.

And so, now.

Finally, an introduction.

For those who have been wondering where I am going and why.

For those who would like to “meet” a truly remarkable woman.

Tonight, I share this treat. An introduction to Ginny Carrithers.

Following is a rough draft, a condensed bio of Ginny Carrithers, and an introduction to her memoirs.

For now, we shall call this “Dancing in the Winds of Patagonia”

One remarkable woman’s inspiring adventures of living life fully with MS.

Welcome to the world of Virginia Tice Neary Carrithers. Welcome to a world that covers two hemispheres and spreads wide across the worlds of the Aspen art scene, Thoroughbred horseracing, jet setting and a fairy tale world where Prince Charming still sits at the head of the table. This is the story of life as wild as the land she chose to settle in, and as fast the winds that now embrace her. Ginny’s is story of extremes and challenges. Beginning with a childhood laced with trauma, Ginny has confronted, overcome and learned to live with physical and emotional obstacles throughout her life, and managed to come out laughing. Her drive and passion led her to the highs that are hard to keep up with, and lows that would be devastating to so many of us. Hers is a story of living the high life and ultimately choosing the simple life.

On the surface, this is a fun, fast and racy story of one woman’s wild journey generated by her own strength, positive outlook, and brilliant, shining character. It is a story of the power of creativity and nature. Deeper down, this story is one of personal growth, healing, and inspiration that the reader (viewer) will want to cheer, cry, scream and ultimately hug and rejoice for the celebration of character that Ginny Carrithers is.

Her story begins in 1949 in New Orleans, Louisiana. From the beginning, her strength and resolve are challenged with life threatening bouts of the croup. Hers was an odd and lonely childhood on private island with a psychiatrist father, and mother that had her first nervous breakdown and was institutionalized when Ginny was only nine. From her earliest days, art, horses, and nature where her consolation and inspiration.

Life begins to bloom at age 15 as her body blossoms. Her world widens and begins to speed up with boys, cars, and wild rides to Aspen with her best friend, Janice. Yet again, Ginny’s world is severely shaken by her brother’s car crash which left him forever in a wheelchair, her father’s suicide, and her mother again institutionalized.

With her great resolve and joy of living, Ginny continues to create her place in the brilliant world filled with wealthy and powerful men, painting, and horse racing in New Orleans where she lived the young beautiful life. Her notable accomplishments include becoming the first licensed woman in Louisiana to train Thoroughbred racehorses, commissions for her equestrian art, modeling and acting and being a body double/stunt woman in a James bond movie. This woman was indeed living the “racy” life, with a whirlwind of travel, power, passion, and fame.

In 1976 at the age of 27, Ginny has become paralyzed and is given the diagnosis of MS. A chronic, progressive, disabling disease. And still this woman is not slowed down, does not back down. For Ginny, it opened new doors. After a year and half of paralysis, Ginny goes into remission and begins her work for the National MS Society, becoming a world-wide spokes person, creating and donating her own artwork, raising millions of dollars over the years, creating promotion and awareness with her talents of horse racing and art, and inspiring so many, not only those affected by the disease, but so many touched by and finding themselves in the embrace of this exciting woman.

It is during this time that Ginny meets Ashley Carrithers. The year is 1986. Another one charmed by this lovely and vivacious woman! It is because of this connection that two new worlds are opened up for Ginny. The first is Patagonia. The second is motherhood. Ultimately, it is the combination of these two that transform Ginny to the next stage of her life.

As their relationship begins, Ginny is living the Princess Dream come true, continuing the jet set lifestyle though now between hemispheres. There she is on the Estancia, riding her white Arabian, continuing to evolve with her artistic endeavors. playing polo, flying out on their private airstrip. She is on one hand the wealthy Patrona, juggling baby, paintbrush, estancias, a challenging marriage, building airstrips, buying land, travel, travel, travel… Yet all the while the darkness of MS follows her about like an uncomfortable shadow. A shadow that at times can be fierce and cruel and painful and all consuming. And somewhere between those two extremes, she is learning about healing. She sleeps outside alone on the ground. Builds her fire, drinks her mate. She finds a deeper, stronger place of visions and medicine cards and animal guides.

After the divorce, Ginny continues the back and forth between North and South America, and ultimately chooses to remain in Patagonia. She is drawn to remain because of her daughter. Because of the simpler life. The grounding. Nature. What matters most. She finds her own strength, learning to live without the Prince Charming fairytale and become her own woman. Still the artist. The artist of life. She is continually challenged as she deals with the progression of her disease, her broken back, her independence and loneliness, her desire to continue to give and reach out to and share with others, her connection to the earth, her creativity, her horses, her limitations, and her broad and beautiful spirit shining possibly stronger than ever.

This brings us to The Present. This brings us to Ginny, today, dealing with a debilitating disease while living in the dramatic setting of Patagonia. And still finding ways to give, motivate, inspire. New ways to share beauty and life. This is her spirit. Brilliant and warm as we all have seen or are seeing.

This is Ginny Carrithers.

On the surface one sees a beautiful woman and talented artist living a dream come true complete with fairytale lifestyle, world travel, wild adventures, fast horses, and elite connections. The high life. Look again and see the lows of trauma, drama, loss, and the side of the same passionate, vivacious, driven woman learning to live with MS. Multiple Sclerosis for some. Messenger of Sprit for Ginny. MS became her call for transformation and inner growth, for waking up and living her life real, strong, self guided, empowered.

The greatest element of this story is still just beyond my reach. It is within Ginny. Her true essence, her spirit if you will, which you can read so much about on paper or the computer, but no doubt will change me and complete this story. After months of becoming relatively obsessed with the life of this remarkable woman, we will finally be meeting. And there, my friends, lies the missing link to this story.

And so it is that the rest of the story, in fact the part we will begin with, starts there. Next week in Patagonia.

In the meanwhile, I can promise you this. Ginny’s story is a wild ride. Hold onto your hats, sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride. Ginny’s story will take you first to places you’ve only dreamed of, and then to a place and space within that you secretly long to be.

(for more information, please see Ginny’s web site at CreativityHeals.org)

Well, sorry to leave you hanging. You’ll have to read the book to find out all the juicy details. In the meanwhile, stick around and enjoy the adventure as Gin meets Ginny, the Mountain Man leaves his mountain again because of his woman’s crazy whims, and the Pup heads to Patagonia.

Parting ways

January 4, 2013January 4, 2013 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

The dog jumps up on the second story window and tries to get out. I don’t blame him. I feel like doing the same. We watch the boys head out on snowmobile, towing a toboggan sled containing houseplants started from cuttings that came from California, Washington, and somewhere back east from before I was born. And cats. Three of them. Two are 16 years old. A gift to Forrest when he was three. Because his mother doesn’t like mice. I had never had good luck with cats. None lasted with me for more than a year. Maybe I was doing something really wrong, but I swear, it was not intentional. Mostly, I guess, just bad luck. Like it was for the little black cat that got hit by a car. Guess my luck (and theirs) changed. Many a dead mouse later, these two girls aren’t good for much more than a snuggle now. But you know, there’s still great value in that.

First the horses. Then the chickens. Then the plants, the cats, and THE BOYS. This dog knows something is up.

Bob, he’ll be back tomorrow. Time for us to pack. Tie up loose ends, close this place down, and get ready to head out.

Forrest, well, we won’t see him until the first of May when he’s done with school for the semester. College in Canada.

Seven thousand miles away we’ll be. Geez. 7000 miles. It looks like less when I write it that way. Or his way. Over 11,000 km. No, that way is bigger. Way bigger. Let’s not go there.

I was not ready to see him go. I never am. I wonder if I ever will be.

No real cowgirl sings the blues

December 13, 2012December 13, 2012 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

So plug your ears, or you might just hear me cry.

`
(Picture of me and Flying Crow in the High Country in warmer days. Photo taken by Kate Seely)

`
Decisions are not random here. More often than not, they are based on nature. The high country, the rainy season, dropping temperatures, wind, drought, glaring sun, the road closed by snow. Things like that. Pretty simple, except we tend to complicate things with… emotion.
Our attempts at living where no one has before. A balancing act between human needs and nature. Complicated more by our decisions than what the weather does. Why can’t things be simple? As they are for the family of coyotes, loving the late-to-come winter, still out there pouncing voles in the dried brown grasses just out of Gunnar’s radar. Or the four elk still up high on Pole Mountain, grazing at an elevation of 13,000 feet. They say the Big One is rolling in tonight. These guys have not followed the forecast as intently as I have. I can only hope as the snows begin, they will turn to the timber and find their way to lower ground.

Now I’m looking through old photos. Warmer days. Sunshine, green grass, leaves on trees, solid ground to walk on, run on, kick up your heels on.

`
As I lay in bed last night, I cried. My husband unable to comfort me. And I am sorry I refused to let him try, for try he did. I know his warm touch would have soothed me, his gentle words a peaceful balm. Instead, I pushed him away, turned my back and cried myself to sleep.
I think you should know this. I don’t know why I share it any more than why I feel it. Sometimes I am tired of feeling and would rather find the perfect pill that washes it all away. Only not really, because I want to feel it all. I don’t want an unnatural solace, a potion that would make living less. I guess you have to take the good with the bad and there is always at least a bit of both if you’re really living.
This is ridiculous. I need to be stronger.

What do I really want?

Home. One. Seems pretty simple but it’s a constant theme. Here I have a love/hate relationship with the land. Yes, more love than hate. The best of relationships are that way. So why am I leaving again?
This is the last time I look elsewhere. If I find it there, I will move there. If I don’t, my search ends. That’s it. This place is not perfect, but it is mine, it is home. Complete with horses, chickens, cats and dog, a little family and a big mountain, and a healthy dose of normal problems to keep us all in line.
And there I am, loading the last four of my horses into the trailer to send them down to lower ground. Winter pasture. Before the road is closed. I wait until the last day. The last safe chance. My husband allows this of me. He knows how much it matters. He understands.
The hawk flies above me in the clear blue sky as my tears fall down into the snow. He is mine. There for me now when I am losing so much else. By choice. Damn it, what is wrong with me?

`
Winter will hit hard. Stinging against your cheeks like small stones as horizontal snow feels in the sub zero temperatures of early morning.
I won’t have to go out as early now. Tres will not be on back porch pulling down the snowshoes and ski poles to get my attention. I can wait for the sun to scale the mountain to the east and flood this little valley with sun on snow. But I won’t. I have been up early for years caring for those who need me, and really, I wouldn’t want it any other way. I will find something. The Steller’s Jays in the blue spruce, the pair of raven in the naked aspen, maybe even the magpie that shy from the coyote fence as I take the slop bucket down to the chicken coop each morning.
These will remain, a part of my morning ritual.
I frighten myself with my own decisions. Repercussions of creating life. It is not meant to be smooth, but we long for those still moments. They do not last.

`
And sometimes they die. A sorrow I care not touch on today.
The losses we have shared. Five foals in as many years. The scars are deep within me. I have carried each loss in my arms, bathed him or her with tears as he or she poured forth life that could not be contained.

`
No. Now I would rather focus on joy.
It is not always easy. But it is there if we look deep enough.
Horses have become me. A part of me. Chosen. Created. Not given, assumed or taken. I’m no lucky horsey girl grown up. I’m a horse woman, self made. An adult decision I like to say. Painted my own picture. And now I watch the last of them drive away…

Only for a few months. I remind myself and hold onto these words. Only words. But I can close my eyes and picture this. Some time in spring, long before leaves on the trees, streaks of snow patch cleared from pasture, brown waters in the Rio Grande, and tourists considering this a destination, we’ll be driving back with them in tow. And I know the feeling I will have, almost uncontained, bursting, just to have them again out of every window, following us about like bored children as we work about the ranch, the point and purpose to first light of day, ready to allow me at any given whim to wrap my arms about their neck and bury my nose in their warm hair.

`
It’s hard enough bringing Gunnar to Patagonia. I cannot bring all of them too.
How redundant to say “I will miss them.” These words are already assumed. You already know.
It’s not just about riding, is it? Maybe it was. Maybe that is how it started. But the deeper you go, the more there is.
They are now partners. We work with them, live with them, depend on them as they on us. Unlike pleasure horses, lawn ornaments, hobby horses, or toys. We are out there together and you hear me reading at night to the boys in our tent, while I hear you shuffling and stomping in the nearby trees. And some days we are both grouchy and other times both tired and short of patience, but you remind me to breathe deep and I do, and I smell you, your sweet musky sweat. And we get over it and get to work, and it’s not so bad, you know and I know so we get through it together. And then sometimes, just for the fun of it, we ride off to who knows where. Just because we can. We did more of that this year. And I thank you for trusting me to go where most wouldn’t dare and some places maybe that no horse has been before. You trust me. I tell you you can. And then I see your confidence grow stronger with each wild ride, like my child evolving into his own person. Maybe with a little bit of my help, but mostly because of you. Or maybe it’s a team. You grow, and I trust you more because of it, and really, it’s a very beautiful relationship changing all the time. It does not stop with what we did yesterday. Tomorrow will bring something new. Maybe subtle, like eye contact, little signals with a flick of my wrist, body language that we humans usually don’t quite get. We can learn to dance together. Not for ribbons or sport, not for some game or to show off. Just for each other.
And in that very moment, you grow and I grow. Perhaps not together. But maybe side by side.

(Here, Norman pulling a big rock and about as proud of himself as I am of him. This photo from “The Ditch Diaries”)

Yes, this is about home. It always is for me. The love of place and space. Balancing my love of home, mountain, horses, dog, husband and son. May be simple. But this is what matters most. To me.
And words. Though more than words. The spirit that words represent. The sharing of it all.
Now, something deeper than the pleasure of company which I will have again. Get over it. Be strong. Look what awaits me!
This is what is meant to be. Call me hokey but I believe that. I believe in the openings that presented themselves. The choices I have made. I will not let her down, let myself down, my husband down, who has believed in me through all the crazy stuff I have got him into.
At the end of the day this is my choice, what I want to do. This is what I wish I’d be the one doing if I heard someone else was doing this. Really, this is beyond a dream come true. I never could have dreamed this one up. This is no vacation. I wouldn’t want that, you know. “Vacation” is not my thing. Because even though I’ve made a living providing vacations, I have no interest in taking one myself. It’s got to have that point and purpose thing. And this does. See?
So, what I will take is this. Life. As full and rich as I can live it. And try to understand it’s just not always easy.
And then again remember this. I never ever would have dreamed up a place like this. Right here, right now. And this wonderful life we built here together.
But can I not want more?
How can something so simple become so complex?
Would I change this sadness and stay safe and warm in yesterday?

`
(The beautiful life of Bayjura)

46

October 30, 2012October 30, 2012 / Gin Getz / 17 Comments

Days are as deep as we allow ourselves to dive, and life is as rich as we make it. Ok, so it’s my birthday, and although I’m not looking for the extra love and attention (no, really…well… maybe… sort of…), these days always bring out a bit of selfishness in us all, and draws out our contemplative nature. Another year gone; another one starting.

I’ll start with words of wisdom shared with my son, Forrest.

Start being today the person you wish to be tomorrow.
Remember, it may be what you do NOT do that you could regret when you one day look back upon your life, not what you have done.

46. Somehow that sounds much older than 45. Middle aged. Mature. Maybe it’s time to grow up. Instead, I learn to accept that a part of me never will. Childlike is not a crime. I can live with it. I can love it. As I tend to do with the playful nature of my husband. Maybe Growing Up is over rated.

Twenty years ago I didn’t think that. Fun as I may have had back then, I looked at age as freedom. Assuming age brings wisdom (and really, that is questionable, but probable, as long as we keep our eyes, mind and hearts open). Wisdom opens doors. Within one self as well as out in the world.

Wisdom comes not only with age but with love of learning, love of living. And isn’t that a wonderfully childlike state of being? At any age.

So here’s to accepting growing older without completely growing up. Ever.

And all the while, being open for wiser days ahead.