inner reflections

Diving in… the Ditch Diaries continue

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Diving into the Ditch Diaries.

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looking north down the weminuche trail

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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.

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the north fork of the pine

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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.

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early morning at ditch camp

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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?

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free ride

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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.

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grass seed

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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.

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water on flower turning to seed

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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.

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purple flower

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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.

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turning leaves

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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.

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gin getz on flying crow

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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?

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bob and gunnar

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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.

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almost home

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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.

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my boys

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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.

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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…

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bob packing in

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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.

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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.

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rio grande pyramid and window in another storm

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An update from the Upper Rio Grande

/ Gin Getz / 20 Comments

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above the reservoir

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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

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view from lost lakes

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Parting ways

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

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gunnar

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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.

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bob gunnar forrest

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Confessions of a mountain mama

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

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our mountain

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So yes, travel… But first, life.  The big picture.

Don’t forget what matters most, and what I’m all about.  I’m not asking you, though if you know, please tell me. I just have to remind myself. Or trying to figure it out in the first place. Because this travel thing sure takes a lot of work, and time, and money, and we’re not even there yet.  Remember, we scratch out a living providing vacations.  We don’t take them. So what am I doing?  Questioning myself.

Lessons learning, and will be learned on staying grounded.  On one hand, I leave my world for a new one. On the other, I carefully pack parts of my world to bring with me.  For example, obviously I care not to leave my relationship with my son behind.  This is the hardest part – the sheer distance that will separate us.  Or my business. Odd to consider I will begin taking reservations for this little bit of paradise from another one over six thousand miles away.  I embrace my responsibilities, and have no intention (quite the contrary!) of tossing them to the side as I leap onto a limb.   My shoulders are strong and I intend to carry these with me.  Otherwise, I would not go.  I’m really not interested in such frivolity.  Leaving it all behind was fun when I was young. I had nothing else I cared about.  Now I love what I have.  But still want to experience more.  Thus, the added weight, but added fullness of life and character.  Embrace it all.

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looking to indian ridge

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All these darned details of getting there from here (did I mention: with an eighty pound dog?).  Complicated by a different country, a different hemisphere, a different language, trying communications, emotions and relationships. Going where you’ve never been before. Minor details. Get over it.  None of that matters, just makes things hard, and I never said easy was good.  What I’m going for remains the same.

And still it’s all just a small part of the big picture for me.  For you, dear reader, might I guess, the more interesting part?  The rest might seem like boring details in comparison.  They are not for me. Helping my son with course load and career choice decision, setting up a reservation system and advertising for next summer’s bookings, juggling numbers and balancing the books (this never really happens but I go through the motions every year), arrangements for critter care and shutting down our guest ranch for almost four months… Do you really want to read about these things?  (The few of our faithful cabin renters who read the part about cabin bookings are smiling wide and shaking their head saying, “Yes!”)

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winter grass

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Do you know that feeling of arriving at a place you have never been to before?  You know that dream state you find yourself in at first, so odd and a little eerie, of not being sure if you’re really there, or just watching life pass by like a movie until you finally find yourself in there and participating and then it slowly soaks in that it’s real?  Nothing (except perhaps, hands-on positive parenting) brings you more face to face with your inner self.

Did you ever think what you were all about?  Really, take a minute and think about it.  Maybe write it down so it’s clear.  Or tell someone. Then it’s somehow more real. You shared it. Tell me, if you’d like.  I’m glad to listen.  It’s interesting what you learn.

Me, first and foremost, I’m a mother.  Nothing has created me more.  I am a wife. I’m one part of a team of three, my boys and me. (And dang, we are one helluva great team, if I do say so myself.)  I’m a dog mama, a horse mama, and the mama of whatever other animals I’m blessed enough to have and care for.  I’m about nature, solitude, creativity and passion.  I’m not always stable, a little too sensitive and filled with compassion.  I strive for grace, and have so much to learn.

And what about artist, writer? The encore career. Or some may note, back to where I was going before.  After the mothering and housewife part of the job has, well… I can’t say I’ve retired, but that part has turned into more of a hobby, shall we say.  We’re three equals now.  There is less for me to do. Now there is room for more.  More of another side of me.

Somehow this matters. Defining yourself from the start.  For travel will change you.  Not tourism, but travel.  Going to be, not just to see.

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willow branch with frost

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My fingers hover above the keyboard but make no contact.  Slowly they settle, but no letter is pressed.  I am waiting.  Waiting for a way to explain all this and nothing reasonable is coming.  Maybe this isn’t the time.  Make the time.

Writing.  Sharing.  We all have gifts. I believe this is mine.  I’m too shy to give of myself when we’re together.  Some of you have seen that, or figured that out.  This is my thing.  Sharing stories.  Maybe just images.  Images painted in words. Bringing you out there with me.  Or inside, deep within.

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dried grass barbed wire and frost

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This makes no sense, I know.  This is no explanation for where I am going.  Though maybe it is. In a round-about way.  I’m not big on straight lines.

I need to go outside. Everything makes more sense out there.  The crisp morning air. Breathe… Yes!  It’s six below zero (-21C)  without a cloud in the sky and the new sun that just peaked the back side of Finger Mesa to the east has stretched long blue shadows across a rolling, waved hill like a frozen sea of pale golden snow, broken only by a meandering line of tall trees that define the river’s winding path, and then ending abruptly at the jagged wall of black timber on the other side.

After what seems like five minutes of pulling on, piling, layering and zipping up, I’m out there with the dog running way ahead, clearing my path from unforeseen dangers. And my big fat boots, loud. Each step crunching in the dried, sugary snow. White noise if ever I heard one!  Music to my otherwise wildly racing mind.  Relax now, there is nothing to think about except the next noisy step and grasping the next deep breath of this frigid morning air.

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ptarmigan

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Seeing solstice

/ Gin Getz / 12 Comments

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knot on aspen

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Learning to see. Not just what I want to see. But what is there before me. Real and raw. And then find the beauty within, hidden as it may be at times.
Lessons learned looking through the lens.

`

melted snow on the deck mid day today

(this inspired by the work of Harold Reinisch on his blog Okanagan Okanogan.

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Light. Such a fascinating subject to focus on. I’d like to learn to capture a person’s light. Few opportunities present themselves here and now. There will be time. In the meanwhile, I turn to the mountain. Even on these days of long nights, with falling snow and white washed sky.

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cedar post barbed wire and snow

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Learning to see. I’ve spent years here looking from afar. Now I find myself zooming in. Looking closer, deeper, slower. Does this have to do with age, patience or simply perspective?

The intimate point of view. Am I bringing you in there with me? Into the trees, a little lighter now than last year, sparser now with needles fallen from the dying spruce, and bare aspen trees tipped over and piled like match sticks in places. Seems like a new one across the trail each time we take our snowshoes through the trees. A nice place to sit and rest.

The camera – teaching me to slow down, maybe even stop, look closely, see the details. Breathe into an intimate gaze. I have seen the landscape. Know the view. Coming home from a snowshoe yesterday and my mountain, my muse, is spread out before me like a naked model, tempting, teasing, taunting. I lift my camera, held my breath and really look. I had taken the same picture before, I was sure. Probably more than once. Same snow, same light, same time of day on this very same day in December. I do not press the shutter and move on.

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aspen branch

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Learning to look close, close enough to touch, to feel, to smell and taste. To share that taste with you. Leave it sweet and bitter on your tongue.
It takes patience for me. Like being aware of my breath. A walking meditation.
Finding light on the darkest day. A metaphor for living.

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horse hair on barbed wire with frost

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A long story

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

the rio grande at ute creek

`

Still fat and bright flooding the kitchen sink is the waning moon
as I run water to fill the percolator in the otherwise dark kitchen.

You can hear the rooster up early and footfall of the horses by the back door
stepping on the dry packed snow like crunching bags of chips.
They’ll wait there for me as if their presence might urge me to hurry up
and feed them sooner and I suppose in a way it does.

`

aspen leaf in snow

`

Another empty promise.

The cloud cover cleared and if I look up and away from where the moon is nearly blinding
I can see stars brilliant in their assumed mystery penetrating through what may be infinity.

Another hope of storm comes and goes and leaves us with nothing.

`

rio grande reservoir

`

The coffee pot now heating over the pale blue flame of the propane burner
as I feel my way across the room to the wood stove
no frills model
nothing fancy
just a big iron box to fill with wood and heat this cabin we built of logs and love.
I bend and stack and light and wait as I have so many mornings before
this ritual primal and grounding and simple yet sings with such wild mystery

like stars in the dark sky.

`

looking back at lost trail ranch

`

What matters? What matters most to me? I tell myself to stop being so selfish. How hard not to think of “me.”

What matters most? Look at the big picture. Step outside. Not just the door. The comfort zone.

Do I dare stand alone naked on the mountain top and let the wind whip my flesh?

And wonder if my eyes are really open or am I dreaming, only to wake and find myself back where I was yesterday. Nothing changed. Like most of the lives I see.

So hard to see, to know, to understand. Something about compassion. Seeing beyond this view that could be a fairy tale of sorts except I never read one with characters living like us before.

`

gunnar over lost lakes

`

I guess it started with my dog. At least that was the first sign I clearly saw. When I heard maybe it would be best to leave him behind. Best for whom? Of course the first thought through a mother’s mind. And then… what’s wrong with having him a part of the picture you painted? And therein lies the problem because the picture is not quite as it was painted. OK, so it’s going to be rather different. But the dog will still be a part of it.

Lets go back to talking about my dog. Gunnar. He is not easy. That’s a good way to put it. And yet, consider this: who ever said “easy” was “good” probably never learned a whole lot. About dog training, horse training, relationships, cooking, dancing and love…

On one hand, he is independent, confident and mighty strong of will. My mother while visiting us recently watched him and laughed at me. She said something about “what goes around, comes around.” Was this what I was like as a child?

On the other hand he lives life full. With gusto. Nothing half way. He loves with abandon, plays with such zeal, and when he gets a whiff of a coyote, becomes the epitome of Big and Bad.

He has an agenda all his own which has drawn me to resort to tricks, treats and leashes where I used to just trust my dog would be right here, and he was. Those were the other dogs. Not Gunnar. He who does not see the point in sticking to the trail when he’s already been that way. He may have a point there. Though perhaps I am more like my horses and find comfort staying on familiar trails. And then again, maybe I am not.

On this journey we’re preparing for, he has a role. I’m not sure what, besides complicating things for everyone on one hand. And on the other, I’m there keeping my promise and caring for him as I know no one else can. They might think they could, but I swear I wouldn’t do that to a friend.

Perhaps he is with us to be grounding. To slow us down, because I’m not good at sitting still, but know I need to learn. And really, he can do that too.

Slow me down. Side track. What’s the rush? Stop to walk the dog. Run with him or wrestle, because no dog I’ve ever known is willing to take you on like this guy will happily do. And he does make me happy. Lets me be happy. I wish I was wiser and allowed myself to be so silly when Forrest was still a child. I was Mama Bear and Papa Bear all by myself, all rolled into one, during what could have been the playful years. It was all I knew. Balance and letting go from time to time were things I could not do. I think he forgives me and knows I tried.

Ah, one of those born wiser than the generation before. I’ve met a few like that. I was forewarned when he was still within me. My pregnancy was spent working in a wood shop with a bunch of guys that were so clueless about women, all of them single and for good reasons. And then here is this skinny hippy chick with the growing belly. Quite the odd man out. They were good to me in their own way. Which was the way lots of guys are good in the “stand back and give her some space” kind of way. “Just don’t make her mad…” You know the sort.

Well, one of them, Justin, was waiting for the aliens to take him away to a better place, and in the meanwhile, he lived in a communal earthship just outside of Santa Fe along with a few others, waiting. He smoked his beedies and smelled of clove and did yoga and drank pureed grass. He painted, and he’s the one who told me Forrest was way beyond me, and I did then and still do believe him, though of course at that point Forrest was still months away from seeing daylight, tucked safe and warm in that beast of a belly growing behind my overalls.

And he, this one born wiser than me, writes me this morning with the greatest wisdom I could want to hear. “…intentions are good, but health may definitely affect the direction of everything … So maybe your job will be a little different, but still… it seems amazing for all involved.”  Really, who needs to hear more?  He is right, you know. If you’re brave enough to give it a try. I think I am.

You’re probably wondering what the job will be, our plans are, where we’re going and what we’re doing. Trust me, I’m wondering too, but I know a little more than you, so I suppose I should share some of that.

It started on a feeling. Those can be the things that get you in trouble, I know. But they can also be the things that change everything.  I am ready for change.

For two months I had this ad on my desk beside my computer. A job in Patagonia. But nothing about it was right for me, for us. Sounded great for a  young, weathy, carefree thing. I am none of the above. Finally I write, saying I am not the right person, but for some reason, I couldn’t get this off my mind. And there the connection blooms quick like if you plugged in a light and the power just spread… She was looking for a writer… to write her memoirs. Sound like anyone you might know? That would be me! And what a story she has for me to put into words!

You know what I love to say: Leap and the net appears!

So we agree, make plans to be there for four months, hubby and dog and me, room and board for my writing. It’s all falling into place perfectly. Oh my, a remote, off grid, beautiful place with horses. Sound like any other place you know? Right. Here. Weird, eh?

Sounds too good to be true and maybe it is or was but it’s not going to be like that. Maybe, just maybe, it is going to be even better. Better for us. Maybe not you, because maybe you’re still looking for a pretty place and that’s enough for you. But I’m looking for more. Something deeper, richer, more meaningful than a pretty view or a pretty face.  I’ve got all that here!  And I am finding it all.  There.  Topping the list:  point and purpose. Then there is a brilliant person to learn from, live with, help out. An adventure unlike anything I have ever done. And a darned good story to boot.

I’ll explain it all more clearly in time. I know this is already far too much for one sitting. But I have to share this with you first, and then I’ll let you be. This from a letter I sent to a friend:

For two weeks, I’ve had this odd feeling in my stomach. I could not tell if it was strictly physical, or if it was emotional/spiritual taking a physical manifestation. Since it was just a nagging feeling, not pain, I kept assuming the latter, but could not “get” the message. Seems like things were/are going so well.

It got so strong. Again, not painful, just would not go away to the point that I was constantly aware of it, could not ignore it, and it seemed to affect my breathing as if I needed to breath stronger and deeper, which up here at almost 10,000 feet elevation is going to be a challenge no matter.

Well, last night I got a letter telling me we’ll be living on the outskirts of town and travelling around and acting in a position of caretaker/caregiver I did not feel either capable of, nor what I signed up for.  And we won’t be out at the ranch. And I’m thinking, wait, we’re really quiet folks used to very remote, I’ve not lived near town in twenty years, and I have Gunnar, I just don’t know, this is a big change from what we originally planned. And what about the writing? Writing this book – is that still the focus? I thought that was my calling and the greatest gift I could give.

Bob and I talked it over while we lay in bed at night and decided.  We would do it no matter. There are many reasons, but one of the most basic is something to do with trust and love. That got us into this situation. We have to continue based on that.

Besides, if we were to remain, we would be bored. Yes, bored. Even here. Think of it this way: we’ve been here, done that. Same old/same old. We’re too comfortable now, and we’re too young still to be ok with comfortable. You might think it’s neat, but we’ve done this. Yesterday. Many yesterdays.  We built it, dug it, cut it down, birthed it, trained it and /or dreamed it. Sure, we’re proud of it. But we need not be so attached to it that we can not see beyond, and find a little more depth and meaning. It’s that point and purpose thing. That matters. What’s the point and purpose of holding onto the shallow surface? Dive in!

Anyway, that’s what we decided. And this morning when I woke, there was another letter explaining the situation further. It was beautiful. And the crazy thing is, through all of her explaining all of her problems, she is the most brilliant, bright being. As she said, “I might be losing my eyesight, but not my vision.”

The journey may be taking on a slightly different path than we expected. But maybe, just maybe, it is a greater one.

Oh, and that feeling in my gut?

It’s gone.

`

last summers growth

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Follow the flow

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

waterfall move

`

Something about expectation. They made this one up to be so profound. I was hoping, of course.

They said it was life changing. Those were their words. What they told us when they came back from “the elusive waterfall.” So we went looking for it. Twice. The three of us. Bob, Gunnar and me. It used to be four. And every day like yesterday, I still wish to share these special places on the mountain, our mountain, his mountain, with Forrest.

`

waterfall art

`

I’m going through yesterday’s pictures, sharing a few but wish you could see them all though you might get as bored as Bob and think maybe a few hundred is more than enough.

I’ll start with this. I’m no cinematographer, but Bob suggested I try to capture the sound of water flowing beneath frozen surface of the creek in a hidden draw along the mountain. An intimate sound. Not very “visual” but I think you might get the point: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ClLSFqAdN0E&feature=youtu.be

`

waterfall move 3

`

Seeking the obscure destination, the life changing waterfall. Not the words I came up with, but ones I held onto. Ready to have my life changed. Maybe I say it wasn’t a big deal after all. Yet take a few minutes to reflect and maybe you’ll see it was. That’s how it happens sometimes. Not all at once. Not obvious. Slow like water cutting rock.

`

at tree line

`

maybe not
life changing

that was their
thing not mine

though I confess I
looked for
a change

and what I found was
beauty

natural
and the love

of my husband
and dog
and humour

of getting my partner
off a mountain
with a blown out

knee and funny if you
knew this was not
the first time

the dog and
I scrambling this precarious
incline on all fours

and I was scared as
we slipped down a slope which
doesn’t seem like
much unless you were there

sliding

because we had to see
more and it was

perfect

`

upper waterfall

`

I guess I was expecting something else. I thought we’d get there and be bowled over and everything would be new and different and wonderful. My manuscript sold, my dog behaving perfectly, my son finding his chosen path, my grey hair turned brown and my wrinkles smoothed over, our property sold, our debt gone and all these ideas for the next book I’m working on just flowing like water from my mind onto paper…

After getting over the initial shock that this was cool, but that’s about it, I started to see.

`

above the rio grande

`

Life changing experiences. Are what we make them. Do we allow ourselves to be affected, and grow and change or do we hold on to what we were yesterday and think we want tomorrow without seeing what is in front of us today?

My life is the same today as it was yesterday, only my legs are more sore, and nose a bit sunburned, both of which are fairly regular. But me, I am different. Not just today, but every day. Some things in life I don’t want to change. That’s a tough one. Figuring out what we can carry with us into tomorrow. For starters, I’ll carry my husband, if need be. Especially if those knees quit him again.

`

gunnar and bob by waterfall

`

Bordering wild

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

`

`

Some days I’m out there alone (and I mean really alone – miles and miles from another human being) and I’m blown away.  I’d like to come up with a more eloquent term, but it’s raw and it’s real and simple as it seems, it feels right.  Blown away.  By her beauty.  Her silent strength.  Her still power.  Arms of wind that enwrap me as I stand on the breast of her mountain and listen to the last cry of open waters.

Trying to keep up with my imagination.  The songs and sounds I want to share.  She soars alone with wings silver and delicate as the frost forming on the north facing slope.  I remain grounded.  I run to catch up with her but am never quite there.  Ideas brimming and bubbling.  The lid rattles, ready to explode.

`

`

And there I am, doing no more than stirring a pot of green chili, tossing out hay to my horses, washing dishes and hanging clothes on the line we strung up stairs beside the bed, for frozen jeans take too long to dry.

As Julian mentioned recently, “In a busy world where true literacy is so rare, many people (I think) prefer to look at pictures…”

I hope then, this will do for now.  And even then, there is so much more I wish you could see, wish I could share with you…

`

`

`

`

Welcoming winter

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

 

 

Seven degrees below zero Fahrenheit, and a foot of snow.

Winter has come.

Spread out her picnic blanket and begins to unpack her feast.

She has arrived early.  We take this as a gift, for our winter will be shorter this year, heading south to summer again in January.

The forecast predicts the “real” cold comes tomorrow. A rude awakening, they say.  If you weren’t ready for winter, you will find it regardless. It will find you.

We’re ready.

Yesterday we took the afternoon off (the weather providing a wonderful excuse to not work) and snow-shoed along the other side of the Rio Grande in virgin snow, looking back at our mountain, white again, horses and houses tucked into the snow laced trees, seemingly so little and far away. And I think of how far away another person today might be.  Any one else.  Miles away.  And you know I find comfort in such distance.

We follow the hillsides like waves, and again cross the river, now where she is open and as yet, still unfrozen.  That will come in time.  Many more mornings like today and it will not take long.  For now, however, there are no black depths lurking through solid white, but rather, she calls quietly and shows me her brown and green rocks at her soothed soul, and invites me to step in.

Snow shoes and all, we walk through the water.  All we can do is hope waterproof boots are just that, for turning back the way we came on our first trek of the season that proves more extensive than planned is not what we want to do.  You know how it is.  Once you start, you just keep going.  It’s so crazy beautiful.  You just can’t get enough.  Until all of a sudden, you had too much. And then you find yourself… exhausted.  And still with a ways to go to get back home.

The boots proved tight, our crossing worked well.  Except on the other side the wet boots and snow pants coated with dry snow, packing thicker with each step, and became quite heavy. The two mile trek back up the snow packed road seemed very long indeed.

We feed the horses double in the storm.  Three times their normal rations last night.  Icicles on their muzzles this morning.  Norman’s furry feet dangled with little snowballs, jingling almost joyously as he lifts his heavy feet to come find me feeding this morning before sunup.

Yesterday morning in the thick of the storm, watching Bob take the horse trailer down the road before it got snowed in.  We can ride the horses out when I am ready to part with them and allow them their winter pasture in lower lands.  They might be ready, but I am not.  Those that have spent most of their winters up here with us (Crow, Canella, Tres, Bayjura) do not find it odd to weather the storm and hunker down as the snow coats their backs.  They hide in the Aspen and gnaw the bark of the freshly dead trees while waiting for Gunnar and me to show up for their next feeding.

This morning the last of the elk have left their tracks across our pasture as they scramble for open grounds.

Now we enter the time of depth, physical challenge, silent connection, intimacy with the elements, isolation with earth and sky.  Alone need not mean loneliness.  For some of us it is a state of awakening.  An opportunity to flourish.  A quiet radiance.  The winter crystals bloom so brilliant, though are more fragile. Both created by and at the mercy of the sun.  Exposed to the elements of which they are a part. So delicate in nature, so susceptible to the whim of man.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Begin again

/ Gin Getz / 11 Comments

 

 

 

And so it begins again, as it has so many times before. 

I wake long before light to heavy silence.  You can feel it.  A pressure of sorts, weighty, though not oppressive.   I know.

I feel my way to the window and there is the view as I expect it to be and as it is for nearly half my days here.

The branches of the blue spruce at the same time laden and light.  The ground below bright and glowing as snow continues to descend in darkness.

This is the time the land shines and shivers.  It is her time.  When she is allowed to be solitary.  Nothing to give or take.  Demands washed over in white.  Pure and pristine in stillness and strength.  If Artemis was a season, she would be winter here.

She is out there, singing her own song, loudly but only for herself, with no one around to listen, comment, critique.  I hear her in intimate moments as the sound of falling snow.  I try to respect her space, walk lightly upon her with downy steps, and bow my head (and roll my eyes) in apologies for the sudden barking of my dog as he finds the tracks of a coyote that recently passed our path where we walk in the twinkling crystal light of fresh falling morning snow.