nature writing

The other side

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

“You were made to contribute,” I read and these words felt strong and true.  But what do I have to give?

Isn’t there’s more to my calling in life than providing a vacation for tourists?  Building my world so others can enjoy it for a brief stay away from their own reality.

“Instead of wondering when your next vacation is, maybe you should set up a life you don’t need to escape from.”  Seth Godin.

I believe this and have tried to live my life this way, yet I’ve been providing that escape for others.  And doing so is what has enabled me to live the life others dream of, but don’t dare to walk away from safe and sound and secure to create.

Have I no further talents, gifts, abilities, that can help in some way?

Seriously, life is hard sometimes.  Why can’t the answers just present themselves?

 

I’ve been told they are out there.  Be still, silent, and listen.  I don’t hear them yet.

I try to find a quiet time alone with her.  Hear her wisdom.  In wind and water and hard earth beneath my feet.  Above the river, across the river.

Here, our Rio Grande, her stories are not old, but fresh and new, like fairytales heard as a child.  Here, only miles from where she emerges from snowbank and spring to tint, trickle and trail the mountains and wind her way through my land, my world, my dreams.  Here, she is new water, strong and pure, not yet softened and slowed, diverted, polluted.

Step in, she calls me.

And I do.

I thought you would be harsh, blunt, cold, shocking.

Instead I find you have softened with age, sun, seasons.  You are summer waters.  Childlike.  Or very, very old and wise.  Hard to tell the difference in your silver face.

Rolling over rounded rocks, as have I.

Take me to the other side, I ask of you, in a current too strong to remain.

And now I walk above you. And am there.  On the other side.

Washed away by white noise of the river.

Stepping upon last year’s leaves still untrodden.

Ditch Diaries

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

 

Year six, week one.

Heading higher.

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

That’s all.  Enough.  Perfect.

Away from those here to get away.

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

Some say it sounds so romantic.

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

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

And you know.  I love it.

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

Day one.  Arriving at camp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence settles us.

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

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

Day two. The real work begins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day four.  Heading home.

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

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

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

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

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

(a bunch of additional photos posted on Facebook)

Close to home

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

If a horse could cry.  I can.  And I do.

Tears flow freely; rain does not.

I cannot stop crying and know my tears do not help unless they can turn to rain.  I am not a religious person, but I find myself praying.  For others.  For the mountains. The animals.  The trees.  My beloved trees…

I think of all the wilds, the wildlife, and what happens to them now, what happens next?

Here, we have rain.  Just a bit, though I suppose it is enough.  Or is it just luck?  Lightning strikes aren’t taking hold. The fire to the south of us is relatively contained.  The rest of the state is not as lucky. This time.  Some time, of course, it will be here. It will be us.  Our mountain.  Our wilds and wildlife. We await. This year.  Next.  Three years from now.  Who knows?  The time bomb upon which we balance precariously in hopeful ignorance.

In my dreams there is fire and smoke.

I can no longer appreciate the red of sunset, for fear it is inspired by flame, for knowing it is enhanced by smoke.

My country is burning.  Though not yet close to my home, I think of all the other homes, built and feral, up in flames.  Now we know it is but a matter of time.

Computer data, scientific models, and the Forest Service.  They said the beetle killed trees wouldn’t burn as bad. This summer, we see they do. Dead timber forests are safer than green, they said. But what burns best in my wood stove? Pardon my lack of science here. I wonder what happened to common sense based on observation of the world around us.

I read an article entitled, “Screaming Trees.”  The tears begin again, for I hear their cry.  How few have heard the silent wail?  We wear our blinders, find a green patch, turn our backs to the ravished red hillsides, and think it is all OK.

Until it comes too close to home.

Rain

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

Rain

Coming in waves

She returns

Angry as the ocean

And we welcome her wrath

Hard and pounding on the windows

 

Upon the rim of my hat as I untie the horses and set them free

Lasting for but a moment and passing on

Returning to calm and blue

Barely scratching the surface of soil

Parched lips and land

Thirsting for more

 

Last night she came

Joining us as we curled in bed

Welcomed as a lover

We opened our windows to her

Receiving

Let her song flow in

 

Soft and mild like breakers on a bay

Gently lapping at hungry soil

Waves as potent as the pulse of my husband’s blood

Warm against my bare breast

His quiet breath leveling out beside me

While her lullaby seduces me again and again

 

Singing the sweet symphony of promised showers

Heralding from the metal rooftops and the hard ground

Now hills and sky are a broken pattern of grey

Fading

Interspersed with indigo blue

Dominating

 

And still I swear the grass is a shade greener

The soil darker and richer

If only the facade

And for once

I care not scratch the surface

To find the underlying truth below

Voice of water

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Calm me with the

Voice of water

Delicate as evening rain

Subdued sky

Bathed in pink and grey

Subsiding winds

Down to a whisper

Douse the fires

That rage around me

Are aroused within me

As the wilds are washed away

In a commotion of smoke

My blood burns hot and troubled

Untamed

Unconvinced

Longing for the touch of water

Observations from up high

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

This is not a pretty picture.  It is not meant to be.  Only real.  Finding beauty is up to you.  How deep and long are your willing to look, knowing you can look further now through the thinning trees?

It started with a ride, perhaps the most frightening I have taken by choice.  A simple ride up the Ute Creek Trail, without another horse or human on the way that day, perhaps for days.  From my barn, perhaps a 16 or 18 mile ride, into the Weminuche Wilderness and back.  But here’s the real challenging part:  I rode Flying Crow.

Without wishing to make this all about horses as I’ve been tending to do as of late (it’s that time of year, you know), let me just say I was scared.  At one point (for those who know the trail, the section known as the Funnel Cliffs by the old timers), I dismounted and walked.  I hate to admit that.  That goes against… what I believe for horse training, for riding, for making it up this trail.  Yet, it goes along just fine with my sense of survival.  After my horse stumbled off the trail so many times already (“What are you thinking,” I actually yelled at him, though I think the problem was that he wasn’t thinking; he was too busy looking around for the bogy man that  never showed), and knowing this section would allow no room for error, I decided not to risk it.  I got out of the saddle, held his reins, and walked for fifty feet, and cussed him, Arabian horses, right brain behavior, and my choice of horses the whole way.  On the return trip, however, I remained mounted, and as you can see from my being here to write about it, I survived.

What I wanted to share were my observations of the mountain along the way.  I will try to keep emotion and comments to a minimum.

These are the facts.

Elevation was between 9,550’ where I crossed the Rio Grande and 10,950’ above the forks of the Utes.

I viewed a varying percentage of beetle kill along the trail, from less than 10% (down at the River crossing), to 75% or more of the spruce.

It is often the green trees being blown over (and having to be cut and cleared from the trail in order to ride on).  Even needles catch the wind.

Needle-less trees allow more light on the trail.

The trails and hills are more exposed due to fallen and/or needle-less trees, making a once cool and shady horse ride rather hot.

I had promised Gunnar it would be a cool, shady trail.  I lied.

Places where we have always ridden through bogs hidden in dark timber are hard and dry.  The sun was shining on them directly.

A horse’s footfall is silent when crossing needle lined paths.

These are interesting times.

Clear before me, from as close as my kitchen table, I see the changes.

At times it feels too close to home.

For this is my home.

Next year may be a cold and wet one. But these trees, the deep green mountain, won’t return as long as I live, as long as my child lives.

I leave you then with this.  Delicate balance of hope. A unusual white columbine, so fine and pure, found no higher than the bank of the Rio Grande as she cuts across our property.

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.

Scattered

/ Gin Getz / 1 Comment

Several starts over the past two days, leading to nothing complete.

I must pass on a proper post this morning.   All I have to share with you are words from a brief letter I wrote to a friend:

“Your words seem clear and wise, at odds with the scattered formation of my thoughts this morning. One after another popping into the forefront, each carrying little weight and depth.

“Writing is not going well today. I do believe in trying to force it, push it, make it happen. It’s not just creative whim, but discipline. A balance of the two. Any professional or ‘real’ writer will say so, though days like this tell me otherwise. I have a wonderful opportunity to try to make a go of writing. If only it would…. go.

“… I am not as in demand, and question my skills… and thus my worth. I was taught the value of self is related to the work we do. I’m ‘finding’ projects – getting the cabins spic and span for use and showings, training horses, etc. But do not feel it is enough.”

 

Last years seeds scattered in the wind

Awaiting the rains to settle me…

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.