nature

Withdraw

/ Gin Getz / 9 Comments

 

Stripped stark

Barren trees

Allow more light to penetrate

An insatiable hunger for the withering warmth

Mid day light diffused by the soft sky overcast

It is only a matter of time before the snow settles in for the season

White world we know here for half our days

Until then longer shadows leave a vague pattern

As if something man made like an endless cattle guard

On the edge of the dying meadow

 

The thermometer has risen to twenty.  I postpone a longer walk and return quickly from feeding the horses, the dog from chasing off the magpies.  I am not yet used to the cold, too soft, still holding on tight to summer ways of forgoing long johns and tall boots. The cold has barely begun.

Horses at the water trough pawing through the ice.

The doves are down to four.  I see them now settled on the fence by the one big Blue Spruce that provides protection.  There is literally a pile of assorted small birds behind the house, all having been run into the windows.  Even the cats can’t claim responsibility.  The falcon flies by and creates another fury and another bang on the window.  A feather and dusty impression of wings remain before me.  A clear, hard wall one can barely see.  The crystals I hung in every window have not helped.

The little dark mare turns from the water and snorts. I see water dribbling from her muzzle like a silver spray of shining beads, as she stand tight , tall, alert, neck and tail high and ears forward. The language of the horse.  The moose is again in the willows.  Or at least, that is what she fears.

The wind rouses, rips up the remaining thin brown leaves of the bush.  No lurking sent is stirred.  The little mare lowers her head, relaxes her back and slowly returns to the herd.

A great horseman once told me that to learn to be a great horsewoman, all I needed to do was listen to the horse.  They have all the answers I seek, he said.  His wife reminded us both that this theory only works AFTER one has learned the language of the horse, and not all of us were “lucky” enough to be born into a world of great horsemen as our parents and peers to pass on such information.  A disadvantage on one hand. I had to learn it all from scratch.  An advantage on the other, for we learn to speak ourselves, with our own voice and manners.  After the magnitude of mistakes levels out, we are left with an understanding that is ours, between the horse and me, built from the ground up like a stone castle.  This is more solid, strong and real than if it was handed to me.  That is at least what I tell myself.  Might as well.  I cannot change how nor where I was born and raised.

Not everyone is lucky enough to be born where they belong later in life.  I say that on one hand yet I have heard to those that say there is a great burden that comes with “being born into…” Or are we the lucky who have the blank canvas before us and paint the picture as we will?

No matter. We can choose who, what and where we are.  And we can change it all too.

Can’t we?

Bird of prey

/ Gin Getz / 23 Comments

 

Wind strips away the last of the leaves and sucks the heat of the woodstove out from between cracks in the log walls before warming the room.  The wind chimes rattle ceaselessly on the back porch.  Bare branches wave wildly as if saying their final farewell.

I sit in the cabin and stare outside at the browning hillside.  Flocks of geese on the Reservoir flats joining up to prepare their journey southward as the tourists already have done.  Those of us that remain prepare for departure or hibernation.  I will do the latter.

“The feast before the famine…” Or so the saying goes. But this feast is bittersweet.

Now is the season of birds of prey.

In the sharp shadows of early morning, from the kitchen window I watch a falcon fly through the flock of mourning doves. They are slow.  He is agile.  A fascinating combination, confrontation, obvious he will be victorious, and of little surprise when after I count one less dove scratching at the seed by the hay shed.

Late afternoon looking out the same window.  High above the field the Red Tail hawk dances in the middle of a whirlwind of what appears to be golden birds, whirling, swirling, fluttering, flickering in the lowering light.  At first I think he flies among tiny birds, a flock larger than I’ve ever seen here and strain my eyes to identify.  But it is only freshly fallen leaves caught up in the twisting air, a wild dance of nature, the bird of prey participates in what seems like a joyous display of fervor and wind.

So the season blows away, leaving the last of the orange leaves to glow like rare pale sentinels in the high hills, while the rest of the mountain fades to grey, silent and peaceful as a monk under a heavy hood. At once comforted and burdened by the weight.

It is time for me to withdraw. To give in to the brown and grey and barren wind.  To write.  I begin with letters I have put off for months.

From a letter written earlier this week to a friend who probably wished he never asked:

 

This will more than likely be way too long and rambling, or way too short and say only a fraction of what I want to say.

I’ve been going through an odd adjustment with Bob working in town a few days a week, Forrest off to college and trying to figure what his future holds, and myself trying to find more of my own self through work and business or lack there of. Not a big deal, just little life changes. And too much time to think. At this stage in the game, I should be doing more than thinking. Giving more than taking. I’ll figure it out. Just an adjustment period.

Where to begin?

I’d like to begin with the financial matters we first discussed back in August, I believe it was. Crazy the power money holds over us, even when we try to live so simply. I appreciate you sharing a bit of your story. Your honesty and openness have always been refreshing, though a harsh reality at times. You are right about the burden debt holds over us. Walking away (though of course I know, walking away still brings a tangled thread dragging behind) for us is not an option at this point. We are oddly in a state of having to wait it out. Let me explain.

Our debt is created by having to fight for ownership of part of this land, the part with the cabins and business my husband built, separating him from the “Evil In-Laws,” the part of the family that fought all the rest of us for no better reason than because they could, to stir the waters, or because conflict and confrontation are a way of life for them. Fighting to own what we have worked for was worth it on principle alone, though a hard fight, and a personal struggle, as family matters, you know, often are.

Fighting for ones land does one of two things.  It can turn you off and chase you away, or draw you closer like a mother and child.  For us, it has been the latter.  Only at times I know not if I am the mother to or child of this beautiful land.  I have only learned it does not matter.  We are connected now by blood, the blood I have shed upon this land, as sweet and rich, wet and warm as my tears.

But alas, “moving on” is this odd carrot before my nose. I grab but can never reach. I know it will happen. At least, most days, I know. Other days, I wonder.

And what does “moving on” entail?  For moving on does not always mean a physical move.  What it can mean is staying right where you are… only you are changed.

Here is everything my husband ever worked for, and what I have helped build and gave all I could for the past eleven years. It is not a miserable place to be, just rather “status quo.”  I prefer change, growth, adventure. My insatiable curiosity for what lies over the next peak of the mountain drives me. I just want to live life as full as I can, in my own quiet way.

But what can I do? What skills do I have now besides running a little business, raising animals (and a child), cooking, cleaning, riding, training, gardening… nothing of value in today’s world. I am lost.

We’re not operating the guest ranch in the same capacity we were, and we’re not outfitting any more.  This is hard because I so love horses and riding and even sharing the knowledge and experiences.  And both Bob and I have considered working with horses as such an integral part of our identity. We are still relying on our horses for work at the ditch, which involves riding and packing into Wilderness, back and forth, for 20 – 30 days per summer; and using the horse for dirt work. But it’s not the same, and not quite enough for me. So I’ve been compensating by doing these big, extreme, crazy rides trying to fulfill my horse time, miles, and unsaturated soul. It’s almost addictive. How hard/far/long/challenging a ride can I do today? And then return home grateful to have survived.

Horse time is almost over here. As soon as the snow begins to fly, and the north sides of the slopes and in the trees begin to ice up, it’s over. It will be soon.

And still, fun as it is, it is not enough. One can only “play” so much, enjoy ones down time so much. That point and purpose, direction, meaning I’m longing for is still so far away.  I am no closer today than I was yesterday.  Or is this a path I cannot see, and shall I wake one day and find myself… there?

Once again, you see I have foregone short and sweet and tended towards long and drawn out.  Stay with me if you’d like.  I will be here, and I will share. Though the season of withdrawing and crawling deep inside the cave is coming.  And I intend to use that time well and wisely…

 

As blue as the big sky above

/ Gin Getz / 22 Comments

 

And what can one do but await winter?

 

Sometimes depression isn’t chemical, isn’t disease, isn’t moods.  It’s a result of circumstances.

Sometimes we have bad days, we go through hard times.  Don’t ask me to smile and get over it.  I need to be mad and sad for a little while.  I dare say I’ll “get over it” when I’m good and ready.  I’m not ready today.

What is so wrong with saying I’m bummed out and it’s got to me?

What’s a girl to do?

Saddle up and ride, I say.

Maybe that’s shallow.  But it works.  At least for a little while.

Yesterday the dog chased the coyote across our pasture and onto the neighbors’ field.  A big no-no.  All I saw was a little silver coyote about a quarter mile away, followed by Gunnar, full speed ahead.  Two streaming bullets heading straight for the trees.  Then I could see no more.  But I could hear.  And hear I did.  It wasn’t hard to figure where those two went.  Right into a pack of screaming wiener dogs being walked by a woman barking louder than all those dogs put together.  I cringed. The neighbors up for the weekend, enjoying a leisurely afternoon stroll.  Oops. I called.  Like he was going to leave all that crazy commotion and come to me.

The visual was a good one though, imagining coyote bait scattering wildly in all directions as the coyote runs right past, having better things to do than grab a quick meal with my mad dog at his heels.  Really, I know, I should have gone next door to apologize for the ruckus my dog caused, but it is way too late for that.  These are my in-laws, and I’m the out-law.  We haven’t spoken in years, and if there was a time for apologies, I think it would have been long ago.  So I look at this as giving them one more reason to hate me.  Add it to their long list.

Next thing you know, there is the little Bull Moose (“little” being a relative term, of course) stepping over the field fence and stirring up the horses.  And I know the dog wants to chase this guy off too. What a helper. But the thought of the Bull Moose heading toward the pack of wiener dogs is a bit much, so I keep the dog on leash which makes working around the ranch a real drag.

And I confess, I had already awoken in a bad mood.

Enough.

(pause)

And then I’m out there.  Out on the trail on the back of a horse.  Heading higher, always higher.  Leaving it all behind. The dog behaving well following the two horses.  One I’m riding.  My silly little Arab, Flying Crow.  The other I’m leading along, his partner and my best mare, Tres.  The more we ascend, the more the trail opens, the view expands, the leaves have left the trees. There is my yellow brick road.  I am on it.  Following where it may lead me, and right then and there, it didn’t matter where “there” may be.

The golden path before me, ascending to the silver sky.  The clouds are building.  Thunder over my shoulder.  We ride on. I have my slicker tied onto the saddle.  I drape the rains, reach behind me, and slip it on like a protective cocoon.  Such a thin barrier against the elements of the Mighty Mountain.  But enough.  Just enough.  Not too much.  I don’t want to get soft.  The rain and hail begin. An added interest, intrigue, challenge.  A reminder of the harsh elements surrounding me.  A reminder that I forgot my gloves. I lean forward and press my hands on my horse’s neck, scrunch my fingers into his mane.  Who needs gloves when you have a warm beast below and beside you?

And for just a little while (yes, “little” is a relative term, but in this case, big enough) my mind is clear of the self created burden of my own thoughts that weigh so heavy at times, more from the value I give them than what you might think they deserve.

 

She crawls deeper into the cave

Back to where the light is muted and vision is vague

Awaiting total blackness to wash over like the blanket of deep night

And lies back upon the brittle rose branch

Still tangled in her hair

 

Fallen leaves

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

 

The Grande Finale.  Washing away in early morning rain. Giving in, giving up. Pacifying rain.  Perhaps the last of its kind for the season.  I listen to its placid song on the metal roof.  Quieter now without the rustle of the leaves and their subtle refrain, now stripped from the trees and tangled in the dried brown grasses below.

Fallen leaves.  Bare trees standing static. Awaiting.

Darker days, longer shadows, I prepare for the inevitable quieting of mountain and mind.

Yesterday’s deep, rich, ripe orange. A juicy peach full of fresh life and sweet promises. The color of the Aspen leaves before they let go.  A hillside on fire now paling to grey. Where even the evergreens are no longer green.  I will find a subtle beauty in this too, you know.

Swollen with a passion as brilliant as the fiery hillside before me, then accepting expiring flames, blowing out.  We are left stark, silent, solitary, each of us on our own paling hillside.

 

 

(For a greater display of the brilliant fall color from earlier this season, please see: http://www.facebook.com/#!/media/set/?set=a.4184427821999.164195.1623616997&type=1 )

 

An early autumn

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

fall color. coming on early this year.  pictures speak louder than my words which seem somewhat hard and heavy and stuttering…

Enwrapped by vibration

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

Lightning on the other side of the Divide where the clouds are steel grey.  A blinding bolt in the dark sky. A mirror image remains for a moment even through closed lids. Holding still, I wait and count and listen for the inevitable thunder.  Further away than I would have guessed.

The sound reverberates in a broad booming circle about us, bounding from the hard face of the mountains all around as we stand there in the center, protected in our little fenced yard, holding our spade and hoe. Waiting, awaiting, the certain sound and stirring.

Enwrapped by vibration.

The rain won’t reach us today.  I would like to smell the sweetness on warm soil and have the lettuce seeds and newly transplanted rhubarb and bunching onion softly sprinkled. But I can tell. The heavy clouds will loop around and loosen their load elsewhere, always elsewhere it seems. Except for when it’s here, and then it seems we are in the storm forever, forgetting what before and after sunshine feel like when the cold of mountain hail and rain surround us.

Not quite the banana belt. It was twenty five degrees this morning.  We’re still a month away before morning temps might remain above freezing.  And then, even then, I’d be a fool to count on it.

Quite contrary.

How does your garden grow?

Talk about an uphill battle, but I’m going to do it again this year. I’m going to try.  Lettuce and chard and kale, potatoes, onions and herbs.  Seeds spread out on my kitchen table of what I used to plant for spring crops when I gardened in California, here will grow in summer.  If I’m lucky.

And this year I’m cheating.  My husband brought me home starts from the greenhouse.  Tomatoes, peppers and flowers.  Geraniums in the boldest reds, so many shades, shocking and vibrant and really quite sexy.   Just ask the hummingbird who already found his way through the open sliding glass door to get closer to the brilliant blossoms.  Silly little birds.  Still seem so oddly out of place in the high country, yet manage just fine, even without the sickly amount of sugar so many humans think they “need.”

The chance of rain passes us by.  The dark clouds dissipate, or hide on the other side of the Divide, which is possible, for I would not see them for days if they chose to remain there.  And in the evening as the clear sky darkens for the day, the dog and I walk from the yard back towards home, smoke from the wood stove slowly waving like a happy dog tail as the temperature has already dropped to the mid thirties.

The smell of burning cedar.  Scraps of the posts pulled up, rearranged, fencing removed and replaced, because nothing stays the same, and we always find better ways. Even better places for the garden, now tucked in closer to the cabin, a little more protection from the extreme elements of the mountain.

We stop to listen, just the dog and me. There is a snipe’s flickering mating call to one side of us, and the bellow of geese on the other.  I imagine them there, perhaps no more than a pair, following the black ribbon of the river up to higher grounds until they settle in to the concealing darkness, wait out the night, and celebrate the first of light on the mountain in the morning with broad wings and joyous voices taking flight above the now silver flow of our Mighty Rio Grande.

Back to a world of white

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

The obscurity of a mid-night with no moon
Silent stirring of a shadow hiding in shade
A flower unfolds in this darkness
Bright blossom petals
No one can see
A blind woman roused by the fragrance
Feels the colors
Emerging

Here and now

/ Gin Getz / 9 Comments

The simple act of replacing the calendar, changing the number we write on our personal checks or type on our business memos from 11 to 12. That’s it, nothing more. Except what we make of it. A big deal. A time of reflection.

I’m never one for resolutions, but big on reflections. This year I attempt to reflect less on the past, more on choices, paths, futures. Directions. But I have no crystal ball. Unable to look ahead, uncertain of the here and now, I find myself reluctantly turning back. Reflecting on the past. It’s comfortable, safe, known.

And confusing, because memory distorts the past. I forget sometimes why I left.

The big move. It was going to bring me to a new wild world. Raw land, and an open canvas, a new life unfolding, unfurling, one grain of sand at a time.  I anticipated a deep relationship beginning, blossoming. The slow initiation. Two fresh lovers unsure of one another, eager, reaching, curious, tasting, touching.

We leaped; a net appeared.

The jump itself is exhilarating. Then the dust settles and we look around and try to make sense of where we are.

Here. Now.

I return from a snowshoe where I crossed over others tracks. In hopes of not disturbing the skier’s lines, I found myself post holing on the side hill. I don’t understand the etiquette yet. Every place has a different set of rules.

I’m used to being alone. My tracks. My rules. As selfish as it seems. It is what I was used to. I shared those little lines about the mountain set by my humble snowshoes quite happily with the coyote and bobcat and fox and martin, and grumbled under my breath when the moose chose my path, punching deep holes, long strides, just wide enough for my snowshoes to tip over and suck me in to some great white abyss.

Was it last year I went three months without leaving the mountains, and saw eight people all winter? And I was content.

Careful what you ask for. After years of spending isolated winters or summers with Mother-in-law-from-hell and her entourage, small but damaging as it was, I said I wanted neighbors, good neighbors. Now I have them. I have met more caring, interesting, involved, active neighbors in one month than I met in ten years in Colorado. Mind you, they are closer here. But I’m certain it’s more a matter of attitude, not distance.

And yet, already I see that wonderful as this is, it’s not the life for me. A social life. My hermit ways are only growing stronger, more defined. I hear them now clearly, growling, snarling, sneering and threatening to rebel.

When out of one’s element, by necessity perhaps, we learn to define who and what we are. What matters most. What parts of the past have formed us and do we allow to carry through into our futures?

I am missing my hermit ways. You can adjust, loved ones have assured me, to a social situation. Yes, I can adjust, but do I thrive? Like a wild cat in a zoo? Is captivity the best choice?

It’s no big deal, I tell myself. Then why do I feel distraught? My eyes are burning and wet but refuse to shed a tear. There is nothing wrong and yet nothing feels quite right.

Perhaps when my horses are here, though even then I shall find myself a hobby horsewoman having horses without horse work. Another part of the definition I had formed for myself that was left behind.

And the greatest part of me left behind? The deep wilds. And my part in them. My connection to them. I turned my back and walked away. Severed the cord. And find myself left like a babe learning to breathe.

Perhaps I can learn to breathe here. Deeper, richer, fuller than the thin air of the high mountains.

In the meanwhile, I feel somehow empty. Gasping for breath. That fish out of water.

And find my mind, without the connection with the wilds around me, resembles a blank canvas, an empty page. There is a hollow void.

The choice, then, is how I choose to fill it.

Or leave it sparse, and turn the page.

Remains of last season

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

The remains of last season
Visible as an odd curiosity
For I have not seen the leaves green here
Somewhat strange to arrive at the start of the dormant season
And wonder how life will transform and blossom

Now we approach darkness
Hesitant like stepping into frigid waters

The darkness does not concern me
I barely discern the difference
Here where day and night ooze and overlap
Lacking strong shadows and clean lines

Oh wild beast
Contained
By civilization
It does not become me
My eyes narrow and pulse quickens
I pace the cage uneasily

You pinned me to the wall
Did you think I would settle in softly
And not lash out?

It is uncomfortable
I shift awkwardly and cannot make eye contact

She stares back intently asking for recognition
Recognition I am unable to give
Only a blank stare in return
Shallow
Touching no more than the surface of the reflective glass before me

For a moment I become the Little Prince
Standing at the center of my little world
Silent and alone I can see forever and forever is not far
I call out and hear my echo
It is a small world
Too small
It is not that I feel large
Only confined

I see last season’s leaves still clinging to a dormant branch
And I see beauty in even that promise of what was
What will be
A certainty I am not yet comfortable with

Instead I curl up like a kitten in the windowsill
Basking in sunshine I only remember