high mountain musing

This happens every year

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

The river continues to rise. A café au lait rush of roaring melting snow ripping down the canyon. The mighty Rio Grande contained by the steep bluff of rocks cut from years of this spring ritual. The island we hop onto in summer is submerged. The plank used to cross the gentle expanse in fall has been washed downstream. I look for its unnatural straight edges and rectangular shape of wood floating somewhere out there in the huge expanse of the Reservoir, two miles downriver. What was large enough to carry my weight across the river will appear as no more than a needle in the haystack out there in the vast still waters of the lake, waters waiting their turn to rush and rip again when they reach the other side and resume the river’s course.

And until we build a bridge or the waters subside, suddenly I find myself trapped here on this side, surrounded by tourists and traffic and in-laws on one side, and the raging river on the other. It’s not that these things are all unpleasant, some are surprisingly wonderful, but I feel myself as a caged beast unable to roam free. The wilds of winter and my room to roam are suddenly taken away. I learn to adjust. It’s not all bad. But I am no longer alone, no longer in touch with the mountain, and a part of me is lost.

This happens every year.

Roaring, rushing, raging. The sound penetrates the windows of the Little Cabin, old windows, old glass, seemingly seeping with time, distorting the view with lines of weeping age from single pane glass probably eighty years old.

The waters will calm. The snow in the high country above tree line is lesser each day, now no more than patches, stripes, pieces of the whole remaining, holding tight, losing ground. Work in the high country calls us, my escape to wilder worlds as my home becomes too tame in summer.

My home. Funny I should still call it such. And so it will be until I find another place to pour my heart into the land, and mix my blood with the rush of another raging river.

Almost summer

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

Some days we wait, other days we run to catch up. I forgot what it feels like to sit back and wait for the world to catch me. Or is it only in moments of foolish pride that I feel that could possibly be the case?

Summer. The calendar says it’s still a week away, but I say it’s here now. The ranch is filled with laugher of children, and if there is one sound that fills me with joy after the sounds I’m used to of the mountain’s silence, children’s laugher is it. Many children. Last I heard, there were sixty or so. The pup thinks they are all here for him, and revels the attention as he fetches his football tossed by many an eager child unwinding in the soft light of late afternoon.

And in the middle of the laughter and ball playing and sunny city smiles letting loose in the high mountain air, we’re banging away as usual – never the sorts to sit back and soak and take the summer off, but more comfortable with our role of building, providing, creating the place and space.

And tired as I am some days when a bath and bed seem so attractive yet still out of reach, I look around at these smiles, and the ensuing smiles of my own boys, and I’ll stick with Forrest’s expression: sleep is overrated.

Oh, and for Karen and those waiting news on Forrest’s mare, well, we’re still waiting. Now into her seventh day of “waxing” when I’ve never seen a mare take more than two. But waiting is a wonderful thing in this case, as it brings me alone and silent, with the pup at my side, staring up at Pole Mountain illuminated under the cold deep glow of the setting moon in the otherwise darkness of the frosty morning.

The comfort of clouds

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Intimacy is lost in the noise of chatter drowning out the rushing brown waters I hear only now in the wee hours as I step outside to soak in the chill of early morning silence. Mid day and everywhere I look there are people, signs of people, lights, motors, movement. I am used to being alone. The vast rift between alone and lonely. I am lonelier around people.

I no longer feel the mountain and long for the tender touch of falling snow which is the mountain as she allows herself to be, gives herself to me. I am lost in the walls of my own home, no longer mine as we move out once again. And yet somehow I feel lighter without the encumbrance of clinging, claiming. I am moving on, transforming, and that feels as good to say as it does to accept as I look around my world once again in boxes and shrug off the confusion, too busy still to focus on the future. Probably a good thing, as I am rather uncertain where that will lead.

A heavy grey sky hangs over our greening valley this morning, closing us in with the mountain. It does not burden but frees, providing a sense of place and space, completion, connection, a still peace.  For just a moment, I am allowed to slow down and do no more than breathe.

A contradiction to the pressures of the day.  And the day begins now.

Morning moose

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Early morning as the sky begins to lighten. I’ve been looking out regularly (and throughout the night) at my son’s mare due to foal today. A young female moose steals my attention now. She is lying in a patch of yet unopened iris out on pasture not far from the gate. The same pasture the moose have claimed for the past two weeks, and probably the same moose I’ve been cussing for grazing heartily on our already too limited pasture.

There, now, she is resting so close to my unconcerned herd. The horses, once so quick to spook and snort at the sight or smell, have become conditioned to their regular presence and mill about at ease. I watch her through the binoculars and the sky brightens and my vision improves. For the first time, I find such beauty in these otherwise awkward animals. She is a soft charcoal grey, I imagine touching her neck, stroking soft and silky, with the wavy hairs along her back like the mane of a horse, and her long nose, almost regal. I see a different side to her this morning, a shared familiarity, as she lies there. The female side. I’ve never seen their beauty, but nor have I shared this intimacy of a peaceful morning rest.

She’s up now, trotting off to meet up with the two young bulls she’s spent the spring with that must be lower down the pasture beyond my view, told by the direction of the horses heads, all turned in unison in that direction. The horses do not turn to watch her rise and leave. My attention returns to the expecting mare.

And letting go

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

And then it
is over

Winter
tucked away so neatly for the season

Not unlike
the box of shiny ornaments in the attic from the Christmas tree

The white
peaks surround, a reminder like left over wrapping papers and ribbons

Scattered still
in the corners of the room.

Somehow we
sense she is finally through

What we have
known

The givens,
assumptions, the safety of knowing

Is suddenly
gone

The bottom
dropped out from under

Searching for
solid ground

When we were
so used to walking on feet of snow

We are left
empty

Surprised to
find ourselves suddenly without

The habit of
heavy boots and zipped up parkas

As I head
out in morning to feed the horses

Who too are
finally letting go of their winter coats.

We leave
behind the wilds of winter

Easing into
summer so civilized with folks living for cocktail hour

And we may
never see it again.

Inside looking out

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

The world returns to white. 

The view out my window is soft and heavy and wet and white.  I slip on my boots and down jacket and head out to feed the horses.  The boots I thought were retired for the season, now brimming with snow, deep snow, dampening my jeans because the boots aren’t high enough snow.

Ten. That’s how many Mays I’ve been here.  Ten. And I’d never seen snow like this in May.  “Back in the day,” my husband tells me. And even then, he says, snow like this was a crazy thing.   You just never know.  The mountain is mightier than we are.  The best we can do is work with what we she gives us.  She gives us plenty.  And this spring, that’s plenty of snow.

It’s crazy, alright. The robins are perched on the fence post looking down at the white ground and wondering what went wrong.  The chickens hide under the shelter of their coop and can’t figure out what cruel joke was played on them this year, just when they started laying regularly again.  And Norman, dear Norman, the new guy – his training continues in spite of the snow.  Perhaps he’ll learn to pull a sleigh before he has to pull a slip and plow.

Ten Mays.  I came and said I’d stay a while.  Now it’s been a while.  Some days, it feels like too long.  We were ready to leave long ago.  A friend wrote yesterday, “How do you like your new mountain and your new ranch?”  He can’t believe I am still here.  I can’t either.

Ten Mays and still it is not mine.  I knew it never would be. Not because of the elements, the elevation, not even the snow.  Those things are in way mine.  I know them, feel them, am with them intimately. Those things we can work with. It’s something more.  Deeper.  A connection.  Was it severed, or did it never grow? 

A land that is both a mirage and memory for most.

I seek something fuller and richer and deeper than that.  Hands immersed in warm soil, toes buried in sand.  Seeds scattered, roots spreading.   A connection.  A place to live and die and toil.  I’m not looking for a place to get away but to remain. 

It seems so simple.  Basic.  A good place to start.  Funny it should take me so long to find. 

And so, where will my mornings find me, with what view out my window in the lightening sky as I sit here and write you?

Ah, the view before me. White and muted behind the veil of falling snow.  I have been glad to be here, am gladder still to leave.

I’m not big on retrospect, too often filled with sadness or anger.  Let it go.  I’ve seen too many hold onto a lifetime of resentment, hurting themselves most of all.  A bitter pill swallowed every day.

I’d rather take my chances, spit it out, and see what lies ahead.  Or right now, for that matter, because now is a wonderful time too.  A time of change.

Change. To where? Where am I going?  What will I be doing? What adventures are we creating?

For now, our hands are full, tied.  Tied to mops and window cleaners, to reins and driving lines, hammers, saws and moving boxes. 

And that’s just the beginning. But I guess that’s enough for now.

Walking for water

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Because I believe so strongly that it is the adventures we create in our lives that bring us the greatest riches.  And adventures aren’t always easy.

Because my husband believes in riding for the brand, trying a little harder for the boss, doing all he can to get more water.  In a way, it was all about the water.  Checking on the ditch.  Seeing if we could open the headgates on the other side of the Divide and start the flow in the ditch earlier than usual.  Although the snowpack prevented the water from getting through, it did not dampen our adventure.  Only made it a little “more.”

Because my son was first thinking about work, and the money it brings, and the ensuing parts and repairs this would allow him to whichever motorized toy (snowmobile or dirt bike) he’s currently tweaking…  however when we said money probably wasn’t involved, we were looking at it as “a day off,” his enthusiasm did not waiver.  He was not going to miss out on a family adventure.

Because the pup had some energy to burn and of course, not being with us would never cross him mind.

And I don’t believe it did.  Nine hours and fourteen miles later.

My Hands

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

It’s breakfast time.  I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my boys.  This table, sanded for hours and finished soft and smooth by my hands.  My hands, so rough and worn and weathered. I hold them before me now.  A curious sight.  The most intimate part of me, attached and exposed, in constant use, in constant view.  Tactile, touching, sensing and creating the world around me.

I never saw hands like this when I was growing up except on the very old with a lifetime of stories to share.  I am still constructing my stories.  How will these hands look by the time I am through?

Skin like leather.  Like a sun parched, windswept landscape, rutted with years of scars, deep lines each with a story to tell, from hot New York City dates to high mountain horses bucking.

Hands that have built homes, birthed and buried how many animals, built fences and barns and homes, nurtured trees and gardens and roses in fertile soil, shoveled a mountain of manure and snow and dirt at the ditch, kneaded how many loaves of bread, and remained somehow tender though probably never enough for my husband and the child I’ve raised.

I hold these hands before my face and look at them oddly.  Broad and coarse and unrefined, furrowed with deep lines, drawn over with fine lines, wrinkles earned from years of use.  Not battling the elements, but a part of them. Hands in the world around me. Shaping, building, forming, feeling.

And still a tender touch.  Hands that stroke my dogs’ silky side, rest on my horse’s warm neck, hold my son’s worried or proud hand, touch my husband’s secret soft side.

These are my tools, my livelihood, the lines of my life.  My hands.

Planting Peas

/ Gin Getz / 10 Comments

Because life is too darned short to sit around and wait until you find the perfect place, the perfect weather, the perfect conditions.

Who defines “perfect” anyway?

Sometimes you just have to leap before the net appears.

And plant before the last frost free date. 

Because up here, there is no guarantee of a frost free date.

Who says you can’t?

As our friend Marv once told me, the word “can’t” isn’t spoken in this house.

So, I can plant peas.  Even in the snow…

And today, lettuce, chard, carrots, radish, beets and bok choi.

And maybe the net will appear, and I’ll have a basket full of bounty from these humble raised beds.

Or maybe I can just say I had fun trying.  Because really, just being out there, working the soil, yes, even in the heavy falling spring snow, sure feels pretty close to perfect to me.

Meet the new guy

/ Gin Getz / 11 Comments

How do I describe him?  If you were here, I bet the first thing that you’d say would be “Big.” Or note his super sized feet.

The two year old son of the woman who raised Norman called him “bright.”  And indeed, in his slick summer coat and highlighted hair, he shines.  He glows.  He has a halo about him.  Although he is somewhat big, I think what we have here is a four legged angel.  With furry wings on his feet.

For those who have known me for at least a little while, you know a big part of our summers consists of heading to the high(er) country and “digging ditch” deep in the Weminuche Wilderness.

Gizmo had been our faithful ditch digging companion for the past four years.  But out of due respect, we decided it was time to allow him retirement.  We’d rather let him enjoy his later years in style (Texas style, no less) than keep pushing and using and possibly wearing him down.

Besides I love a challenge.  That’s how I learn and grow.

So here’s Norman.  My newest challenge.  A big horse for a little woman. A five year old Percheron/Belgium cross draft horse that I can tell you already has a similar heart of gold that Gizmo has.  A heart as large as his big ol’ feet, and then some, maybe.

Norman found us by way of a friend in Pennsylvania who saw an ad for a draft horse in Texas.  Five years old and never been trained. But handled with love and kindness.  That’s the foundation I look for.  Forget those who are worried about “spoiling.”  Just like with kids, kind and gentle care is the best I can ask for.  No baggage, no fear, no worries about people and dogs, and when he sees you coming, he perks up and walks over to greet you.  I’ll take “spoiled” any day, thank you.

Not a lot of folks out there breeding, training and using draft horses.  When it was time to look for a new draft horse to replace Gizmo, the most common recommendation we heard as we asked around was to ask the Amish.  “Get an Amish trained draft horse,” we were told more than once. But since when am I going to do what I’m told?

From what I saw last year, the first and only time we’ve seen the Amish and their stock make it high up this mountain horseback, I’ll stick with doing my own training.

Before we even encountered this group we saw the tracks. Far bigger than Norman’s and the trail was just not built for a side by side team, though the tracks told us that’s what these horses were used to.  Our trails are narrow, twisting, tight and fine.  Not the best place for a really big horse, not to mention attempts at walking side by side.  They just didn’t fit.

So there we were, end of last summer, heading to another few days of digging ditch, riding up the trail in our usual silent smooth procession, looking down following these giant tracks, most of which are off the trail (“Trail?  What’s a trail?” Not what a valley farm horse knows.).

Lo and behold we meet a man, a frantic rider on a nervous horse. The horse is small, made for riding, but clearly not used to the mountains and elevation.  He’s being pushed on, his eyes are wide, head high and tight, nostrils flaring, in full sweat, froth dripping from his chest, ears and between his legs, exhausted and clearly out of his element as he whinnied and pranced in place and carried on with the man on his back.

“Have you seen a loose horse,” the man asked us as he tries to control his mount?

No, and we point out to him that you could tell if you looked at the ground, there were no recent tracks in the soft trail heading down the mountain from where we came.

Next we arrive at our camp only to find a Forest Service employee wondering if this was our camp… or the camp of the Amish that they could not find.  We look across the valley and in the distance see a loose horse still running wild through the trees, another tied alone to a tree, we could hear his crying from over a half mile away, and a couple more going back and forth, containing the carnage.

Then he told us of the Big Wreck.  Now, I suppose many people starting out have wrecks. Packing is not as easy as it looks. And this was a doozie.  World class wreck for high mountain horse packing.

He tells of odd gear sprawled across the hillside, spilled open sleeping bags, the old fashioned kind you used in your backyard tent when you were a Boy Scout, and various pots and pans sprinkled all over the trail. He tells of horses running, gear flying, people yelling.  And he tells us it was the worse of the wrecks he’d seen, and was in awe that so far, the horses made it through relatively unscathed.

He’s told me enough!

You know, if you place me behind a team out in the flats somewhere, you’d probably find a similar wreck. Out of my element.  But for now, I’ll stick with the mountains.  And mountain horses.

Well, all this story does is show you why I was happy to find a draft horse that was NOT Amish trained, not too big, and just darned nice.  Now, turning him into a skilled and seasoned mountain horse is our next adventure. 

Or at least, one of the many that we’re embarking on as the season progresses.