nature

Re-working old poems

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

 

Because I can.

Because I am indeed feeling bold.

Because the opportunity presents itself

And I would be a fool to let it pass.

Because I have always written

Will always write

But don’t always learn.

Because friends, feedback, teachers and editors

Don’t appear every day.

And so I begin.

Re-working old poems.

In hopes of seeing words anew.

Or rather

New uses for old words?

 

 

Succumbing

 

The water lures me

As she has so many times before

 

Now emerging

 

Discreet

 

As a delicate muse in the woods

 

Her hollow voice tempting

In a distant primordial song

Of silver coins tossed from teasing fingers

 

Her sweet smell and silky sway and wave

Taunting down the mountainside

 

Am I no more than a voyeur

Standing safely out of reach

Dry on her precarious banks

 

Enthralled

 

While she takes no heed of me

 

 

 

I am but a hunched form

A leaning tree

Casting shade across her face

 

As her struggle to keep fluid

 

Ebbs and flows

 

In thickening waters below

 

 

 

And if I stand here long enough

Will I see her freeze

Watch her facade relinquish

To the static state of

 

Solid water

 

 

Welcoming winter

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

 

 

Seven degrees below zero Fahrenheit, and a foot of snow.

Winter has come.

Spread out her picnic blanket and begins to unpack her feast.

She has arrived early.  We take this as a gift, for our winter will be shorter this year, heading south to summer again in January.

The forecast predicts the “real” cold comes tomorrow. A rude awakening, they say.  If you weren’t ready for winter, you will find it regardless. It will find you.

We’re ready.

Yesterday we took the afternoon off (the weather providing a wonderful excuse to not work) and snow-shoed along the other side of the Rio Grande in virgin snow, looking back at our mountain, white again, horses and houses tucked into the snow laced trees, seemingly so little and far away. And I think of how far away another person today might be.  Any one else.  Miles away.  And you know I find comfort in such distance.

We follow the hillsides like waves, and again cross the river, now where she is open and as yet, still unfrozen.  That will come in time.  Many more mornings like today and it will not take long.  For now, however, there are no black depths lurking through solid white, but rather, she calls quietly and shows me her brown and green rocks at her soothed soul, and invites me to step in.

Snow shoes and all, we walk through the water.  All we can do is hope waterproof boots are just that, for turning back the way we came on our first trek of the season that proves more extensive than planned is not what we want to do.  You know how it is.  Once you start, you just keep going.  It’s so crazy beautiful.  You just can’t get enough.  Until all of a sudden, you had too much. And then you find yourself… exhausted.  And still with a ways to go to get back home.

The boots proved tight, our crossing worked well.  Except on the other side the wet boots and snow pants coated with dry snow, packing thicker with each step, and became quite heavy. The two mile trek back up the snow packed road seemed very long indeed.

We feed the horses double in the storm.  Three times their normal rations last night.  Icicles on their muzzles this morning.  Norman’s furry feet dangled with little snowballs, jingling almost joyously as he lifts his heavy feet to come find me feeding this morning before sunup.

Yesterday morning in the thick of the storm, watching Bob take the horse trailer down the road before it got snowed in.  We can ride the horses out when I am ready to part with them and allow them their winter pasture in lower lands.  They might be ready, but I am not.  Those that have spent most of their winters up here with us (Crow, Canella, Tres, Bayjura) do not find it odd to weather the storm and hunker down as the snow coats their backs.  They hide in the Aspen and gnaw the bark of the freshly dead trees while waiting for Gunnar and me to show up for their next feeding.

This morning the last of the elk have left their tracks across our pasture as they scramble for open grounds.

Now we enter the time of depth, physical challenge, silent connection, intimacy with the elements, isolation with earth and sky.  Alone need not mean loneliness.  For some of us it is a state of awakening.  An opportunity to flourish.  A quiet radiance.  The winter crystals bloom so brilliant, though are more fragile. Both created by and at the mercy of the sun.  Exposed to the elements of which they are a part. So delicate in nature, so susceptible to the whim of man.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Begin again

/ Gin Getz / 11 Comments

 

 

 

And so it begins again, as it has so many times before. 

I wake long before light to heavy silence.  You can feel it.  A pressure of sorts, weighty, though not oppressive.   I know.

I feel my way to the window and there is the view as I expect it to be and as it is for nearly half my days here.

The branches of the blue spruce at the same time laden and light.  The ground below bright and glowing as snow continues to descend in darkness.

This is the time the land shines and shivers.  It is her time.  When she is allowed to be solitary.  Nothing to give or take.  Demands washed over in white.  Pure and pristine in stillness and strength.  If Artemis was a season, she would be winter here.

She is out there, singing her own song, loudly but only for herself, with no one around to listen, comment, critique.  I hear her in intimate moments as the sound of falling snow.  I try to respect her space, walk lightly upon her with downy steps, and bow my head (and roll my eyes) in apologies for the sudden barking of my dog as he finds the tracks of a coyote that recently passed our path where we walk in the twinkling crystal light of fresh falling morning snow.

 

 

 

And where am I going?

/ Gin Getz / 13 Comments

The last of running waters. They say winter will be here tonight. The water and I await… this inevitable change.

 

Leaving what I love.

Driving home.  Headlights in the snow.  Owl and elk, coyote tracks and a snowshoe hare.  Only a dusting.  Perhaps it will be gone tomorrow.

We leave town.  Down past Airport Corner.  I will see no vehicle from here on up to home.  Even Freemon’s Ranch is still and silent for the season.

As if eyes almost closed.  We squint through snow shooting towards the windshield, whipping up and over at just the last minute.  A blinding tunnel vision.

It will not last.  We know.  By the time we reach the Reservoir, the sky is an even white, like a bed sheet draped over my head, tucking me in for the season.

This year is different. Every year is.  I cling to the early winter because it is all I have now.  Mid winter will take us south.  Far south.  South of the Equator.  South America.  Where the sun will shine north of us.

I never thought we would be “Endless Summer” season travelers when Winter is what we’ve lived for.  But who can resist an adventure?  And a big one lies ahead.  I can not say no.  We will go.  Four months in Patagonia.  It is summer there.  We will leave deep winter, dressed in long johns and parkas and heavy boots and riding on the back of my husband’s snowmobile with our dog balanced between us.   Somewhere on the drive to the airport perhaps we’ll slowly strip.  Leave the layers behind.  Go lightweight. Hawaiian shirts and flip flops.  Not really my style.  I think I’ll keep the Levi’s and cowboy boots and sweat it out if need be.

I will say farewell to my mountain for winter.  Close up our home, farm out the house plants, dig my nose deep into the hair of my horses as we bring them to lower ground.  One last whiff of their sweet smell, each one of which I am so familiar I could identify him or her blindfolded by scent alone.

And the twist to this story:  it’s all for the sake of writing.  Part of becoming a writer, or rather, expanding, evolving…  A chance to complete another story.  A good one at that.  I’ll save the details for another time.

There’s more to it than that.  There always is to every tale, isn’t there?  And this one won’t end otherwise.  In this case, there is, “For the sake of adventure.”

Because life is too short for Woulda, Coulda and Shoulda.  I’d rather stick with, “Sure, I’ll give it a try.”

 

Water and light. Perhaps for the last time this season.

Where is this going?

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

 

 

My apologies for the incomplete post sent to subscribers on Monday.  Seems the pictures made it, the text got lost in cyber space.  I am sorry for the mess up.  Fortunately for me, I saved the text in a Word document, and was able to make the corrections.  If you have not seen the proper post, please click here.  Anyway, a good reminder to self:  Back up, back up, back up…

 

Today our country heals.  Months of negativity and division, for what?  Really, I don’t get it.  Enough!  It’s over, folks. Our country spoke.  We spoke.  Accept it.  Live with it.  Love it or leave it, but stop complaining.  I’m done with the negativity, and opinions and beliefs that are better kept private.  (What you do behind closed doors is YOUR business.  Please, can we keep it that way?  I really don’t want to know…)

Time to move on.   To good things.  If you want them better, make them better. Stop whining.  Bottom line.  Wake up, smell the coffee and see the sunshine.  Life is good.

Back to where I was before The Detour.  Today, I share with you this:

 

Where is this going?

 

We turn within.

This is the season of solitude.

Darker days.

Coldness descends.  Slowly.

The trees stripped. Exposed.  Nothing to hide.

Barren.  Gold fades to brown fades to grey.  We await what we know will come, when our world becomes swathed with white.

It is coming. Winter.  When our chilly cocoon enwraps us, cuts us off, shuts us in, draws us together, those of us that remain. We’re in this together.

Times are changing.  The weather faster than the people.  November is not what it used to be. Eleven Novembers and I’ve yet to see a storm stay, stick around, and shut us off this time of year, but the threat chased the people off long ago.  Stories of the one that gotcha.  Vehicles caught and stuck and buried and remaining until the following June.

No longer.  Seems like late autumn is becoming a lingering of summers end.  Giving us glimpses only of early winter.  Tempting, teasing, eluding.  Broken promises.

Fifty degrees at ten thousand feet mid day today.

Elk in tall timber at high noon as we ride above tree line, southern slopes completely clear of the last little storm.  They are not seeking solace from hunters, who have left long ago, but needing the shade.  Comfort in the coolness of trees.

Where is everyone, we ask each other, just the two of us, outside on another crisp and cool November morn?  Lunch on the deck, afternoons in shirt sleeves.  Sun leaving a line on exposed flesh where the leather of my worn work gloves ends.

Someone else should still be here.  We feel selfish.  Our little secret.

Too much good weather.  It’s exhausting.  Just when you thought it was due time to take it easy and work inside.  Balancing my books will be very late this year.

We take a break and drive to town.

Quiet streets and empty sidewalks.  Every face is familiar.  The few that remain, hard core, cold blooded, solitary in camaraderie.  Silent understanding.

Driving through Creede at winter’s dawn.  You know every truck and every driver.  You wave.  That is my favorite part.  No more anonymity of summer.  No strangers remain.

Front row parking outside and the only one shopping inside at Rare Things and San Juan Sports.  Room at the bar at Tommy Knockers.  Tables to choose from at Kip’s.  Time for hugs.  For catching up.  For another beer.

 

 

What brought it on…

/ Gin Getz / 34 Comments

We’re in the kitchen talking about the harder days.  Before running water, hot water heaters, finished walls and trim work.   Long before luxury items like curtains, matching plates and book shelves. Our first year here. The summer of the three of us in a one room cabin. Though we moved to a larger cabin for winter (offering room to initiate a budding new relationship), that season even the septic line froze. We hauled our water downhill on a push sled and were grateful for a nearby outhouse.

I think what scared me most was the cold.  The stories worried me, which I believe they were meant to do.  Funny if you consider that no one else had lived here before us.  So where did the stories come from?  The rumor mill, at work again? Finding factual accounts and figuring out the truth takes time.  I could not get firsthand reports.  There were none.  Only exaggerated stories and distorted memories.  No problem.  Learn to write the book yourself.  And no disappointment from expectations.

Just the same, comfort is not what attracted me then or now.  Financial security and emotional stability don’t appear to be regular parts of my life.  Though maybe by my age they should be.

I thought a lot about this last night.  I couldn’t sleep. An itching that wouldn’t let me be, trying to figure out where my life was taking me.  I guess a self induced session of self reflection brought on by another birthday.  Forty-six.  Middle aged.  Time to grow up?  I think not.

What then?

At this stage in my life, I should have some labels.  There’s comfort in that.  I lost the one of Mother when my son went off to college.  OK, then.  How about my career?  Outfitter.  No more.  Guest Ranch owner/operator.  Barely.  Ditch Digger.  Yes, but… It is somehow lacking in, well, finesse for a middle aged woman. Writer?  I’ll take it. Writer.   I use that term daringly with great expectation and demands placed upon myself.  Too often I have trouble believing that what I give is worthy.  Who doesn’t?  Anyone who contemplates the meaning of life, their point and purpose, will question their self worth.  Won’t they?  And yet, many days I feel I have nothing to give… but words.

Pardon me if that sounds too plumped with self pity. I don’t really need the violins brought in for this.  What am I trying to say then?

Something about confidence.  Or lack thereof.  I read the words of others who have found success with their writing (and yes, success is a relative term, so here I mean that which brings one a sense of purpose and by which one feels defined), and compare them those of us (yes, that would be me…) who still do not believe in ourselves, or believe we have something worthy of giving.

This does is not make me feel worse about my state of being as not-yet-successful-writer, but rather, challenges me to grow up. Oh no!  Become that person. Start being today the person you wish to be tomorrow.  For what is the difference between she and me?  It is not in the number of books she has published and I have not, though I have used that as an excuse for the past few years.  It is in the voice that speaks back when I look in the mirror.  How easy it is to forget we are in charge of that voice. I need not look ahead with down cast eyes and hushed words and whisper, “Yes, I write…”  Perhaps it is time to look straight ahead, boldly make contact with the grey eyes staring back at mine, and speak in a loud and joyous voice, “Yes!  I am a writer!  And I am honored to share my words!”

Man, that sounds good at least.

Mild retreat

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

 

Bring it on

Ready for winter.  The wood shed is packed full. Ten cord of beetle killed spruce, split and stacked and ready to burn.

I have confession to make.  In the form of a hydraulic wood splitter.  Gone for me are the days of wedge and maul. Cheating?  At times I think so. Power tools.  Machines. Something ten years ago I (foolishly?) would have said I never needed.  I may not need it now (at least, I certainly am not going to admit that) but I do like it.  Makes the job go faster with much less effort.  Hard to complain about that.  Though the Mountain Mama in me isn’t always so convinced.  The draw towards traditional is bent out of shape by the noise of motors, moving parts, bells and whistles. This still seems a bit wrong to me.  But my ditch digging shoulders love it, and the job is done, so what can one really complain about?

The hay shed too is filled.  Stacked with small bales piled ten high to get us through the worst of winters.  The horses have already bushed out with their longer winter coats.  The smallest of them, my little Arabian, Flying Crow, started his early this year.  I think by the end of August.  Taking no chances.  Being “hot” here only lasts so long.  And that’s not very long at all.  Cold is a far more common state of being.  He’s been here long enough to know.  By now even memories of his barn and stable in the lower ground are long gone, I’m sure.  He’s a true mountain horse now.

Next we’ll fill the pantry and freezers, though I’m guessing we won’t need three hundred pounds of flour this year.  Forrest will only be joining us for Christmas break, so the cookie jar will empty at a much slower rate, and freshly baked bread will last us an extra day or so.

Yes, I’m ready, thought nothing but sun and mild temperatures are in the forecast.

Will I complain about that?

I think not… What I will do is lace up my hikers, or saddle up my horse and enjoy…

Slowly snow

/ Gin Getz / 12 Comments

 

Snow

Dusting the deck as we finish dinner

Steak au poive under candle light

All that remain is my sweetie and me

Our four leggeds

The silly little coyote that refuses to run away

And snow

Illuminated by swelling moon

Diffused by slender clouds

Soft grayish whitish powder silky sprinkle

Clouds softer and lighter than those of summer

Without the depth and weight and drama of rain

Carried within them like a swollen mothers breast

But holding instead the sparkle and light and crystal air of

Snow

A silent promise

Little more than a whisper

That holds all the mystery of today tomorrow yesterday

Ten degrees to start to-day

The height of afternoon remained right at freezing

Ice begins to form upon the mighty Rio

Slowing her flow thick like ink of

Black pens I use to scratch out a poem in my weathered journal

There on the river in the dark of the trees still holding needles

Ice spans from bank to bank

Fragile as the thin shell of an egg

Only looming growing expanding each day

No longer chased away by mid day warmth

Portending as the melodious clouds above

Frozen ground hard beneath my boots

Steel on the horses hooves pound like thunder

As they run to me

Hungry

Frost beneath the blue spruce on the north slope

Growing like mold on moist bread

The loaf that will be left out all winter to flourish

She settles, the season, slowly oozing into to her ice age

Of hoar frost and solid creeks

And still silent white wintriness

And taking me with her into her ashen solace

But here I will not remain

When even here is not far enough away

 

So for the friends and family and those who read this who know and care, this weekend I head up to British Columbia to visit Forrest.

 

And this winter, well this winter…

I am here, now, and tell you only of that for now, for here is where I am.

For now.

And tomorrow, well…

 

Adalante!

 

 

Remembering splendor

/ Gin Getz / 11 Comments

 

 

The morning after

Muscles moving with soreness and shivers

Dripping where once was dry

The cage door swings open

Feral beast unleashed

She bolts and does not look back

Stops to catch her heaving breath

Sweating along creased brow

Narrow vision of passion

It is all a blur

Mind blending memories with desires

How do we separate the two

After they have intertwined?

 

 

 

 

Changing views

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

Rain turns to hail turns to snow

Winter’s white line blending with brown

A slow sad march down the mountain

Covering the last of summers stories

Faded like a sepia portrait of an old cowboy

 

Yesterday today tomorrow

You may say bad things comes in threes

I’d rather think of body, mind and soul

Nothing is not connected

Though too often we find ourselves alone

Seemingly old words shared with a new friend:

“As I write, I am down at the Little Cabin, our one room cabin built of old round logs, set out on the bluff above the river. Big Haus, our main home for now, is being used for the last big event of the season, so we’ve chosen to hide away down here, and I love it. A small satellite dish and solar panel which charges a battery which in turn is inverted to household power allows me the use of the computer and internet, though we have the old wood cook stove giving us heat, and candles and kerosene lamps at night by which we work. There is an outhouse nearby and when the rain and hail (and soon to be snow) are not as loud on the metal roof as they are right now, I can hear the song of the Rio Grande just below us.”

Get away, far away…

I wonder at times if I am running away?  Or running to something just out of reach?

A new view, looking out of these old weathered eight-pane windows.   Snow beneath the beetle killed spruce trees.  Rolling waves of light and dark, subtle shades and repeated variation, hillside after hillside fading from green to grey.  It’s only a matter of time.

Are we better off not looking?

Yet even blindfolded, would you feel the tears of the trees dropping their needles upon you as we stumble through the last of the shade?