What’s coming.

April 7, 2014 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s coming.

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

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

Interesting indeed the things we are seeing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So it’s spring.

March 24, 2014 / Gin Getz / 8 Comments

On the first day of Spring, Forrest atop the mountain behind our ranch, looking down our valley and beyond.

So it’s spring. Yes, here too. In spite of the single digit mornings and a pasture of unbroken white.

I remember what the season should bring, could bring. Rich soil turned up in garden beds, fresh linens from the line on our bed. Sweet sap running in the trees. Foals romping outside my window. I don’t have that here and now. None of it. Only memories. So strong I can smell the earth and the sweet sap and the new born baby’s breath.

It’s different here. Still spring, the emerging of warm earth from her frozen slumber, but here and now with a new set of definitions. Like the sighting of the rufous sided towhee scratching at the seeds I toss out beneath our picnic table, and awaiting the song of the frogs. Thinning snow that turns to slush in the afternoons and light so intense on the spring glazed surface even cloudy days seem blinding.

We learn to adjust. Human beings are remarkably adaptable, no matter how stubborn we may seem. No place is perfect. Thing about this place, with all the trials and tribulations to get here and stay here: it’s ours. That means something to me. More so with each passing year, growing connection, memories embedded in the soil. A glance around and I can point to what fence we built, cabin remodeled, road or trail constructed, which mountain I climbed with which dog in what sort of weather. A board on the old bedroom door frame records Forrest’s growth in faded pencil marks, and generations of horses – mother, daughter, grandmother – await me at feeding time.

Out on a snowshoe alone with the dog. Gratitude. It’s easy to find it here. Ten things a day, a friend and I prompt each other when we find ourselves forgetting. Yes, I do forget. The space, the light, the beauty, thin air, a mountain that looks as fancy as a wedding cake, solitude, silence but for spring winds and the opening river and birds. Yes, spring brings such song in the early mornings before the wind picks up and late in the afternoon as the shadows are tossed long and indigo upon sugary snow.

Living. Dying. This season. Every season.

I remember the dread that came with the risk of the open road bringing conflict and chaos along with cars. Now I await the open road as the open pasture when we can begin building our place on our land that we have fought for and won.

Bob takes the Cat down there in the afternoon slush and cuts through the open white. The first step towards breaking ground. Frost just below surface. We are early still.

And I remember the fear that hung heavy in the spring storms back then with each birth. I would rather not remember. I turn my attention to the mob of chicks scampering about in the giant dog crate between the planters of newly spread lettuce seed and the grass for the cats and dog. Their happy chirps blending with the melody from the various birds feeding at the picnic table right outside the window.

And now I know

the loss of none

As if I could remember

a babe crying to be nursed

And the sound of children’s laughter

The gentle nicker of the mare to foal

The song of two blue birds

on the top of a spruce tree still green

Where they first arrive here

every year.

The sap won’t run this year.

At times emptiness is a relief.

Now I know what is beneath the slipping bark.

I take out the draw knife for the first time this season. Peeling a small log needed for a remodel project on a neighbor’s bathroom. With every pull of the knife, tiny white life revealed. Ten, twenty, maybe more. Slicing through life. Larva.

I know it’s crazy but still I feel sadness. I am taking life. Can I look at them as the enemy? Who is to blame? I daresay, not the beetles.

Will every log I peel for our house reveal the same?

I need a shower. Rid myself of their remains which has stuck onto my skin, in my hair, my jeans after working out in the wind.

Author’s Update.

With regards to The Color of the Wild, much thanks to all of you readers who posted reviews – what a wonderful help you have been – and for those writers who took the time to share reviews and interviews on their web sites and blogs, especially:

Amy of SoulDipper

Carrie of The Shady Tree

Ray from New Book Journal

Kat from Indies Unlimited

More big news this week is that I just got the word that a select number of Barnes and Nobles bookstores will be stocking The Color of the Wild on their shelves. Please take a look at your local store and let me know if you see it there!

As for what’s next… Patience (I tell myself). It’s in the works. Two so close to completion, but we’re not there yet. And I’m not ready to be there. No, it’s not fear. Crazy? Maybe.

This is where my attention should be – getting the next one finished up and ready to go – and yet I find myself shunning the process, intentionally. I’m not ready. Isn’t that strange? It is not lack of words, as you, dear reader, can see. It is something else. I need more time. I need to find a balance between pushing myself, and holding back. With distance comes understanding. It’s not reading the same thing over and over. It allows me to see it all anew. To pick up the manuscript with a fresh perspective and a bright, eager mind. Editing need not be a chore. It can be a pleasure – if you love what you wrote. And if you don’t , here’s your chance to fix it, and fall in love all over again.

I don’t know how it is for other writers, but for me, I am learning it has to do with trust in timing. Trust and timing. And knowing when to take a break. To step back before diving in head first… Then take a deep breath and go for it!

For now, I let it go. Brew like the beer. Though I’m starting to get thirsty.

Waiting for words to ripen.

It won’t be long before I open the pages up again, and maybe turn them into fine wine.

Revealing.

March 19, 2014 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Another big moon comes

and goes as

the season of life

and death that is

spring unfolds

somewhere, maybe

here, maybe

tomorrow today

as the cat lays in

the grass planted

last fall inside

the kitchen window

and waits.

And I wait impatiently for the horses to begin shedding their shaggy coats just so I can have reason to spend more time with them as they bustle about on dry dirt and vie for the attention of my curry comb and close breath.

A mourning dove shows up early, lured by warmer air only to find no more than small patches of open ground, not ideal for a ground feeder, and the seeds I throw out daily are of no interest.

Down at one of the few open places where the Rio Grande runs clear and black like licorice beneath her otherwise still white ribbon, a pair of Mallards swims from one end of the open place to another and fly off as the dog and I cross river, me on snow shoes, he on broad feet with long fur between his pads that have only rarely touched bare earth in so many months.

Spring approaches the high country like a chrysalis revealing.

After weeks of crunching more numbers that I have since… ever… and straining my eyes where by my reading glasses no longer seem strong enough, I’m done playing architect, done with our house plans. We await the opening of white pasture and the cutting into ground, and in how long, too long, not soon enough, we will be in there living, breathing, walking around,, parking muddy boots by the door, sitting at the kitchen table with burning candles and full plates, watering house plants, baking bread, making love, kicking back in my claw foot tub and writing while the sun comes up in my nook.

So much for the simplicity of a little log cabin. These drawings, ten pages from the bottom of the concrete footer to the top of my writing nook, seem so complex. Does it help or hinder to have plans drawn up by those who have built, not just those who have planned it on paper? I do not know, but I’m ready to put down my pencil and pick up my draw knife. I’m ready to build, to break ground and pour cement and peel and stack logs and with tired muscles and sore hands sit back at the Little Cabin and watch the new one come to life.

In darkness.

March 11, 2014 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Rotten snow and dirt on the road below the ranch. The forecast says it’s far from over. The white expanse of pasture before me confirms. Looks like winter, feels like spring. Chicks in a box by the wood stove in our cabin making spring sounds, and the first robin on the open hill above the Rio.

Single digits when I wake and watch the passing of a magenta sky. A pink face on an otherwise white mountain peak outside my cabin window. Chances are it will be fifty degrees warmer by mid afternoon.

The boys are still sleeping – so much for new time. Give them another day or two to adjust. Can’t get much done in the dark anyway. Time carries little meaning here.

With fat parka and heavy boots I head out to feed the horses. They count on my coming to feed by light in the sky. I see them lined up along the fence, ready. Calmer now in the end of winter warming air. They lie in the deep wet snow mid day and sleep with the soothing of the sun. They are ready for solid ground and shedding. They’re ready for attention and a good trim. They’re ready to work, as I am ready to ride, and still we both must wait.

I remember the frogs in March under the willow tree on Barn Hill where it only barely froze and very rarely could Forrest sled down fresh snow in the early mornings before the NorCal mildness would melt it off by noon. I could hear them at night when I stepped out to smoke. Living now at ten thousand feet (and I’d like to say wisdom comes with age, but there are enough young readers out there who will be quick to tell me otherwise) I haven’t smoked in years. (Yes, that’s a good sign when you no longer know how many years without thinking long and hard.) Now I make an effort to go out with the dog every night, crunch over the snow up the little hill behind the cabin and stand at the edge of the trees while the dog waits for me, watches over while I do what appears to be nothing at all. I look up at the stars and listen. So deep, still and silent here.

A land as infinite as the stars, it seems at night.

In darkness.

And as quickly as

it came

it left

and I am left

to wonder, why.

In my dreams I am

underwater trying

to breathe

waking wide eyed

short of breath

and gasping and

then just like that

it is gone.

And I dance under the starry night skies once again.

An intimate view.

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

An intimate view.

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

Look closely.

A mid winter thaw.

Can you see it? Feel it?

Little secrets softly revealed.

hike 7

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

Before & after (or still in between)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A horse(wo)man is a different breed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy. It is a wonderful life.

Enduring and endearing.

December 6, 2013December 6, 2013 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

So it’s Thursday afternoon and we stop working on the new snowplow blade to bring the horse trough into the house by the fire and get water heating on the wood stove.

It’s bath night.

Think of the folks working their tails off to afford a fancy bathroom with a shiny bathtub that’s easy to fill with water that you probably don’t know where it came from anyway, but that tub is quick to fill and simple to drain and it has to be easy because you’ve been working all day at a job you don’t like just to pay for all this and don’t have time to mess around. Long hours, big debt, no time for a bath anyway – just jump in the shower and get to bed because tomorrow you’re back at it.

Or, a hundred buck investment, an old garden hose, and all we have to worry about on this chilly afternoon is heating water.

No, I don’t have a car, a cell phone, TV, a hairdresser, a hairdryer, or fancy clothes. But I got a tub, and my husband has time to fill it.

Now it’s seven below zero and dropping and we’re sweating in the horse trough inside by the woodstove.

I step out with bare feet (and bare butt) dripping onto the snowy deck to let the dog out for one last bark and still I’m warm to the bones from my bath.

Maybe, just maybe, the heyday of consumerism is passé.

Another morning of fifteen below.
(nothing compared to what Forrest is dealing with down there)
He loves it.
And really, so do I.
The cold
brings out the wildness
chills your lungs as you howl as the sliver of moon reflecting on the flat white surface of a snowy pasture.
weeds out the weak
sends them south
and to lower ground
then again, most everyone I know
lives at lower ground.

Cold reminds me
of the fragile threat
of existence
When I can see it
at each exhale
Steaming forth like a dragon’s fiery breathe
or so it seems
a delusion
delicate like hoarfrost
as my eyelashes freeze closed
for just a moment and
I remember to blink
after every mouthful of air
escapes

But for our four leggeds
my beloved horses
out there in the cold

seeking relief of the sheds
the hay
my presence

the promise of more hay
the sun coming over the mountain
and hitting flat across their

solid brown sides
winter is too long
too cold

too harsh and white
and makes them too irritable
with frost on their muzzles

icicles dangling from their manes
and snow gathering on their back.

Three were given.
Three were born into my arms.
(Fragile life upon this hard harsh land
that through too many untimely deaths
I learned
this is no place to be born.)
And two have more than paid for themselves
through their offspring
not to mention their years
of carrying us
caring for us
and letting me care
being there with us
when really maybe
like on days like this
I’m pretty sure
They’d rather be somewhere else

Some days I think
they think
they are the luckiest of horses
with a balance between time to work and time to play
point and purpose, and spoiled rotten
wild and free, and my little ponies.
Other days, like today, I think
they think living in some stall on the outskirts of a city sounds pretty darned nice…
They don’t hate me
though at times I wonder why not
for it is only because of me they are here
And if resentment within them builds
(though I think a horse is beyond such things)
they forgive me fast when they see me
trudging through the snow three times a day
with the wildly barking dog
to feed them.

PS.

Carlos and Indi, please don’t write home now. These guys don’t need to know how nice it is for you in Hawaii!

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.

Where I’m at. (taking time for personal updates)

November 12, 2013 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

Remedy for an empty nest.

Fill the nest back up.
Or at least the barn.
Get new horses.

OK, so it might not be a cure, but I swear it helps.

Kinda strange not knowing
where on Earth he is Now.

As far away as one can go.
The end of the Earth. Really.

Somewhere between here and there,
I know that much.
Not much more.

Heading south for winter, he is.
All the way to the South Pole.
Can’t get much further away than that.

And I am pleased, and proud,
and know he is living life
full and rich and brave and strong
and what more could a mother, woman and friend
hope for?

(Update from late last night:
He’s there!
A day ahead and a world away.
And what can I say but
-stupidly-
Keep warm)

We remain
Home.
Bob and Gunnar and me
a couple of old cats
a bunch of good horses
And a few I’m going to try to teach.

So much to do and
our list keeps growing
fantasies of idle winter days
replaced with
lessons in time management
we had our idle time this summer
when we should have been
busy

try to count on things, make plans, assume
More often than not it turns out
so different than what I had hoped for

but if different is neither bad nor wrong
then why can’t I stop planning
learn to let go and just go with the flow

because really you know
what a disaster that would be
when at the end of the day
if I lived like that

we’d all be sitting around starving
wishing I had thought earlier about
what we’ll eat for dinner

These are the six months I live for
the easier ones to leave
the hardest ones
the ones that have become me
are me

and nothing no one no where else
allow this wild time

Time to release
my wild side

Intoxication
Of the elevation

Bob’s driving home and I’m watching the digital numbers on the thermometer on the rear view mirror drop. Ten degrees as we climb our mountain. By morning, the thermometer reads one below zero (-18 C). Bob’s up before daylight rebuilding the fire then climbs back in bed. The cats have been sleeping on him and I am wrapped around him and clinging tight to keep warm. He is the only one now very warm, but probably can’t sleep with all of us latched to him.

Some days I wonder what the heck we’re doing living here. Later on, that very same day, I wonder how I could ever leave.

Finally I leave you with these words for thought.

An observation on the Forest Service.

For those who live here, see.

We are willing to make observations based upon what is before us, what is happening, and common sense. It’s a matter of survival here, responsibility, connection.

On the other hand, many of those that come in to try to Manage (their term, not mine, though I believe even they are beyond maintaining such claims here and now) well, do as their told, say what they are supposed to, do their best to maintain of control of that which they will never.

My apologies to the wonderful men and women who remain within this Big Business because they care, and actually do see. I know there are plenty of you. The Cindys and Annes and so many I’ve had the honor to know, observe and work with… But I see so much more, and I’m tired of it, seeing the nothings happen and the so much spoken, the time wasted and the obvious ignored. I am sorry.

The latest bit of paid propaganda from one of their finest Yes Men is entitled (I swear to you): “Dead trees do not equal more fires… maybe.”

Really. When you’re done laughing, let me tell you this. As the title suggests and the piece confirms, it is no more than a way to get around admitting they have no clue…

However, rather than admit that then be free to open their eyes, look and think, they recommend this: let’s hold off on common sense, observing the obvious, and let’s wait for those scientific studies to be completed… which usually take a while, as we’re stuck sitting on our hands and can’t quite make it out there … there, where it is happening… there, where all of those folks who live, see.

What do you really need to comprehend the world around you, including the greatest of mysteries?

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.

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post