nature writing

Somewhere on this long, dusty road.

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

Morning wakes to a cloudless sky over me, crisp and clean as sheets dried on the line. There’s a light frost down at the creek, and a moose somewhat regal in appearance with his slick black hair and mighty paddles hanging close by on pasture. I watch him standing proud, in a standoff with the pup. I call from the outhouse door. The dog returns. The moose lumbers off.

Another day without rain. I don’t take these things for granted. We can accomplish twice as much on days we don’t have to break each time a storm wave crashes onto the scene.  The downside to getting so much more done is sore muscles, tired hands, and sun burned shoulders. I’ll take it all.

This evening, after the sun is down and shadows have dissolved for the day, we sit by the camp fire watching the pup play with marshmallows as if they were toys, little balls, flinging them around joyously as he’ll do with a dead mouse. At the cross fence line, a herd of elk move in unison up the hill and vanishes into the dark timber.

I am in awe daily of the natural wonders found on this land, between the wildlife and our wild life and the simple, stark beauty of these rolling mountains under a wide open sky. That is why we are here. This is what makes us feel alive, come alive, stirring me somewhere deep inside as I pause for just a moment to soak it into the cavernous sea within my soul, something only high wild places will do.

Two full months have passed since we’ve been living and working here, setting camp, getting our temporary home in order, and starting to get the long term home going from the ground up. The months have gone slowly, been generous and allowed us to accomplish what feels like so much in such a short period of time. Alas there’s so much yet to do.

I’ve heard that summer is a time for vacations and time off and kicking back with a good book. It’s never been that for me. It took two months of averaging about a page a night and the book falling on my face startling me back awake to finally finish reading just one book (thank you, Cindy, it was a good one indeed). Maybe some day I’ll have that time and summers will be that leisurely for me. When I get old. Older? In the meanwhile, there’s been kids camp and guest ranch and cleaning cabins and  guiding rides, getting gardens going, digging ditches, renovating land and structures – all this work doing my darndest to create havens from the ground up so others could enjoy their vacation time. Oh yes, and building. Always building…

And still I feel my life is a vacation in a way, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. I get to do, be and live a dream. I know it’s not a dream a lot of folks might have, but it’s all I ever wanted, and getting to be more. It’s not a dream about comfort and ease and kicking back with books or bon bons or some frozen drink with an umbrella sticking out of it. And I get those things – they are all well and good and even wonderful, but they are not my path in life. Instead the path I followed is rather rough and rustic, high and wild, down and dirty, full of stuff that makes callouses and scrapes and bruises and wrinkled skin that looks like rawhide, balanced with silence and space and soul.

Meanwhile, out and about on the upper 80, during the monsoon rains we had been getting and likely will get more of, the horses seek shelter from the storms and find themselves protected under what we call the Barn Tree – one of the few older growth conifers remaining after the onslaught of beetles that left the greater part of tall old trees ravaged and brown. This tree, just behind our camper, with branches and needles broad and thick not a drop of rain gets through to the always dry ground below. The horses stand there through the storms, the three of them, kind of like me, waiting it out and wishing they were doing something else.

I haven’t taken time to train the new boy and/or ride the old one much this summer. I’ve done plenty of both in the past, and will again in the future, no doubt, but this summer is not about taking time off far beyond our daily evening walks. This summer is about getting solid walls built and roof up over our heads (hopefully) before the snow. That’s pretty much all consuming and not something one overlooks out here. It’s that in-your-face pressure and mission and challenge you can’t not see (even on days you wish you could). It’s even about building a solid shelter for the horses, because before too long, this rain and hail will turn to snow, and they too will need more than that big old tree can provide.

Slowly but surely, one grain of sand at a time, one big beautiful beaming beam after another,  hoisted into place, I think we’re getting there… wherever there may be, somewhere not too far away along this dusty path we’re on, together.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Getting to know the neighbors.

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

The natives.

We’re not talking the people sort here, as the nearest ones are about eight miles away (though they are pretty great folks indeed).

We’re talking wild stuff. Plants. Animals. That sort of thing. Those kinds of neighbors. Who and what we’re really living beside.

Slowly getting to know the wild world of which I’m becoming a part.

Having lived year round in the high country not too far away for what felt like too many years, there are so many I remember, that call to me and say, “Welcome home.” And a new few that say, “sit with me a while and see what I’m about.”

These are the voices of the land. The plants. The wilds. The wildlife.

Quiet voices.

Plants call for you to sit beside them, and listen.

I do. I stop, lean in, look and listen.

What magic or medicine to they allow?

Honestly, more often than not, I question myself, snap a photo to take back to camp and research more about them in my many books and, of course, online.

Welcome to the wild life…

Sometimes it gets you down. In spirit. In body. You get sick. Strong as I try to be, it happens. It sucks. Yet even illness carries a lesson if you’re open to learn. I’m not always. Sometimes I just want a quick fix. Get over this shit and move on.

Still, I start with the plants.

There’s a philosophy of healing I try at least to live by, coined the Wise Woman Way by the wonderful herbalist and healer Susun Weed who is one of a handful I have followed and learned from for well over thirty years of living with the land.

Start by doing nothing. Healing often just happens. Otherwise, start with the plants.

Plant medicine, herbal allies, wild wonders… just listening to and learning about the myriad of nourishment and medicine that exists in plain air of sprawling parks, or in the mysterious shade of the woods, or alongside the life vein of the land that is the creek.

So much of the healing (physically and energetically) you need is there, right there. I was going to say “for the taking.” But it’s not just “taking.” There has to be that balance of maybe asking politely, of honoring the wisdom and power within the plant, and somehow giving back in kind, to make this magic happen. I think that comes with time. Just giving time. Time to hear, to feel, to understand essence, rather than grab and go and demand. Nature’s not real big on that way.

Start simple.

Listen to the land, respect what she has to offer, and see if her healing is enough.

If so, listen to her wisdom, and bow to her in gratitude.

Plants are a starting point. Sometimes they work wonders. Sometimes, they are not enough. Absolutely at times we all know we need the big guns, and must turn towards the powerful stuff when the need arises. Gratefully and indeed there is a place for and importance of modern medicine. After a bout of cervical cancer at age 25, likely I wouldn’t be alive without it.

But as always, I try to start simple. The land offers so much of what we need.

Starting with what is right there before you. And here, there, everywhere, really, there is so much.

As for the wildlilfe… The animal side of things…

Hunters and fishermen often ask us what we live with that they can come and take.

This is what I live with. A herd of mother elk and their babies grazing on our lower meadow after the sun dips down and the evening show of rainbows and magenta and dark clouds has settled down. A little band of bull elk meandering along our driveway, as curious and fearless about our horses as they are of elk. Mama moose along the fence with a yearling calf by her side, and a young bull moose trailing behind. She watches us as much as we watch her. Only she remains while we alter our route so minimize our impact upon her. Our fences and roads, our barking dog, the roar of equipment and buzz of tools, and the sound of our somewhat soft voices –we have disturbed her enough.

I feel I have taken enough.

That’s why I rarely snap and share photos of wild four legged wonders with whom we share space. I don’t need to stalk. I don’t want to be the creepy guy. I want to be a good neighbor. I want to live and let live with the respect, safety and privacy that I love as well.

Living with the land.

We are not here to take.

This is home.

We co-exist.

At least, that’s what we strive for. We don’t always succeed. Sometimes we fuck up. I’m sorry for that. I try to better next time.

That’s what makes good neighbors. Do your best not to disturb. Give more than you take. You don’t need to assume you’re being hunted, chased, harassed and stalked. Who the hell wants to live that way?

It’s neat to me to note that, if they are not chased by swarms of tourists and a continuum of traffic, the elk and moose don’t high tail it for higher ground. They remain in this elevation all summer long. It was not this way where I used to live, where as the flood gates of people opened, the wildlife hit the trail, vanished into tall timber, and headed high. I thought that was normal and natural, but am learning it’s just what they’ve done to adapt.

I get it… I do that too.

Living on the land is living with the land.

Tending to your soul as you tend to the land.

Connecting with the land comes not only with time but with intention. A quiet, still, commitment when you begin to breathe in the land, filling your lungs, your heart, your blood; when every cell becomes filled and fulfilled with and of the place, and feel your exhale feed the land in kind.

Thus is the reminder to balance giving with taking, as the inhale and exhale harmonize.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Going up.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

At times it feels as if what we are building is a sacred space as I supposed every home should be. A place of connection and belonging. A safe haven and creative oasis, no matter how small or what it is built of. A place built in part of prayers and dreams, alongside grit and gusto to bring both to life.

One by one we lift beams with the crane, lower them on sawhorses where we carefully measure and cut then manhandle into place, steady, fine tune and fasten as the definition of place slowly begins to take shape, and the feeling of space begins to come to life.

With each one we work on, we can trace a story back to the once towering doug fir that shaded our morning walk while the early sun dappled through high branches and dogs scampered below chasing rabbits through the underbrush. With beetles and drought and changing times, we observed the tree faded and paled and needles fallen and altered into the dead standing trees we felled, cleaned then dragged to our mill yard, then together hoisted and cut and turned and cut again until rot was removed (stacked and piled and burned separately) and all that remained was this solid center that is becoming a part of a home. Each one already containing the energies of how much time and attention and intention to get this far, to get us this far.

And yes, I’m out there working too. It’s all been a two person operation. But one of us is better with a chainsaw and backhoe, and the other better with the mill… and camera.

And she cooks… But that’s something I’ll dive into another time… (Look out.)

Now, when I prepare meals (which is something I do every day) I truly consider the energy that I add to the food I (usually) serve with love. There was a movie I saw years ago called “Like Water For Chocolate” that coyly played with this belief.

What we put into it, comes out of it.

Is it not the same with walls we build as with a pot of stew we stir?

Hope and passion, dreams and desires, strength and resolve embedded in every piece of the wall that together we then cut and carry and fit into place and secure into a structure that is a part of this home.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Slow & Steady.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Things are happening.

Good things.

On the land.

With the building.

In my spirit and soul.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

A Long Quiet Ride

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Tomorrow, I am leaving.

I am not sure how often/when I’ll be able to check in or post updates, but I truly look forward to touching base and sharing when and as I can.

And though I have not figured out how to connect these things, between Facebook, Instagram (ALongQuietRide) and my travel blog (ALongQuietRide.com), I’ll try to keep in touch along the way.

With much gratitude for all those who have connected with me and welcomed me into or back to the somewhat frightening and overwhelming world of social media, and have helped me prepare for this journey.

Sending blessings to loved ones and land while I am gone, especially my beloved husband who I will hold in my heart as I try to find my way for just this while without him.

#alongquietride #spiritualjourney #horseadventure #wildride

Unleashed

/ Gin Getz / 8 Comments

Photo by Tomek, shared by Pia  (My hands)

“There is so much I have wanted to take the time to share with you, but simple as my life seems, sometimes ‘time’ is the hardest thing to find…

We just spent the last week down at the Little Cabin, a one room cabin without indoor plumbing on this side of the river just across from the seemingly endless wilds of the Weminuche Wilderness.

We rented our house out – funny the things one does for money – but really it was a good excuse to have a retreat. It was wonderful, though I’m now very behind in things like correspondence… and laundry!

Twice in one week I have heard ‘there is no coincidence,’ though I always thought there was. It’s been an eye opening week for me. And door opening. Those that have seemed locked for so long.  Swinging open with the autumn winds and the last of the fallen leaves stirring in this thin air before the snow presses them tight to the earth.”

Finding answers in a never ending question.  Listen as the Earth speaks.

We close up the Little Cabin, a bit reluctantly, and return to Big Haus.  Return to running water.  Laying in a hot tub at night, sitting on a warm toilet seat in the morning. Simple pleasures. Already missing the show of the Milky Way overhead each night as I step out with a little tin cup and my toothbrush to spit under a willow bush.  The Grande Universe spread above like your plastered ceiling or city lights.  Deeper, farther, infinite.  Silent but for the soothing song of the Rio Grande whispering below me in the quiet of the drought.

Slow settling of the season, mild temperatures and abundant sunshine.  Winter is not harried to be here.

Another long day horseback while we can. This time saving the cows.  A few strays from the open range herd here in summer.  Somehow stuck above treeline, on frozen ground, sparse dried grass and only wind blow snow for moisture.   They chose a “barn” in the last of the timber where from the tell tale signs of their manure, they planned to remain.  If the hunters had not seen them, I imagine there would be nothing more than a pile of bones found there next summer. How they got there, and why they stayed, we’ll never know.  I don’t read the minds of cows, and wonder in cases like this, how much to their minds there really is.  Yet the depth of their understanding and appreciation after we pushed them off the mountain top down to a familiar trail (and running creek water)… I could see it in their eyes.  Perhaps it is just the sympathy within me, but I swear they were loving us, and will look at a German Shepherd from here on in as their savior (for Gunnar of course was there with us, up front, moving the cows to lower ground).

In spite of the mild season, winter comes.  Easing down the mountain.  A measured, slow freezing.  We know better than to be fooled.  It can slam and settle any day now.  We are ready.

And within me, a deep stirring in open waters as a pot boils with a new recipe, and new plan. Where did this come from?  The wildest dreams. As unexpected as the sudden shock of red on the throat of the hummingbird.  At the same time as calm and powerful as destiny, as the Red Tail rises overhead, without a beat of his wings.

(Pardon the quality of these photos – I’m still resorting to my little old camera when horseback; haven’t figured out how to handle a little horse and the big camera at the same time yet.)

Mid September Song

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Heavy clouds holding in the mountain 

Containment, wet and shallow

Not deep enough to drown

The rage of waves

Ocean lures

Stirs me

I wake

Tumbling

Upon the spine of the sleeping beast

Land of dormant fires

Awaiting the chance to ignite

And then it clears.  Then it dries.  We return to blue bird sky and say this is how it should be.

Twenty five degrees and a heavy frost this morning.  The garden has turned to mush once again.  Heck, it’s later than I expected, later than most years.  I gather the bounty of my harvest.  Three baby zucchini and a couple of green tomatoes.  That’s it.  More than most years.  Yes, I know.  A greenhouse goes on the south side of my next house…

Colors turning early yet cold arriving late.  The Aspen begin their show, gaudy as fluorescent flashing lights.  Dazed and dazzling.

A long season coming to an end.

I am as weary as the grass, browning, turned to seed, swaying in the rains, bent over with drops of raining clinging like children to their mothers dress.

Big Haus

/ Gin Getz / 17 Comments

(a rare photo of the three of us, thanks to Tomek, in honor of our anniversary, today…)

 

We sit before the campfire, just my honey and me, the big cabin behind us empty but for three old cats.  The house looms large.  Unused.  Wasted.  Too big.

I’m calling it Big Haus, for big is how it feels.  Approximately 2,200 square feet.  The Census Bureau reported the average size of a U.S. house in 2011 to be 2,480 square feet, a slight increase from the 2,392 square feet in 2010.  Looks like we’re pretty close to average.  Funny. I’ve never considered myself much a part of the norm.  This fact somewhat frightens me.  So much for being different, breaking barriers, stepping outside the box.

2,480 square feet, and still I hear a heck of lot of complaints.  The same old stuff.  Things like the price of gas being too high.  A fact for which I hold little sympathy. Seems to me you don’t HAVE to drive around alone in that big fancy truck or SUV.  Your God Given Right, you tell me.  Whatever…  What on earth matters most?  Cheap gas?  Get a life.

Bigger is better, or so I hear.  I’m not biggie size person.  I like small, simple, old-fashioned and conservative of natural materials.  What a concept.

Just last week there were two other people with whom we shared the house and the size seemed just right. But today, the upstairs is looming, the downstairs seems hollow, and the space in between is too much.

I think about heating it this winter, trying to keep it clean, wasted firewood and a full morning twice a week to keep the dog and cat hair in check.  I should have better things to do.

Is this the empty nest syndrome, grumbling about too much space to heat and clean and collect clutter?  I thought “empty nest” referred more to the sadness one feels when the children fly the coop.  This year I feel no sadness or loss, only excitement for the positive current and future life of my son. Dang, I’m happy for him, proud of him.  And sure, I won’t deny, a bit of excitement already for Christmas break when he’ll be back home.

Lessons I send a young man off with this year.  Same as last year.  Same stuff every year.  This is what matters to me.

1.  Live life fully.  Live each day with passion and purpose.

2. Be involved.  Take a stand. Stand up for what you believe in, who you believe in.

3. Be yourself.

How dull a life if lived without passion. How shallow a world if we stand for nothing.  How boring a person if not unique.

What else is there?  Half Life.  Living life without meaning, integrity, point and purpose. Direction and belief.

To live without a backbone along the backbone of our continent.  Spineless, drifting slowly to grave.

We are surrounded at times with a leisure class that cares more about cocktails than kids, more about gossip and rumors than building, growing, giving, sharing.   And heaven forbid, caring.

Like jellyfish, turning to mush in my hands as I squeeze my fingers to a fist.

The more they hold back, the more I want to push forward.  Suppression in the air stirs a strong desire to bust free.

Ah, yes. So there we are, out by the fire, our backs to the house that seems so big, so empty, so underutilized and perhaps even unnecessary.  And we start planning.  For the next house, you know.  Of course.  The one by the river.  Because although we’ve got the Little Cabin there for now, there will be THE house, our house.  Not a big house, not too little.  Just right.

Because life is not about yesterday.  Holding onto the past won’t build your dreams.  Take a chance.  Make a change.  Step out and stand up.  Participate in life.  Build it better.

And in the meanwhile, I’m here.  Big Haus.  Stocking up a lot of wood for winter.

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?