journal

Moving On

/ Gin Getz / 9 Comments

First, my apologies.  Our internet has been dysfunctional the past few weeks.  I suppose I am lucky to have it at all out here.  Unable to post, keep up, respond, check in as I would like to.  There will be time to catch up in the future.  Winter comes.

Though I care for many of you, in my odd and quiet way. Strong and fiery as my voice may sound at times.  To those who noticed my absence and wrote to check in, thank you.  Yes, I am alive and well.  Not even too busy or depressed, off in the wilderness or on the road.  No real good excuse except the satellite connection, or lack thereof.

Second, an update.  Where I am.

Where I am is where I was is where I will remain.

Where I am meant to be.  For now, if not forever, for who can portend the future?

Full moon on frosted grass in the dark hours of morning.  Silver lights shine underfoot with almost as much mystery as the sparkle of the overhead stars.  Familiarity is lost to magic of the moment and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Changing of seasons, of stages of life.  Aging, passing, birth and death.  A dying forest surrounding me, calling for my voice to speak where it cannot.  A hawk circles me, confirms, accepts, allows.  We speak a silent dance for just a moment.  Long enough.

So much changes, remaining where I am.  The soothing blanket set out to dry in fierce winds.  Refreshing.  Discomforting.  Take not the console of comfort for granted.  Too easily lost.  And found. Changing.

The first of leaves fade brown and yellow.  An early passing this year. You know I am ready.

Forrest returns to university, to Canada.  Bob and I to our empty but busy nest.

Plans for winter projects, putting up hay, groceries, firewood, chickens, starting winter lettuce to grow in my kitchen this fall…

Third, some thought of gratitude, words of thanks.

Thank you for joining me here.  Some strangers, some friends, even a few I have never met but have become a part of our family over the years…

Thank you for being there, for sticking with me.  Allowing me to speak.  Quiet as my voice may be.  Allowing me to listen.  To challenge and talk and argue…No, we won’t always see eye to eye… I don’t need to speak with a mirror.  I would rather speak with you.

Thank you for being there, for reminding me none of us are
ever really alone.  All we need to do is reach out.

Today I send a long arm out to you with a slow embrace through the wires or wavelengths or whatever makes this stuff work.

Namaste.

 

Under a rainy spell

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

 

Rain.  And somehow we know it will soon be snow.  I take great comfort in that, awaiting the days, yet savoring the mild meanwhile. The long cold winter peaks coyly around the corner.  Lures me with promise and intrigue, a sweet melody drawing me in to the dance.  I am unable to resist.

Our season.  Our half of the year.  Farewell to the fair weather folks.  Then it is our time, our place, our mountain, and we learn to breathe again.  We flourish like winter blossoms, brilliant of color and rich of fragrance. The dormant season in which we awaken, spread our petals to the glaring sun and soak in her soft white wash of snow.

How comforting to say it is finally mine.  My home.  The place where I belong.  How many have told us that this summer.  So glad to see us back.  Their map of the world somehow more complete knowing we are here to stay.  I am jarred by their comments, flattered and frightened at the same time.  Accepting of the truth.

It often takes walking away to realize what matters most, leaving to find your place.  If we had never left, if we had not had to fight for what is ours before then, if all the drama and trauma had never happened, the deep binds that I now feel clamping tight to my toes while roots grow deep each day from heels, bare feet becoming the soil, allowing the dirt to become me, between my toes, whilst I can still adorn naked feet in the field.

This is my home.  Not what I had expected it would be.  Where are the gentle brook and shade trees and hot summer nights and cow pasture I used to dream of?  This dream evolved.  Still evolving.  As if every day I rub my eyes and see the world before me more clearly.

And still I am confused. I don’t fully let go, give in, accept.  Perhaps one should not.  One should always put up a bit of fight, keep the claws sharp, though let the tongue soften.  For you never know when you might need to charge into battle again.  I have proven this if nothing else.  I am willing to fight for what matters most.

Though now I see.  It is because of the battle we defined our space.  We became this land.  We found our home.  If it was easy, it wouldn’t be mine.

I’m ready for a little easier.

Scattered thoughts like early autumn seeds.  Does any of this make sense to you, dear reader?

Ditch Diaries

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

Week 4, Day 1

We ride back to camp mid morning, the horses smooth and solid with their understanding of where they are going, what is expected of them, what they should expect here.  They know the routine.  A job they realize well by now. They are a good group.  A family.  Literally.  Father, mother, son… and Norman the New Guy.  Now in his second year with us.

Earlier this evening, a neighboring camp invites us to join them for wine.  How unexpectedly civilized, imbibing from camp coffee cups with the sun setting behind the Rio Grande Pyramid before us.  The greatest pleasure beyond the view is the opportunity to meet new people, hear new stories.

And now a light show from up high.  The most brilliant, dazzling display of a lightning storm we have ever seen.  Seemingly nonstop flashes, blazing up the sky a brilliant blue and pink that lasts but an instant.   The Pyramid and Window appear for a fraction of a second and then the horizon returns to black.  And just when your eyes begin to adjust to the darkness, another strike illuminates the high clouds and horizon and you’re blinded all over again.

As exhilarating as the Forth of July.  The rumble in your gut as each crash of thunder follows the blinding flash.  A little bit frightening, or it wouldn’t have quite the impact, wouldn’t leave quite the impression, wouldn’t draw us from the comfort of our tent to stand there on the hillside and stare at the sky.

Closer and closer the flashes appear.  We are filled with an odd combination of anticipation and excitement, that intricate balance of fear and awe.

The cracks get louder, lightning closer and finally the intense and sudden rain chases us back into the relative safety of the tent.

We lay there warm and dry, silent together, listening to the storm now directly overhead, the tent glowing with each flash, the pattern of the rain on the fabric, the heavy rumbles turning to a odd and powerful and mesmerizing lullaby that takes us each away in our own tired dreams.

 

Day 2

Writing under the glow of candle light.  My hands are sore.  Even holding the pen seems trying.

Something new today.  Learning to single-jack hand steel.  You may laugh for what’s new for me is that which is rather old.  Such are the skills we rely on here like felling trees with the crosscut saw and moving dirt with horse and slip.

Clang, clang, clang, the rhythm of the steel.  Pulse and movement, swing and strike.  I keep it up until my hand can’t hold up the hammer.  This is no game, banging away for few minutes of fun.  It’s all morning long, keeping at it, stamina and staying power.  This is grit.  Steeling holes in rock.  Not for some praise, cheers and competition.  Simply to make holes in otherwise solid rock.  And into those holes we pour a material thick like just mixed concrete which will slowly expand and eventually break rock.  A deliberate, powerful force.  None of the drama of explosives, but similar results just the same.  Breaking stone.  Allowing us to remove obstructions from the ditch, and use the material to rebuild a weak bank.

This is a job.  I am surprisingly grateful it is short term for I know I could not keep this up day in, day out, month after month.  This week will wipe me out, I’m pretty sure.

A point and a purpose.  I could no more bang away at the rock for fun.  I believe it was Ray Hunt who said the horse knows the difference between running around in circles and running to get somewhere.  A job to do.  Point and purpose.  Direction.  Meaning to this madness.

Bob asks me if I ever imagined I’d be doing this when I was a little girl.  I tell him no, I did not.  I could not.  For I did not know these things existed when I was a little girl.

 

Day 3

A darn good day of work.  Our bosses get their monies worth with us.  Eight hours of hard labor, plus taking care of the horses, tending camp, cooking, gathering firewood and hauling and filtering water.

Simplicity is hard work.

I am sore head to toe. It feels good for it is earned.

Today we hooked up Norman to the old steel slip and dragged the entire ditch bottom – all but the last section we will take on tomorrow – just to clean it up.  If you can understand cleaning up dirt.  It’s not like it’s going to go away.  Maybe “clean” is not the right word.  We just make it look better.  And work better.  We move the dirt around.  From the high spots where it would be an obstruction when the water flows, to the low spots where the water could flow over if the bank won’t hold a full load.

Simple pleasures.  Hard work with a purpose. I wonder if our draft horse, Norman, feels the same.  I somehow feel he does.  Why wouldn’t a horse feel pride in his accomplishments, in doing what he was bred for so many generations to do, what he does so remarkably well?  I’ll sing Norman’s praises, for he can’t sing himself, but I swear, he knows he’s something special.  And he is.  One gentle giant of a horse willing to be out there with us, part of the team, getting the work done.  Does he know the ditch we maintain for a few weeks each summer will flow water that provides for households and farms in the San Luis Valley eighty miles below?  Of course not.  And as for us, it’s not about who owns the ditch we are hired to maintain, who owns the water that has become liquid gold throughout the West, or where the water ultimately ends. It’s really quite simple.  It’s just about doing a good days work and doing the best you can with what you have.  Here in the Weminuche Wilderness, our tools are simple. The greater reliance is on our man power, woman power, and horse power.  And although it’s just me, my husband, our son, a few horses and our dog, Gunnar, on days like today, I swear we can be a mighty powerful force.

Powerful, but quiet.  If it were not for the clang, clang, clang of the hand steeling, I wonder if a passerby would know we were here.  Or see our camp with our tent tucked into the timber unless the smoke from the morning fire was drifting down to the valley below.

Over dinner we talk about what it might have been like for those who build the ditch way back when.  When?  I’m afraid to say I don’t really know. Perhaps the 1930’s. Someone saw the river flowing down the west side of the Divide and thought, heck, I’ll just put in a ditch a mile long, bring this water over to the east side, and call it my own.

And like back then, I bet those who owned the water were not the same as those who built this ditch.  I imagine a team of strong and silent individuals, loner types, private people with good working stock willing to put in a good days work. Perhaps a cook tent for the crew, a wood stove, you’d need a wood stove, without a wood stove we couldn’t be here working as we do through the monsoons.  One can only stay cold and wet so long…  And tents… What kinds of tents did they have back then?  For you’d need a place to rest when the work is done.

These are the kinds of things I think about when I’m very, very tired.

 

Day 4

What were we thinking?

So there we are at ten in the morning busting through the ditch bank, knowing full well tomorrow we’ll be packing camp and heading home.

Why?  It was an insubstantial section of ditch bank. A weak link to the chain. A thorn in our sides.

We’d known about it for some time, but were unable to dive in until we felt certain we could do it all in a day – break it down and rebuild it.  For we would certainly not leave a job half done.  Water doesn’t flow down a ditch with a broke open bank.  Finally, between the hand steeling and breaking rocks, and Norman’s hauling power, we felt we could get the job done.

At noon our moods are short, our muscles burning, breaking rocks and hacking away at the hill for dirt.  Fear and hesitation. What if… we won’t say it.  None of us will.  We only think it. What if… we can’t get it done, or do it well?  We break for a rushed lunch.  We’re in no mood to talk or rest, just refuel and head back out.  Moods as tense as our muscles.

At three p.m., Norman pulls the rock that our old half-draft horse, Gizmo, back in the day could barely move.  It’s been a landmark of sorts for us, left in the bank when we just couldn’t move it further.

“Where do you want it,” Norman seems to say.  He gets it.  He moves it.  It’s in his blood and he understands.  This is his job.  He’s part of the team.  And I swear this horse is pretty darned proud of himself and well he should be.  Norman rocks!  He not only moves rocks; he raises our spirits.

By five in the afternoon, we see it happening.  The bank is being built back up, and better than ever before, with solid rock and soil, held firm by our tamping rods.  We keep it up.  Sure, we feel beat up, tired and sore and know we’ll be putting in over time, but somehow certain we can do it.

6:30 p.m.  In the soft golden glow of evening light, with strong and long shadows adding drama and intrigue, we step back from the ditch and admire our work.  What a beautiful bank we just rebuilt.  What a lovely ditch we’ve worked on!

I know.  It’s just a ditch.  It’s just dirt.

But remember the importance of pride in your work. Love it or leave it.

Love it I do.  Though tomorrow I will leave it.  And sad as I know I will be to leave up here, I’m ready for a hot bath.

 

Day 5

6:30 a.m. and waiting for the coffee to percolate.  A mild morning.  No frost, not even in the bottom of valley where the tallest grasses grow, the sweet spot where we led the horses out to graze at first light.

I think of how many mornings mid August have been harsh and frigid, horses shivering on the high line, pawing until it is their turn to be led out, bull snaps on the picket lines frozen shut, my fingers burning from the cold.

A mild season.  And still the most subtle signs show changes coming.  It happens.  Is it from the light, now just a little lower in the sky, and little less each day?  Perhaps because I know what to look for, having looked so closer at this ditch bank, the valley, the mountain back drop for six summers now.  The slightest signs.  The show begins now.  Lay low, be still and silent, and take a look.

Grasses turning brown, seeds heads tall and arching, fully ripe and letting loose in the wind. Leaves of the wild flower transforming from green to vivid orange, purple, red while the few remaining blossoms now look tired, battered by hail and time.  Red from the hills of the beetle kill sweeping down to amber of the dying, drying valley.

Today will be our last day of work here for the season.  I am utterly and completely exhausted.  Yet leaving is always bittersweet.  I love it here.  I need not tell you why, for I feel you already know. You understand by now, don’t you?

An odd relationship with the land.  I believe it is staying with her, seeing her through all her changes, moods, dark seasons.  That is what makes a home. Here remains a mystery.  Somehow out of touch.  A forbidden fruit I am allowed to taste, touch, but never own.

There remains with me this, and I shall take this with me as I leave, as I return home and recover from this hard season of work, back to soaking in my tub each night and putting back on the weight that is taken from me here each year.  An appreciation for every mild morning that remains, knowing what is coming, what is going, full of excitement for what secrets will be revealed right around the corner, the next bend in the… ditch.

 

Ditch Diaries

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

Week 3, Day 1

Missed working here last week due to the unexpected encounter between mountain lion and horse.  Left us with the feeling (the reality!) of more work to do in less time.  One worries if one can do it.  Will my body hold out?  I know the miners and loggers and true pioneer folks did much harder for much longer.  Perhaps we humans have softened.  My son tells me I’m pretty tough as he rubs the muscles in my back which don’t seem to release, relax and let go.  Muscle memory.  I imagine soaking in a hot bath and hope my muscles will ease under the almost painful pressure of his hands.

Riding in to camp this morning.  A challenge. The trailhead we use blocked with tourists in their RVs asking for directions, work men scrambling about, drilling rigs, back hoes and water trucks and I don’t know what all we had to ride through.  I pretend it’s an Extreme Challenge race for my horse, Flying Crow, and he’s winning. Guides us through the worst of it. Success! I’m proud of him.

Finally. And finally, I’m proud of my training. Some days.  Two steps forward, one step back.  Always a process. Working with this little Arab, training him as a stallion, has been a huge lesson in patience, trust and learning to read the horse.  It is working.  I have never had a more difficult horse to work with.  His natural balance of flight and distrust and questioning everything (“Do you really mean it?”  “Do I have to go there?”  “Will it bite?”  and the most often he tells me with his not so subtle body language, “But why?”).  I once read that Arabians are for people who really love horses, and really can ride.  You have to do both to put up with these guys sometimes.  It’s not easy.  Not the training, not the testing of your skills, knowledge, love and patience, not the ride.  And it’s not boring.  Always interesting. Always a challenge.  So there we go, through our Extreme Challenge.  And winning ribbons.  Though of course, only in my imagination, for there is no winning circle in the wilds.  You just make it through or not.

We made it.

 

Day 2

Lunch break.  Extended.

We sit in the sun by our tent watching our little herd of horses graze in the pasture below us and a formidable flock of charcoal grey clouds form above, into what appears a solid bank, rolling high and heavy over the Window and Pyramid, approaching our valley.

In minutes we are overcome, in shadow, embraced by portending doom.  The storm arrives.

Now horses safe in the trees and we in our tent, we listen to the clap of thunder arrive at the same time as the lightning flashes.  No time to count, “one mississippi…”  Sound vibrations roll back and forth across the valley, a game of ping pong between the two mountains.

Gunnar sits at the open doorway of the tent, knowing it will pass but quite content to wait this one out as the rain on the top of the tent turns louder and the ground turns white with hail.

Time and again the tapping overhead slows and the sky lightens and we prepare to head back to work, only to be confronted with thunder so loud you jolt and clap your hands over your ears at each blinding flash of lightning.  These clouds seem to be seeking a path up and over the Divide but instead roll around from side to side, circling above us, above the valley, round after round of intense storm.

Wait it out.  This too shall pass, I remember the words of a dear friend quoting her mother.  We will have plenty of time to complete our work.

The boys have dozed off. Even Gunnar left his post by the door and is sharing the bed with Bob.  Me, I refuse to give in to heavy eyelids.  I want to get back to work.  But holding the pen becomes harder and harder, my written words scribbled and incomplete, and I give in to the sweetness of a brief afternoon nap.

 

Day 3

Night time.  The Big Dipper just to the north of the Pyramid.  Stars so close you feel surrounded, embraced, overwhelmed, very, very small.  It all looks so big.  Unanswered questions overhead.  Unlimited curiosity, unlimited view, unlimited world of which we are a very small, very quiet part.

Today in the ditch.  A small group of backpackers asking the way.  The trail has been all but closed.  Dead trees fallen.  The newest findings of this changing environment.  Fifty one across the trail in the first mile above where the trail crosses the ditch.

They are already tired.  Yesterday, downed trees pushed them off the trail, finding their own way three and a half miles through the timber this side of the Rio Grande Pyramid.  I am impressed they find their way without the trail. We see so many completely trumped when the visible trail becomes uncertain.  There is comfort in the worn path.  These kids relied on common sense and a sense of direction, two of the most valuable wilderness skills.

We lead them to the trail, point out the route and reassure them that if they make it through this first mile, things do get better.  At least, as far as we’ve gone.  They are going farther.  The Continental Divide trail, they are doing, from Stony Pass to Wolf Creek.  I think the highest continuous section of the Divide.  And the most truly incredible, like being out there beneath the stars, looking up and out at this huge and beautiful world beyond what you’ve ever seen before.

Their journey would have taken them on a two or three hour section above treeline today.  Mid day, when they would have been up and out there in the wide wild openness, another violent storm befalls the mountain.  I thought of these kids, and somehow was not worried.  Somehow I thought if anything, they would be so filled with wonder by the magnificence of it all, by the sheer immensity of the beauty and power of the storm and nature, and respectful of the simplicity and powerlessness of ourselves out there in it.

 

Day 4

Dinner bubbling on the woodstove.  Here where work can be so hard even Hamburger Helper tastes great.  Standing over the little stove, stirring. Keeping on my wet boots for that one last trip to bring in the horses from pasture.  Wet feet.  Forever cold and wet they feel here sometimes.  I prefer to cook with cold wet feet then allow my feet to dry, and then have to stick them back in wet boots.  How good it will feel when I’m done for the day and finally slip on warm wool socks.

Today, more felling and bucking in the rain. Oil the old cross cut saw to help it sing through the wood.  Stumps left standing with the tell tale blue wood from the beetles’ deadly kiss.  Curious to me the number the hikers up the mountain right now, and how few stop to ask what we’re doing.  I don’t find myself that intimidating, and actually enjoy stopping to talk with the few who ask.  Forrest called me Mother Bucker.  Lady Logger. I like it.  Sounds big and bad, but remember, I’m a forty five year old mountain mama from New York City who weighs in well under 120.  With my wet boots on.

An evening walk after work across the big meadow where our horses graze, to inspect the work done on “the big ditch,” the one more often seen and found, owned and maintained by the Colorado Division of Wildlife.  An organization I’m probably better off saying little about as I may not find anything nice to say.

Workers had been there for a few days this week, this year, still trying to repair damage from the year before.  At this rate, from the work we saw “completed” it will only be a few more years before they send in the big crew to fix it again. A big ordeal made bigger. Trucks and trailers lined up at the trailhead and news of a formidable work force sent into the wilds, long pack strings following just to bring in their gear. This was no typical Wilderness adventure to stumble upon for those tourists trekking the Divide.  Perhaps it is no wonder that the backpackers we see would rather let us be then stop for a welcome visit.

However work aside (and work here is important to us, as with all of what we do out here, from horsemanship to felling trees, we take such pride in our work and strive to improve ourselves each year), the greater upset was the way the wilds were left.  Disgraceful.  Wilderness Ethics were not a concern, or to be polite, perhaps just were not known.  Horses tied to trees along side trails (the Continental Divide trail, no less), trash left in fire pits, sections next to the trail of grass tromped down to dirt from the large crowds, and worse yet was the hillside trashed, used as their toilet without bothering to bury.

My fury over such disregard of these beautiful wilds is washed away in the gentle storm that swept over us as we walked back across the meadow, looking ahead at where our camp is tucked into the trees, invisible to the passer by, arched overhead with a perfect subtle rainbow.

 

Day 5

3 pm and the storm has not passed, only varied in intensity.  We are ready to return home for the weekend but the prospect of two hours horseback across the Divide in rain, hail, thunder and lightning allows us to wait it out.  The storm stays longer than we would have guessed.  I am anxious. Ready to move on.  Stresses of home have returned. Sitting and waiting, not working, they sit there with me and hold to me like a ball and chain.

Waiting out the storm.

What have I left behind to be here?  Running water (unless all these lovely little creeks can count) and internet connection.  Financial burdens, personal obligations, communications, keeping abreast of the modern world when here our world is gathering firewood, cooking in the tent over the little woodstove, horses and handtools, hand steeling, double jacks, shovels and slips, wedges and the six foot crosscut saw I sharpened just the other day along a felled tree, and will have to do so again before we fell the next big tree.  The beetles have provided us with an endless array of dead trees to clear from the water way.

What have I left behind?

I will return to clean jeans, a hot bath, sipping a strong cocktail, and slipping my feet into warm slippers.  I will return to stresses I am able to leave behind here and now and need not think about as long as I am here.

I have here with me that which matter most.  There is great peace in that realization.

We will leave when the rain lightens, the lightning storm passes.  And in the meanwhile, this is a good place to be… waiting.

The brass ring

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Spent the better part of today dealing with mice and maggots.  Tomorrow I’m off to the ditch for the week.  Right now I have this to share.

We hear what we want to hear; read what we want to read.

Read between lines.  Really listen.  There’s more to it than you think.  It’s deeper.  Not as shallow.  Not if you take off your blinders and are willing to take in the truth.

Listen to the rain on the roof and dive into the place where you are.  In you car commuting to work.  In your trailer on a week’s adventure.  Home.  Same rain, same sound on all these different metal roofs.  Listen; really listen.  Such a sweet sound, no matter where you’re coming from.  The point is, be where you are.  And if you want to be somewhere else, change it. Do something about it.  Dream, and go for it.  Dreams are for creating reality, not hell.  Figure it out.  If it matters that much to you, risk it.

But don’t whine.  That will bring you nowhere but farther from the dream.

I wrote a reader a letter a few days ago.  A response to her upset, trying to cheer her up.  She took from it what she expected to read, deleted it, and asked me to resend.  Why on earth would I do that when she didn’t really read it the first time?

Don’t ask a question if you don’t want to hear the truth of response.  How many of us are guilty as charged?  My hand has been raised from time to time.

So here’s what it comes down to.

Dreams.

And the excuse of money in place of balls.

Pardon me for being so blunt, but the truth can hurt, and I’m tired of being hurt because you don’t want to hear my truth.  Don’t want to hear it?  Then don’t ask.  Delete my messages and don’t ask me to resend.  Otherwise, here I am, letting it all hang out, with nothing to hide.

Here is my truth.

Money has nothing to with it.  In fact, wake up and smell the coffee (yes, the cheap kind, as even Folgers is a splurge for me).

Those who know me know how important money is to me, what a driving force it is for me, and how much I have had.  And the answer to all is NONE.  Yet I still hear quite regularly, “Gosh, you’re so lucky and live the life I wish I could.”

So I ask you this:  Why don’t you?  You’re the one with a college degree, a stable job, car or truck, health insurance for you and your kids, some sense of financial security and/or at least a plan on paying your way through the next nine months.  Good for you.  I don’t have any of those things.  But that does not stop me.

Those who know me know.  Money has not enabled me to do what I do, be where I am, live the life I have chosen.  Quite the contrary.  It’s my lack of money and my refusal to allow money to hold any level of importance.  Yes, I’m the most impractical person I know when it comes to money.  I have no stability and security.  The bottom line is this:  I have none, never have, and it’s never stopped me from doing/being what I want.

Check out my story.  A condensed version.

So there I was, in New York City, where I wandered around holding down odd jobs from receptionist to bartender sleeping in an odd assortment of slum apartments until I found a way to get a full scholarship to art school in New Mexico.  A crazy move which had nothing to do with luck or talent but far more to do with hard work as I woke up at 3 or 4 am to put together a portfolio of work all winter long before my 9-5 job, and doing a drive-away driving someone else’s sports car from Jersey to San Jose only weeks after getting my driver’s license because I couldn’t figure out any other affordable way to drive cross country.

Worked my way through school earning minimum wage doing simple wood work while living in the parking lot of college in a 25 year old Dodge Dart and later upgraded to an equally old Volkswagen microbus.  I dropped out of college to be a self supporting single mom.  Moved around a dozen times and took more odd jobs to feed and house (including a couple ones self built and without plumbing or power) my self and son.

Finally found (and this part could be called luck) an awesome position being the caretaker of a remote kids camp in some beautiful mountains with horses, cows, chickens and pigs.  I could call it all mine, treated it as such, but none of it was.  Didn’t matter to me.  Stayed there six years, during which time I started to hear that I was one lucky lady and living the life.  I felt I was. I owned nothing but the clothes on my back, not even a vehicle for several years, but gave them my all and got to live in “paradise.” When said paradise turned a bit south, I took a crazy risk and moved to Colorado with only enough money to pay for the trip, a kid, dogs, cats and bunch of baggage stuffed into a room between two creepy guys I was supposed to work for.  I quit, willing to be homeless and hungry instead if need be, but met this guy named Bob who needed a wrangler for the summer.  This part I guess is luck too.  Meeting the “right” person is not easy.  It took me until I was 36; Bob was 45.  It was worth the wait.

The rest is history.  Prince Charming and Cinderella?  Hardly.  Above and beyond dealing with cleaning up after tourists and burying foals and trying to keep hands and house warm through six months of sub zero temps, we’ve had to deal with the most horrible and horrendous family crap you can imagine and legal battles just to keep our home and business, all of which got us hundreds of thousands of dollars deep in debt.

That’s where we are now, only we quit our job which wasn’t paying the interest anyway and we’re figuring out the next dream to start building on.

I’m not complaining.  It’s important you know that.  In fact, I’m pretty darned proud of all this.

What I want to do in telling this story is prove a point.  Figure it out.  It’s never been about money.  Not stopping me.  Not enabling me.  I’m motivated by my dreams and willing to take some crazy risks.

Stop playing it safe. That’s definitely something I have not done.  For better or for worse, I don’t know, but I’m not the one clinging to safety and security and wishing I was somewhere else.  I’m trying it, living it.  Broke, every day deeper in debt in seems, but giving it a shot and enjoy the adventure along the way.

Stop using your lack of money as an excuse.  I bet you have more than me.  I bet you always have.  But you’re there and I’m here.  So, what’s your real excuse?

There is no brass ring waiting for you to grab and get the dream come true.  You gotta get out there, mine the metal, weld the ring, and hang in front of yourself like a carrot before the horse’s nose.  You gotta walk away from the safe and simple and fall on your face time and time and time again.

Remember the advice my vet gave me after I lost another foal?  “Only those who have, lose.”  Be willing to lose.  You’ll never really gain if not willing to let go.  Leap!  And the net appears.  Only some times it doesn’t.  So dust yourself off, and get back to the drawing board.  Only make sure the picture you’re drawing is really, really magnificent.

Yes, I remind myself this too as I sit before the drawing board once again, skinned knees and all.

Reflections from mid week

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

Rain.  A sweet sweet song playing on the metal roof. Steady rhythm, pulse, cadence.  I fade into the dark clouds, black black sky, like the deepest sea, behind which the promise of full moon rises.  Somewhere else someone else can see it.  In their own silence, far from the stream of rain drumming primordial chants above me, over, on top, around, surround sound embracing me, accepting me and allowing me. I breathe.

I’m home.  Ditch work for this week is cancelled.  We’ll make it up next week.  Sticking around to care for our little red mare, Canella, who, so it seems, was attacked by a mountain lion, and won.  One more reason to love this horse.  However, with a ranch full of little kids and a few little horses, too, sticking around to keep an eye on matters probably isn’t a bad idea.

So, I am left with a week unplanned, able to be filled with time to write, time to work the (other) horses, and time to get out and explore.

In my need to get out there as the confines of high summer weigh somewhat heavy upon me, the past three days found me on foot (not horses), hiking to places I have never been before.  Spontaneous adventures leading to who knows where.  Yesterday led us to the base of Brewster Park, about four miles up the Rio Grande from where we began, and back along our horse trail which seems so different viewed on foot in summer.  On foot, one finds more time to look closer, slower.  A different perspective.  Perhaps more intimate with the mountain.

Time.  This summer my goal was for more time.  Time to do what we’ve had to put off for so many summers.  More hiking.  Fishing.  Early morning photo safaris.  Pleasure rides, the pleasure of riding with just each other and even alone.  Building a bridge – our bridge, something just for us.   Writing just to write; playing with the written word, wild thoughts.

And it was on one of these hikes (it matters not which one, now, does it?) I noted the first yellow leaves of Aspen.  Bunches, small trees, a leaf strewn across the path before me.

Summer promised to end.  I feel her bowing early as early she came on this year. The hour glass empties and as always is only so full.  How short she really stays up here.

A part of me grasps for the hope of enough sun and warmth to bring on tan legs and a ripe tomato.  I am rather sure I will see neither one.  Another part of me trembles with anticipation of my wild winters returning.  So close.  My breath quickens and I am lost with her, alone, and exactly where I want to be.

 

She touched the face before her

A hard and cold reflection

Slick surface on delicate hands

When really what she wanted

Was a soft embrace

Ditch Diaries

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

 

Year six, week one.

Heading higher.

My self, husband, son, dog, six horses…

That’s all.  Enough.  Perfect.

Away from those here to get away.

I lose myself, my home, my sense of peace and solitude. I find it again.  There.  Isn’t it odd? At Ditch Camp.

Some say it sounds so romantic.

Working in the high country.  Maintaining a trans-continental water diversion ditch deep in the Weminuche Wilderness, over a mile long across the Continental Divide.  Hard work and horse power.  Just us, our family, our stock, side by side, push pull, sharing the work, the camp, the views, the silence…

And then there is the reality.  Sore muscles. Sleeping on a thin pad after a day of working to the point of shaking, unable to lift the shovel or pull the saw one more time.  Rain, cold, dirt, bugs, no relief from a camp fire due to the fire ban, and not quite enough sun in the morning to dry your jeans and work boots before dressing. Digging cat holes and squatting in frosty grass under dripping trees. Hamburger Helper and iceberg lettuce night after night because I’m too darned tired to cook and seems like we never can get enough calories in us up there.  Leading hungry horses to pasture in the cold wet morning and back to the trees at night.  Care and complaints of horses that would rather be back home on pasture, and know the way.  Picking at the hillside, cutting roots, lifting rocks and shoveling soil, leading the draft horse, saddling and unsaddling in the rain.  Pulling the cross cut saw, in out, back forth, over and over and over again in a rhythm like breathing only… harder.

And you know.  I love it.

I give you this to read for the week.  It is long.  It may take you all week, if you care to read that much.  And if I can keep myself from writing more, for my mind gets going and is hard to stop…

Day one.  Arriving at camp.

It starts with packing along the dusty road with stranger after stranger driving by looking at us getting the packs on the horses as if we were a roadside tourist attraction, there for no more than their viewing pleasure.  Some slow long enough to whip out their camera and take a quick shot.  Most drive by as if we’re one more sighting of wildlife to add to their list to tell Aunt Jo back home in another town, another county, another state, just like it was when she used to come here for her one week a year to get away…

But she’s not here, and we’re not a tourist attraction, and I’m tired of my life being on display and those that find my life a curiosity or think we built our life for them.

And tired of sucking the dust of yet another ATV driving by anonymously.

Dust follows us as we fall in line, in unspoken unison, and ride our horses across the dam of the reservoir.  Up the first section of trail we still hear the whining motors, following us like haunting nightmares.  And then it is gone, all gone, over, and we are left alone in silence in the Weminuche Wilderness.  And that, my friends, is where I want to be.

It continues with the best day ever, the best ride ever, on the most difficult horse I ever rode, ever trained, ever learned to trust in the mountains.  Yes, my Flying Crow. He rose to the occasion, hunkered down to work and got the job done, ponying two mares and half of camp, and leading the rest.  Faced his fears when I asked him to – and he has so many fears.  Elk on trail, moose at camp, and innumerable boogymen that I couldn’t see.

Which reminds me.  About chasing moose, the mother and baby.  Gunnar did that.  Again.  People tell me it’s dangerous.  I’m not saying it isn’t and I’m sure not saying it’s good.  But I always thought he could handle himself, do his job of chasing wildlife away from his horses, and return unscathed. He’s a true shepherd.  It’s his job.  He has his own boundaries.  It’s not about the hunt; it’s about getting them away from his charge. And if you see this little shepherd chasing off the big ugly moose, there is a tinge of David versus Goliath and a twisted smile, though I swear I wish he wouldn’t do it.

It ends with us there. Horses picketed or hobbled, heads down grazing.  Sun setting behind the Rio Grande Pyramid there in view before us.  Tent and tarp set.  Tools leaning up against a tree, including the cross cut saws I so carefully sharpened and oiled and prepared for the onslaught that awaits them tomorrow.

The silence settles us.

We sit under the tarp with dinner in paper plates leaving grease stains on our jeans and boxed wine in enamel mugs and we breathe.  Just breathe.  And really, that is all I hear at first.  The breath of my husband, my son, my self.  My dog there with us.  A few relaxed snorts from the nearby horses.  And life is very good.

In time, there is the scratch of my favorite pen on paper.  I actually missed the sound, the feel, the sight of my scribbled writing pouring from cold hands, light streaming from the little headlamp strapped around my wool capped head, while the rest of me stays warm in the double sleeping bag, tight against my tired husband, so close beside my son and dog.  The four of us in the so-called two-man tent, and there lies a difference between many a two men, and my family.  Here.  Now.  No place we would rather be.

Day two. The real work begins.

Twenty trees cut and cleared from across the ditch this morning.  The cross cut saw sings with joy after the hours spent sharpening and setting the height of the scrapers and taking such pride in this old tool that once came off the wall of the log cabin as no more than a nifty rustic decoration.

Only four and half more trees cleared in the afternoon, including but half of the Big One that fell since we inspected the ditch only weeks ago.

Rain begins.  Jeans soak in the moisture as we hope does the ground.  We seek shelter under needleless trees that provide little protection.  Instead we hunker down, wrapping ourselves under our raincoats, knees to chin, backs again the bare trees, and wait it out.  The rain proves more tenacious, and for this we are grateful for we know the mountain thirsts.  Yet we long then, selfishly, for a campfire which might bring us warm and dry again.  Barring that, a sunny morning and enough time before work to hang the jeans in trees and set the boots on rocks to dry before the work day begins anew tomorrow.

That evening our plans change.  A new horse to camp decides she has had enough and it’s prime time to go home.  Bob retrieves her.  Another, however, becomes upset by the matter, and runs around with the new found freedom of having lost his hobbles.  Gunnar always runs with his horses, and ran beside this one too. I swear I saw the look of joy on Gunnar’s face right before the horse turned sharp and kicked back sideways and got Gunnar hard in the head.

Day three.  Rest, recovery, and a little work.

I did not sleep much last night.  Having had nursed my son through a head injury just months before, I kept a vigil and checked on Gunnar throughout the night.  From time to time I drifted off and dreamed about packing him out of the Wilderness on horse, figuring out the logistics of which horse to ride, to carry my dog, to leave behind, what to do with camp two hours from the trail head and two hours more to the vet.  He just needs to get through the night, I kept thinking.  I don’t want to ride the steep trail blind in the darkness while holding my dear dog instead of the reins.

My dreams drifted back and forth between my one-eyed dog, a haunting of my old Zorg, the first shepherd I had who taught me one eye was plenty for keeping a good eye on me; and my mom and dad who had recently endured a car wreck.  We headed to camp before hearing the final word of their well being, and there I was, worried…

We awoke to a little sun and a lot of hope.  Gunnar’s eye was swollen shut but we were pretty sure the eye was not damaged. The bleeding in the nose continued but seemed to be draining the swelling of his horribly swollen bridge.

We cleaned the dog, the blood on our clothes, our sleeping bags, the tent, and laid everything out and in the little bit of sun to dry before the rain began again.

By late morning we put on still wet jeans and boots and return to work, hoping to get in a few hours of bucking before the rain, leaving the dog resting beneath a nearby tree, close enough to hear us sawing as he tries to watch us through his one good eye, and falls in and out of needed sleep.

Evening.  We have decided to leave tomorrow. Gunnar should be able to just make the two hour trek out to our truck and trailer, and if not, then surely we need to get him to the vet.  We have completed our saw work for now, and cleared the ditch of a total of thirty obstructing and fallen trees.  There will be more.  Plenty more.  The beetles provide us with job security.

I once heard a fat man can fall trees.  And sure enough, I’ve seen this to be true.  But a lean lady sure can buck one up clean.  Just a little something to think about…

An hour before sunset.  I leave the boys resting in the tent with the poor pup and talk a quick walk up the North Fork trail to test out my new camera (more on that at a later date) and soak in the changed view of the now brown hills in golden light.  Beetle kill.  I count fifty one trees fallen across this short section of trail and I wonder the fate of horse traffic and travel in the Wilderness.

Day four.  Heading home.

Fourth of July and we dread leaving the higher country early when what we want is to be there, not back here with the tourists and traffic and dust and noise.

But we make it home safe, set the horses free on pasture with the rest of the herd, and sneak down to the Little Cabin where we have not been able to spend time yet this year.

For the dog, we say.  So he will not be disturbed.  So he can rest and recover.  We blame it on him.  It’s easier that way.  Though I’m not sure I’ve fooled anyone.  My unsocial tendencies are well known.

And there we are at night, in the little cabin with rain falling hard on the metal roof and old warped glass windows, the wood cook stove chugging away with dinner in a steaming pot on top, where our insatiable appetites are allowed to find their fill, and warm dry thick real beds envelope us for the best night sleep it seems we’ve had in ages, Forrest in the top bunk, Bob and me in the middle, and Gunnar in his bed beneath us.

We’ll go back in a couple weeks.  Let the dog recover, the horses get their fill.  Spend our time working on some other projects around the ranch and at neighbor’s that need to be finished up first.  Then, we’ll return to our higher mountain home.  Get away; get back to our work, wilds and silence.  A strange balance.  I’ve been told it’s unreal.  But that’s not the case at all.  In fact, it is very, very real.

(a bunch of additional photos posted on Facebook)