Oh for peace of place
I seek around me
And all the while
Forgetting to look within
Calm and quiet after stormy skies
Have spent their fiery passion
Leaving moist grass in the dramatic evening sky
And let me be still to listen
nature
Ditch camp
A weekend returned and resting from ditch camp. Perhaps resting is not the right word. Moving cows (bringing the girls to a boy), cleaning cabins, clothes and selves, restocking and repacking. I’m slack on finding time to catch up with correspondence and writing. And when I finally do sit down to write, the words and stories overwhelm and I don’t know where to begin. There seems to be so much. Summers, rich and full. As they must be. Fast and furious and fleeting in the high country.
I must begin with the practical. An explanation of ditch camp for those of you who have no idea what I’m referring to. For those who know, please excuse the redundancy. I’ll share something new with you next time.
Ditch camp is about the three of us living in a little thin wall tent with a wood stove, a welcome upgrade from five years ago when we began camped out under a tarp. It is about being tired and sore and dirty at the end of the day, earning our rest, our silence, our sleep. It is about sitting wordlessly together with a simple meal of Hamburger Helper, listening. To each other. To the steam of the coffee on the fire. The sound of the creek. Birds. The horses contented exhales as they graze on the endless pasture of the Divide. The wind through the trees baring their soul as the needles fall and soften the ground below with a silvery brown blanket.
Ditch camp is about days spent with hand tools and horse power. A team of three. One family, close, together, comfortable in the wild world. And horses and dog and wildlife. Shovels and picks, drags and slips. Rebuilding low banks. Cleaning out debris and sediment washed in during the spring run. Repairing damage and improving flow. And my favorite part. Clearing and felling trees with the old crosscut saw, one pair taking turns as the third person stands guard with ax in hand, watching the waving of the top of the tree to tell us it is ready to fall. The forced and powerful rhythm of the back and forth metal on wood, torsos to and fro, vigorous breathing in and out, sawdust and shavings gathering in reward at the base of the tree as the cut gets deeper and deeper.
And on the most practical level, ditch camp is about maintaining a transcontinental ditch deep in the Weminuche Wilderness for a private company that owns the water rights. An old ditch built long ago bringing water from a creek that flows to the west of the Divide over a mile to the east. Pretty simple. They don’t know we see it as the romantic adventure it is, and remain grateful for the hard work we do.
As for the rest, and there is so much more to share with you, I must wait for another day.
Time to get back to work.
Stormy spring
Though the world outside my window might not look the part, as I write this, my thoughts are on spring. Spring in the high country. Melting snow, brown waters, exposed hillsides, and mud.
Every day for a week now, it has snowed. Just when we were ready for spring. Just when we were ready to work the horses, fix fences, turn the garden soil, and put up new roofing on our little cabin.
If this had been winter, we’d have called it “awesome.” My son’s school work would be left and he’d be out in it. Maybe the mild winter was a good thing.
But now it is spring, and we’ve got things to do. This was not in our plans. Yet, as you know, here one cannot complain about the moisture. Just when we were beginning to worry about another drought year.
And then, before you know it, it will be summer. Days will be warm. The down jacket left on the hook and the heavy mud boots pushed under the stool in the entrance. The ground will be dry. Leaves will be coming on the trees and the grass will start to green. Me, I’ll be in the garden, out riding the trails, visiting with guests, enjoying a leisurely lunch on the deck. The river will be calm and clear, fish jumping at the latest hatch. Someone, somewhere along this beautiful stretch of the Rio Grande, will be tossing lines and trying to emulate a part of that hatch.
Everything changes in spring. Snow recedes. Roads open. And with the open road, the tourists slowly trickle by, seemingly shocked that spring has not yet made it up this high. An odd curiosity to arrive and not see what you remember. Unfulfilled memories of long, leisurely lingering days for those who come to get away. They turn their backs to the blowing snow and turn their vehicles back downhill.
There is much more to this mountain than summer.
Rain
It rains soft and temperate
On thawed soil
For the first time in seven months.
The sound on the hard deck
On metal roof
On ground still bare and brown
Startles the sleeping dog
Used to the silence of the snow.
We step out to soak in the odor
Short lived sweet smell
Evoking memories of running through puddles
On pavement
Somewhere far away in suburbia.
The easy release and laughter have followed me here
Will follow wherever I am.
I have yet to outrun the rain.
Gin Getz 