nature writing

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?

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.