literary blog

Random thoughts from a hyperactive mind

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

Continuation, alteration of the poem I started Monday:

A new ending, though it’s still not right.  Interesting to find something so simple so challenging.  Endings.  I gotta work on mine.

 

Back to the place

Where we were birthed

Or are we born again

Each day

 

Nope.  Not there yet.

Oh, forget it.  Onto a new start:

 

I wept tears like raindrops

Pregnant with promise

(now is this too cliché?)

Pouring upon the land

Dousing sparks of unrest

In changing times

A land hot and swollen as my crying eyes

Sadness for the loss of life upon the now red hills

My sisters standing before me

Stripped and whipped

Waves of grace flow and settle like smoke from approaching fires

Covering up

Consumed

 

Tears like raindrops

Falling through the cracks

Of a parched land

Raped and left to die

Our land of plenty

 

And now my mother weeps

Left lying in a heap before us

Blood we are unable to wash free from our hands

As needles from the dying trees fall

Lining the yellow brick road to where I wonder

 

I am suffocated, suppressed

By my own sadness

 I cry

Tears

Dancing

A song upon the metal roof

 

Friend and fellow writer, Tricia’s M. Cook, has just published a new post on her blog over at Mountain Gazette entitled, “Hunting Bears,” an essay for those who know and love these furry beasts. Me, I can be as wild as any wild beast and willing to hold my own and fight for it if need be.  You stay on your side of the fence, I’ll stay on mine.  I choose to live in bear country, and I stake a little claim there.  And yes, I will defend it, though I’m happy to let the bear do as she pleases on her side of the fence.  I believe Ursa, like my friend Coyote, can be trained.  See this line?  Don’t cross it.  And don’t, definitely don’t mess with my watermelons, as the old story goes.  Tricia has a slightly different way of seeing things.  Please read for yourselves.

Which reminds me.  The free range cows have come for the season.  How out of place can an animal be, seeing domestic cattle up above tree line.

The semi’s arrived, and how many hundred pair are left to learn the perils of the High Country.  Never a popular moment.  Nor will it be after they are gathered for the season, and we are left to find the strays.  Or carcasses.

Our Forest Service calls it multiple use.  A lovely term. I call it putting up with cow shit and closed gates for the profit of the one rich man who owns them.  Go figure.

But this much I’ve learned: you might wanna still be a cowboy, but I’d rather keep working at being a horse(wo)man.  Hooting, hollering and riding the road in a dusty wake behind a bunch of loud and stinky cows destined for slaughter isn’t really my thing.  Why do we still use that term, “cowboy,” for those of us that work horses, not cows?  Cowboy.  Consider it.  Part cow?  Ever look deep into a cow’s eyes?  I use the term “deep” loosely here, if you know what I mean. So, as you can figure, I’d rather stick with being a horseperson and leave the “cow” part for the dinner table.

 

And I end today’s post (are you still here with me?) with these simple words:

 

I care not to live someone else’s dream

And try to wake early enough to remember my own.

Back in the groove

/ Gin Getz / 10 Comments

(continued from previous post:  Growing Back the Groove)

I wish there was a secret, and you might too, but we both know there is not.

It all comes down to this.

Do it.

Don’t be afraid to do it alone.

And even if you are afraid, do it anyway.

That, my friends, is how I grew back my groove.

And gained back my confidence.

And got back in the saddle again.

Though of course I wasn’t usually really out.  Just out of sorts.  Imagining myself flying out far too many times.  And now, finally, I feel grounded again.  A firm seat in the saddle. That’s where my butt belongs.

Because it’s not about not being afraid.  Because often I am.  It’s about doing it even when you are afraid.  Yes, just like John Wayne once said.

“Courage is being scared to death and saddling up anyway.”

And remember this, too. Saddling is the easy part.  Riding is where it gets complicated.  So get on and ride, because if you don’t, you won’t, and you’ll end up right where you started.  Standing there on the ground wishing you could go somewhere.

Get on and go.

(Quote borrowed from fellow horsewoman, Jenn Edwards)

 

So what happened is this.  It started with a love/hate relationship.  And I ended up with the most challenging horse I ever rode. My little Arabian stallion, now gelding, Flying Crow.  For those that care about such things, his registered name is Fadjurz Ideal and I went all the way to the Jack Tone Ranch in California to find him.  What was I thinking?

Was it love at first sight?  Hardly.  He was as afraid of me as I was of him.  For years. Now I can say he’s learned to trust me.  And I’ve learned to trust myself.  For the most part.  I can stay on and get where I need to go.   Pretty well.  No guarantees there won’t be more bumps along the way.

It’s the journey that counts, they say.  I say, it’s the journey that wipes you out some days…

Seven years we’ve been together, Flying Crow and I.  Seven long hard years where if he were a man, we’d be divorced.  And if he were my son, well, I’d seriously consider boarding school.  I’ve wanted to sell him, but how could I?  He’d make a bad name for my training, and for Arabian horses.  He’s, he’s… how do I find ways to describe him, how difficult he’s been (and still is) yet show the crazy deep love I hold fast for him?

Tiring, exhausting, challenging, and the cause of innumerable crying bouts.  And then you look into his warm brown eyes, and all you can do is melt, get back on, and try again.  More patiently this time.  Ask, don’t demand.  Take a deep breath…  Settle in for the long ride.

What he misses in size he makes up in nerves. What takes me three times to show your average horse, took me thirty to teach this guy.  And then, chances are, he’ll still be scared and uncertain.  He’ll spin, spook, bolt and jolt… but eventually, he’ll trust me and go where I need him to go, with his lively little perky stride, which too, I might add, is exhausting after about fifteen minutes of working to keep your butt firmly planted in the bouncing seat. Try that for rides that last two, four, six hours or more.  It has been, he has been difficult.

He is my special child.  He has special needs.  A lot of them. Needs non-stop guidance.  Needs coaxing.  Needs firm direction presented in the softest way, or he’ll get upset and shut down.  And constant attention.  Every minute down the trail.

So he taught me to pay attention, always.  Be present.  Be riding all the time. Hold your seat.  Be ready.  Expect the unexpected.  And handle him lightly because if I over reacted, it wouldn’t be too hard to pull him over on top of me. He’s hyper sensitive.

That said, he’s also sensitive in the lightest of touch.  He misses nothing. (Even when you wish he would.)  And those skinny long legs know how to move.  With the proper guidance and direction, he moves through the trees, up and down slopes, runs across open fields with the grace of a lovely young buck. A beautiful thing to behold.

So for every ride that I make it home in one piece, I am grateful.  Relieved. Tired. And very proud.  I believe he is too.  I can tell by the way he stands there with me after he’s been unsaddled and I brush down his sweaty back, and he’s in no rush to leave me and go back to his herd, but finds a certain peace, finally, standing there in the shade of the tack barn with me.

And as for doing it alone… riding alone.  Well, I do it because I can (no more dudes to take care of), and I have to (horses are my thing, my boys have other interests).  Riding buddies?  Who the heck wants to ride with the crazy mountain mama and the even crazier little Arabian horse?

So, there you go.  No big revelations.  Just time in the saddle.  Sucking up and holding on.  Because that’s the only way I know how to really move on.

Yes, I know I will be hurt again.  I’ll fall off a few more horses, no doubt. That’s horses and that’s life.  There are ups and there are downs. But it’s worth it and I wouldn’t have it any other way.  I guess because I can’t, can I?  Just ask my father-in-law, who at 81 fell off a horse just the other day.  And a cliff, I might add, while training that horse.  I can only hope I’m doing the same thirty six years from now.

Right on.

Ride on.

I think I will.

For Kim, who’s got a lot of scary rides ahead of her, but is still able to keep that butt firmly planted and enjoy the ride.

A side note

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

A side note.

The horse story will resume another day.

For now, there is this.

I am a writer, though you may question that fact almost as much as I do.  For I’m taken to believe that a writer without a publisher is not really a writer at all.  Then what am I?  Trying.  Too hard at times.  Willing to change my voice for the approval of others.  Sing a song to please you, so to say.  So tired of rejection and getting nowhere and being asked to be patient and trust when truth is it is my self I do not trust, my talents, my abilities.

However hurt and down this gets me, quiet, soft spoken and demure I will not be. I get mad.  I suppose anger has its proper place.  If not suppressed, it can be a call to action.  Then how shall I act now? What shall I do?

In response to yet another rejection from a publication I’m not even impressed with, an editor who pointed me in the direction of work he personally liked and suggested I try to sound more like someone else, I wrote the following.

 

Tell me who I am

What to wear

The words to whisper in your ear

Does this dress become me

I ask

As I coyly dance before you

On my knees

Where you want me

Where I’ll never be

And then it is over

Last I looked you smugly smiled

And then you smiled no more

Now I hear only the evening wind

A familiar soothing sound

Wind chimes drowning out your banter

Cutting through your shallowness

Calling me closer to where I was

Before I ever tried

Growing back the groove

/ Gin Getz / 8 Comments

It’s not about the garden.  24 degrees Monday; 26 yesterday; 28 today.  A warming trend?  I dunno. Still kinda rough on a marigold and crookneck squash plant.  I’m not saying I’m giving up, but…

It’s about horses.  And confidence.  Losing it, and gaining it back.

I’ll start with how I lost it.

I think there is this cycle in horsemanship.  Maybe with other things as well, you can decide for yourself.  You start out naive.  Life is sunshine and bunnies.  What you don’t know won’t hurt you. Ignorance is bliss. That sort of thing. You just see the beauty of the horse and the fun of the ride and figure every time you’re gonna get where you wanna go and back home safe and sound.  But then something happens, and it will, that slip and fall or big buck or slap in the face, and you learn that life and horses aren’t really that shallow and simple.  Sure, there are ups, but there are also plenty of downs. You don’t realize how bad you can get hurt, and that you will get hurt, and that horses die, and riders can fall off and break bones, and horses have personalities of their own and might need a rider to guide them, not just one to babysit on their back.  It gets challenging, complicated.  Some days you’ll have to saddle in the rain.  That sucks.

So there you are as a rider and horseman.  Questioning.  The pretty picture has been shattered.  Maybe you are, dare I even say this, scared. And if you’ve never been there, then you haven’t ridden enough, or you’re just some blind macho cowboy and good for you, but that’s not me.  That’s my husband.  Good for him.  But I’m done having him ride the scary horses.  I need to cowgirl up and sit in the saddle myself.  And finally, I do. My way.  And it’s working. And maybe at the end of the day, I’ll even ride better than him.  But it’s taken me a lot to get here.

What happened?  I think the pretty picture and my innocence was shattered with one bucking horse.  Ready to rock on a pack trip, dudes all sitting pretty on the dandy horses and I’m trying out the loaner (now I know why he was on loan).  He bucked good.  I can ride a little crow hop no problem, but I have zero interest in riding a bucking bronc who knows how to tuck down his head and send his heels far above his butt.  No thanks.  I’ll leave that for the young men who still need to prove their manliness.

And here’s what I did wrong.  I dusted off and got back on.  Back on a horse that had a rep for bucking.  And without doing anything different.  I’ve heard the definition for insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.  So, what does this tell you about me?  Right.

So the second pitch I see myself as in a dream (well, maybe a nightmare) up in the sky and the words that are going through my head as I’m falling slow motion really are not fit for print.  I land hard and flat.  Whoomp. There goes the air from my lungs. There’s blood but nothing broke. And yes, I cowgirl up.  We have a trip to take, and dudes to take care of.  Take the damn horse away and get me another; we gotta go ride.  Pain?  What pain?  Don’t cry, just suck up and ride.

My husband takes the horse away, rides him when they’re away from the scene of the crime, I might add, which really pissed me off.  Was this any time to train the darned horse, or maybe check to see if your wife’s bleeding has stopped?

He got me a different horse, I swallowed my pride, the blood just dried up, and I didn’t wash up and check my wounds until we rode into camp that night.  As the dishes were out drying, the horses on the high line, and the guests still gathered around the last embers of the campfire, my husband lay next to me under our tarp and was still pretty clueless what he did to deserve the silent treatment.  Go figure.  Guys.

So I ended up with some scars from that day to join with a few others.  But the deepest scar was internal; vulnerability.  I woke up.  And the day was not dawning bright and clear, I might add, but heavy and dark and foreboding. My confidence was shattered.  I couldn’t ride that horse.  If I couldn’t ride that one, how many others could toss me off?  Come on.  I know, I’ve heard and said a hundred times that part of riding is learning to fall.  I can fall.  But I can’t ride a big buck and honestly, I don’t want to.  I want a good horse and a good ride.  I’m a 45 year old woman.  Add that to the fact that I never was a 25 year old boy with a little chip on my shoulder and a big fat ego to bolster.

That was a few years ago.  A few years during which time I rode 500 or 600 miles a year and sat precariously in the saddle every single mile.  I saw myself flying off hundreds of time, though no one else did, and it never happened except in my over active imagination and under active ego.  I won’t tell my guests this, as my “job” was to keep them safe and instill confidence in them.  A job I think I did pretty well.  So, does that mean I faked it well?

And what about today?  Ah ha.  Here’s the good news.  I’m getting it back.

But shoot, look at the time.  I gotta get back to work, and so do you.  So enough for today.  I’ll finish this story another time.

Awaiting rain

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

 

Awaiting rain

Elusive, tempting teasing taunting

Powerful, passionate and cruel

I would start with a single cloud

Full of hope and promise

Growing filling building like dreams

But instead there is smoke to the south

Wind from the west

Endless blue as far one can see to the north

A mountain blocking my view to the east

The sacred four directions

Not quite forsaking though perhaps a bit defiant

As the land flourishes in her new red hillsides

Like a new dress worn for the very first time

As the world turns and the springs dry

And the once boggy fields can be crossed on foot

And still I can imagine

The sound and smell and feel of hard cold high mountain rain

Saturating hot flesh and dry land

Lush fresh new youthful green of the Aspen’s full leaves

In contrast to callous ground

The first drops will land and leave tiny craters in the sand

Kick up perfect puffs of dust on the trail

That which once was a single track

And now we have a road

You will hear them coming from a quarter mile away

Prepare yourself

Step to the side

Hide like a doe in the trees

Far enough to be safe from dry earth kicked up in their wake

Or the splatter of mud that will be churned to paste after the rains

They will ride by

Pass you unawares

And feel they have conquered the mountain

With their little motor

And sense of security

Driving along side by side

Smiling

Like a bunch of ignorant beasts

Clearly where they don’t belong

As long as the gates to the zoo are left open.

In Color

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Some say it is ugly.  The pale red hillside before me.  But this, my friend, will never be ugly.  A classic case of learning to see the forest, the mountain, not just the individual tree.

Early morning. Now it is light enough to see color.  There it is, across river, the view before me as I sit at the table and sip my coffee, the reddish brown that showed itself like a crown at the beginning of the season now spreading, pouring down the slopes like the water that eludes us.   We are increasingly familiar with this scene.  Red spruce; they once were Blue.  Next year they will be brown.  And in a few more years, grey.  There is new growth hiding in there.  I know.  And they say the Aspen will thrive and spread upward like wild fire along the dying path of the Spruce. But we see the affects of long term drought there too where on many a south facing hillsides, the established Aspen groves are losing up to fifty percent of the trees.  Their thin bark turning an odd shade of orange with their last burst of failing life.  Tell tale signs we learn to read.  In other areas, we see new young saplings, perhaps four or five years old, bending like grass in the wind without the strength to stand tall.

I say this without emotion. Without opinion.  Simply observation.  Take it as you like.  Call it what you will.

Yesterday we rode up Weminuche Pass in the Wilderness to inspect the ditch.  Riding through the light of needless trees.  Red and brown and grey.  Wind blows and needles fall like hail, tapping a steady tune against the rims of our felt hats.  One can see farther, deeper, more light makes it through the deep forest.  Our horses kick up dust on the trail, making it look like riding through smoke, an old Western film or a premonition of what will be.

New tricks for old dogs (or horses?)

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?

How about an old horse?

How about an old person?

I’ll start with the horse.

Remember Norman the New Guy?  He came to us at age five, untrained, completely green and a backyard pet.  Oh no, we were warned, he’ll be spoiled, they said.  Fine, I replied, I’ll take him.  And I ended up with a horse who loves people, and was willing to listen and work with me. Within three weeks, Norman was reasonably proficient at pulling, driving, packing and riding.  After his first summer working with us, he moved approximately ten ton dirt, and became possibly the highest paid horse in Hinsdale County.  Right on.

Canella was our first born here at the Ranch.  That was seven years ago.  When she was two weeks old, she got on the wrong side of the fence, and a playful gelding ran her back through.  Only she didn’t quite make it, and the gangly little foal found herself terribly tangled.  No serious cuts or swelling, just a little limp ensued.

But the limp lasted, and if anything, got worse.  Her front leg seemed to grow in ever so slightly cock-eyed.  Not really enough for most folks to notice, but we did.

For years, I kept the front feet trimmed myself, trying to tilt her leg back in.  I ground trained her, but never let her carry a load.  My hope was that she’d straighten up, or at least strengthen up where a little swing to her step would not cause her pain, discomfort or imbalance.

She’ll never be anything, they told me, if you can’t get her going by two or three.  Why not, I wondered? What’s wrong with starting an older horse?

After years of having her hang over the fence and sadly watch us leave for the high country without her, just the other day, I decided to take her for her first test ride.  Seven years of handling paid off.  Up and down the mountain she carried me, with the lightest of touch of the lead rope looped about her neck, no need for a bit, never breaking gate, spooking or misbehaving, sticking to the trail, crossing creeks and stepping high over fallen trees.  Where was the thrill of the first ride?  You have to start ‘em young, I was told, or they’ll be spoiled and won’t listen.  Oh, really now?  Well, I’d say the bucking bronc or indolent child was long gone from her disposition, and I am left now with a willing and eager partner. Interesting.

If it works for you and is respectful for the horse, why not give it a try?

But who am I to say.  I’m “just” an outfitter.  No, now not even.  A ditch digger.  Someone who relies on horses for transporting our selves and our gear deep into the Wilderness, and once there, moving dirt.  Nothing fancy.  But I am out there working with my horses, making a modest living with them, as dependent upon them as they are of me.

No, I don’t have the fancy gear or dress just right.  My jeans are never pressed and usually dirty.   I don’t have a particulary title or style or stick to a book.  I don’t follow one method or trainer like a religon or guru, though I can say I should be able to learn something from everyone if I keep an open mind.  Sometimes, that something is what not to do.  I can tell you I don’t like old school methods and am open to the new.  You won’t convince me that force and fight are the answer.

Always more to learn. At any age.  Me and the horse.

This much I have learned, both from the horse, and those that I’ve seen working and playing with them.

He who speaks the most probably knows the least.

A horse has no words, but plenty to say if you’re willing to listen.

Thus when it comes to horses, I am learning (trying?) to keep my mouth shut, and just do what works for me.

How quick we are to judge, and how foolish we are if unable to learn something from everyone (and every horse) we meet.

And finally, the most important, get on and enjoy the ride. That’s what it’s all about, I guess.  At least for me.

Well, really, what I wanted to share with you was about this old dog:  my husband, Bob.   But I’ll save that for another day.  Have a good one.  I’m off!

 

photo taken by Forrest.

Burning Bridges

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

Scraps of wood cut from old planks that once spanned the Rio Grande, reawakened as borders to raised beds for a garden that barely produced.

This wood, heavy and dark and four inches thick smelling of age and time and stories I’ll never know, salvaged timbers to the old Little Squaw bridge, crossing the river almost ten miles below us as the water flows, the dirt road goes.  One more life stirring, one more use, burning in my woodstove, relieving the morning chill, mesmerizing me with the crackle and hiss of its final song as the flames in the stove wave like branches in the spring wind.

Burning bridges.

Would you believe so literally?

What’s next, she asked and awaited a response to arrive in the twisting air?

Blow, wind, blow.

Share with me your secrets; allow me to share my passion.

Spread my wings, force me to take flight, lift me higher and higher again.

In a wild spiral.

My once tamed hair flying free in the wind.

My once calmed heart stirring where we thought we could keep it calm.

I cannot hold back the hoot and holler as I run down to the Rio Grande and lose my voice in the fierce flow of the last of her roaring spring waters.

 

 

Change comes in odd ways.  Often not as we expect.  Taking on an appearance so different than that which we were looking for.

The dog sits on the deck watching deer at his horse’s salt lick.

The horses settle into the routine, coming to my call, standing patiently through grooming, saddling and then keeping an open mind to the surprise of where I will lead them to today.

Summertime neighbors, old replaced by new, a changing of the guard and new life to a seasonal community, an excitement by the freshness of faces, ideas, beautiful new stories spread out like picnic blankets on a sunny day.

Evening light casting shadows of the Blue Spruce like daggers across the open flats.  The chartreuse wash of newly emerging Aspen leaves.  Freezing temperatures in the morning lace the sides of the creek with bouquets of frozen water that bloom only until eight a.m.

My son, evolving to his own direction and destination and forming his world like a sculptor. More often than not staring at the ball of clay before him and wishing it might portend the future more like a crystal ball. My husband, embracing the “encore career” and the mining community after thirty years of running his own business and, more often than not, doing it all himself.

Myself, awaiting a change I know will come, yet have no idea what to look for. I open my mouth and wait for the song to begin but the words do not come.

Yet.

I long and listen for a song I do not hear but somehow know the tune.  It is not one I have heard before.

As wild as the wind.

Nothing stays the same.

So, go ahead, burn those bridges.  Find a new use for old timbers.  And get to work spanning the river with a new one.

The farce of the pioneer woman

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

I fancy myself to be a bit of a pioneer, living where no one has lived before, baking bread to feed my family from the old wood cook stove, using hand tools to finish my house built from logs my husband felled, and a horse and slip to earn my wages.

Sounds so romantic.

Wake up!

Think of the life for the true pioneer, and then tell me, go ahead, what I fool I am to consider myself as such.  Sure, I have an outhouse, and have dug the pits by hand.  But I also have a flushing toilet, running water and a hot water heater.  I can wash my hands and dishes in the kitchen sink, drive a truck to a health clinic in just over an hour, and while I’m in town, pick up the groceries I’m lacking to feed my family so our meals are not bland, simple and the same every day.  I have internet! Yes, in winter, we have to snowmobile or snowshoe that first 6 ½ miles out of the ranch, but does that make me a pioneer?  Perhaps in this modern world alone, where we’re spoiled and have too much, and still complain because the price of fuel to fill our truck is more than we’d like to pay.

I once was told the average age of the true pioneer woman was forty.  At forty-five, the age I am now, I would have been long overdue.

Pioneer woman?  We need another term.  We should care not to disgrace the women who truly struggled, and not pretend we come close to their hard work and hardships.

Yes, today my body is sore.  It’s a physical life I live. By choice. That’s the difference.  I am not here because I have no other place to be.  I am here, doing what I do because I want to be here, because I love the mountain, my work, my life.  And if I get tired, I can rest, and life will go on, my little world will not fall apart at the seams or get blown over with dust in the next storm.

We sit on the old steps of a cabin we are planning to rip out and replace.  I lean back against my son’s bony knees and he reaches up to rub my shoulders.

Ever felt anything so tough, I ask him? He laughs for he knows it’s my choice to ride the horses and hike the mountains on my time off.  I can come home and rest, sit on the porch at sunset with a glass of wine… and smile as I reflect upon my “pioneer lifestyle.”

I haven’t milked a cow in ten years.

Returning from my morning rounds (which do not include milking a cow) I glance across the fence at the property that was once part of the old homestead , but has been divided for, among other excuses, a comfortable place to retire.  Retirement, summer home, vacation lifestyle. Affording us all more free time and the option to pick and choose our country skills.  Have fun playing part!  The farce and folly of it all.  Hobby logging with a skid steer which has become the new man-toy, as the team of mules is turned out for yet another season to be no more than fattening pets; and riding a lawn mower, back and forth and back again, chemigating the pasture in probable hopes of becoming dandelion-free and resembling a slick suburban lawn, while the pups run alongside, romping in the wake of the sprayer.

Pioneer in spirit alone.  I claim to be closer, but who am I fooling? Living where no one lived before, building our own home, scratching out a living on the land… I read yet another story of one who left the “stresses” of the city for the “simple life” of the country, bought the little ranchette complete with old cow.  Their life does not depend on it.  Theirs is no more than a petting zoo lifestyle.  Is it wrong?  Of course not.  But dare we call ourselves pioneers as we sit back in the heat of the afternoon under the shade of the veranda and sip sweet tea as the stock rests idyllic beneath the old oak tree?

Altitude Sickness

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

Seventeen degrees when I woke up to a little bit of light and finally silent wind chimes at five a.m.  All those starts my husband brought me home from the nursery over two hours away, which I tenderly planted in the safe new location of the raised beds and covered with a double layer of plastic sheeting for added protection, just in case. Dead. All that promise of a juicy ripe homegrown tomato at ten thousand feet. Gone. Turned to a mushy dark sick liquid green.

I wanted to cry. Really.  May seem silly to be so upset over the death of plants, but I think it was the last straw. First it was a bad morning.  The outhouse down at the Little Cabin blew over in these brazen winds, the power tripped causing us to fire up the generator for the first time since last fall burning that dreaded fossil fuel I do my best to conserve, and there was a dead ground squirrel in the have-a-heart traps that was set to capture the danged pack rat that’s been chewing his way into our storage cabin.

Yet it was the plants, my dearly tended, fragile plants.  That was the hardest.  They represented more.  Hope.  Life, when so many friends were dealing with death.  This week, one friend lost her dog while helping her sister through the diagnosis of cancer, one lost their dear old mare, and another lost her mother.  I was going to grow life.  In the form of juicy ripe tomatoes.

A nasty blow. Enough to bring tears to my eyes.  But not enough to compare with the losses my friends are bearing.  I will sweet talk my husband into dropping another hundred bucks next time he’s in the valley, and I will replant.  Life replaced, as simple as that.  And maybe I’ll get that tomato this summer after all.

I think of my friends dealing with their losses, and I know it is not fair.  Life isn’t.  In fact, sometimes it really sucks.  And then it gets better.  Just like that.  Though maybe it takes a while.  Hours, days, weeks, maybe even years. It’s crazy, isn’t it?  This rollercoaster ride with all the ups and downs.  We heal, we forget or forgive or learn to cope, and still find the guts to buy another ticket and go for another ride.

But for now, I’m still upset.  Walking around all morning in a funk, on the verge of tears.  I let my boys know this is not OK. Such emotional creatures we are.  So affected by the simple things.  If we let it get to us, and I usually do.

So while the rest of the family gathered together to whoop it up for the holiday and partake in the traditional barbeque, I chose to be alone with my dog.  I needed to get high.

Thirteen thousand feet high.

Though my intention was merely twelve. That extra thousand feet was bonus points.  That’s where the addiction part comes in. That, my friend, is altitude sickness.  Not because at that altitude I felt queasy in my head and stomach, though that has happened before. But because somewhere in my heart and soul there was this fluttering.  This crazy, driving, lustful urge that blinds reason and tells you to keep going, like a drug you should keep taking.  Seeing nothing but one foot in front of the other, a slow ascend, and focusing on the sound of my own labored breathing.  That which controls you, guides you, forces you onward beyond reason.  All for the five minutes of sitting on top of the mountain in the blaring winds and blinding light and biting temperatures, sucking in thin air and looking around 360 degrees in absolute awe, next to Gunnar Guy, my never questioning why on earth we spend all this time trudging to the top only to turn around and scramble back down faithful side kick of a dog.

The sickness of addiction.  Mesmerized and seduced by the altitude and elements. For I didn’t mean to go so far.  But I’m glad I did.