Building got the better of me this past week; no time to write, with a huge push to get the roof built.
Seems like all work and no play… yet tomorrow we’re taking off… something special to celebrate…the roof is built (metal comes this next week) and our anniversary is today.
For now, I’m just sharing this, because this is what matters most: LOVE. For those who have stuck it out together through hard knocks and tough times, and found yourself belonging in the shared place and space of long term love – something I never thought I’d be lucky enough to experience – I hope you’ll relate to this:
funny that all it takes
is opening eyes
to see
that you are there
beside me
right where we belong
Twenty-two years ago today, we married. We committed to become the family we chose. And in those years, we learned what unconditional love, duty and devotion, kindness and forgiveness feels like. In those years, we learned and grew, we flourished and failed, we longed and lusted and feared and found footing to stand strong, and we moved and built more than I’d like to admit.
It’s been a wild ride. The only stability was our love. Of each other. Our son. And the high wild lands where we choose to live. No matter how hard things got, how lost we felt, how tired we became, at the end of each day (or sometimes it took until the morning after) we knew we were no longer alone. And we knew someone else was counting on us, relying on us, needing us. So you pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and get back to work beside one another right where you belong.
Now we are here. In person and place and time.
Slowly we have settled in, learning the lay of the land, the feel of dried grass beneath bare feet or mud caked on our boots. Listening to the wind, tasting the water, letting the first sun of morning fall across our rawhide faces, allowing our fingers to find their place in the others hand when we walk. Finding our place, here. Finding the balance of lust and longing, energy and exhaustion, dirt and discomfort, strain and stress as we kept on keeping on building the dream – our family home and mountain homestead. Something we both wanted, together.
So it went, and so it still goes. Building together. A safe place to bring dreams to life.
Sitting at a different kitchen table, gazing out at a different view, things are different here. The mountain, the river, the elevation and air. Even the bears and birds and colors of the season as it begins to fade and summer browns and sky grays and we start to look up at distant peaks to see if snow has fallen yet.
Our relationship is different now. A little less spark but more warmth from the coals and that is what cooks the stew. And like the stew that has been simmering and been stirred and added to with care and taste and time, together we are each richer within than either of us imagined had we not chosen one another.
Maybe I am different, too. Not in spite of what we went through. But because of it. I am more. I am fuller. I am deeper and wiser. In part because of you. In part because of time. Aging is beautiful thing. At least, most days I think it is.
The wisdom of aging is perhaps best found in the skill of knowing what baggage to leave behind.
You cannot outrun the past. The past is the path that led you to where you are today.
In moving, you leave where you were behind. In a way, you leave who you were behind as well. You become the blank slate. The clay upon the potters’ wheel. You are both the clay and the hands that shape it.
In remaining, however, you face the challenge of your past lingering all around you like last years leaves that still need to be raked, and overgrown underbrush that catches and tangles as you try to walk through the woods. But you know your way through and sometimes there is comfort in knowing what to expect, what it will feel like, how bad it can be.
And how good.
Together we have done both.
Now is the time for re-writing. Not based upon where you are, but who you are.
The answers are not found out there. They are found in here. Within.
Perhaps where I should have looked all along.
But even inside, the landscape has changed. I wasn’t then who I am now.
It takes making the journey to understand the path.
It takes travelling the path to become the traveler.
Marriage is like that. At least it can be.
A mysterious path beckoning you to come hither.
A safe place in which you both can soften.
A healthy place in which you both can continue to be nourished, nurtured and thrive.
As the simmering stew, or the garden bed, deeper and richer and fuller with time.
Years back, Bob and I read a book by Dave Ramsey about financial security. It was interesting but not real relevant as I’m firmly planted against living beyond our means. That means, debt is a four letter word for me. (Well I guess it really is four letters, isn’t it?) I don’t like loans. In fact, I don’t even like bank accounts. I’m an odd egg for sure.
Our biggest takeaway from that book was a phrase we embraced then and continue to live by:
“Live like no one else now so you can live like no one else later.“
The premise being, if you don’t have money, don’t spend it. Live simply. Be thrifty. Do without. Save up rather than go into debt. Don’t be buying what you can’t afford. Frugal choices pay off in the long run.
It’s worked for us. We’ll drive a 25 year old truck rather than some “economical” new car that costs more than we make in a year, live off what we grow and pass on Trader Joes… but own the land on which we live.
Even if it doesn’t have a house?
I’m not saying it’s the best way, the right way, or the ideal way for everyone. But it’s worked for us. More or less.
(this is a sneak peak video into our little camper)
It took us a lot of years (like, um, around 50 and 60 respectfully) before we had the courage, grit and gusto (let alone the financial capability) to leave the old family ranch behind and break out on our own.
Finally.
Ours. All ours.
And now…
Here we are.
Still living like no one I know.
For better or for worse. Just how it is.
Go ahead. Laugh at how we live. We do too. It’s a little nuts. But we love it.
You can say it: We are living Red White and Blue. Red neck. White trash. Blue collar. And proud.
We live in a 14 foot camper circa 1964 with a nearby outhouse, no indoor plumbing, hauling drinking water from town and pumping wash water from the creek. We do our laundry by hand in an old churn style wash tub and hang it out to dry on a line strung along the horse fence. All in all, you learn to wash little things like socks and underwear, but realize there’s not much sense in washing the jeans when they’re just going to get dirty again. So, you don’t.
When you’re living at camp, cleanliness kinda goes by the wayside. Yes, I like a tidy home, but you can’t be real picky out here. There’s dirt. Lots of it. And mice, spiders, bats and flies and stuff that take some getting used to. I’m use to it.
Washing isn’t top priority. You save your fork after every meal and though I wash my hands and face in a bucket morning and night, I’ve cleaned my hair only three times since leaving California well over a month ago.
It’s a dirty life, but I love it. Sure, I look forward to keeping a clean house someday. Like when I have a house. But in the meanwhile, I love where we’re at and how we are living and that makes all the dirt and dust and grease and grime okay.
It helps too to have a very patient, loving, and a little bit blind partner living the life along with you.
(yes, that’s hail. and yes, it’s still freezing regularly in the morning, in case you were afraid to ask.)
As for progress and updates and the latest news from up on this high, wild land, well, our son was as usual a huge help getting our floor joists lined out (Thank you, Forrest!!!!!) and Bob and I got the plywood down (see the celebration dance below).
You see, first there is this: the footer. The solid footprint upon which to build level and square, solid, straight and true.
A slab is poured.
And a rather permanent footprint is created.
This is something solid, serious, the real deal.
It means something, though I’m not sure I can define what.
I know it means it’s happening. We’re doing this. Building a little cabin way out and way high.
But it feels like it means something more.
It’s also about building dreams, a life, hand in hand as we build the walls.
Slowly. Slowed by our aging energies. Slowed by the elements. Slowed by the schedules of others we’re working around.
Is slow such a bad thing?
Maybe it just means more time. More time to consider and refine our plans. More time to hike and explore and ride and write. More time to sit and stare at the view, in silence, together, as our hearts feel as radiant as the sky.
And along with solid grounding, those cement roots we sew into the ground, there lays a message of commitment. One of the scariest things to consider.
So today I’m thinking long and hard about commitment because… well, I’m trying to figure out how committed I am.
Is commitment the ties the bind us – the burden that has our hands held tight behind our back?
Or the devotion and responsibility that keeps us tied, which in kind creates a bond more powerful than that of freedom?
At times, you know, it is both.
Commitment can be our ocean. It is the vastness that holds us up, and that threatens to take us down if we don’t learn to swim. We must soften into the water. Allow it support us, and adjust to its ebbs and flows. That which is dense and rigid is more likely to sink. Like the concrete on the footer. How do we stay afloat in this ever changing world, these ever changing times, my ever changing mind?
Commitment takes time. It can’t be forced, but takes a subtle power and pressure like water sculpting stone. One more reason to slow down. Let it sink into your bones. Let it become you. If it will. And maybe it won’t. See if it will somehow soften you, change you, and move you to evolve.
It is a choice. Dedication, devotion and duty are the glue that adheres us, what holds us to person, to place, to profession. It holds us to center, though sometimes it is just… sticky.
It is not born but comes with time, like a fine wine rolling along your tongue. Committing to growing a garden, a dog, a horse or a kid, a relationship, a book, a building. These things don’t happen over night.
Commitment takes time and work, patience, forgiveness and acceptance. It takes a certain type of kindness that is intertwined with love. And commitment takes change. Yes, to remain committed, we not only grow into it, we flow with it. Thus along the way, something happens. We become more, we become less, we become something a little different. We change.
(Perfectionism is, if not the polar opposite, than the bucket that dosed the flame. Check out what Brene Brown has to say about that in her book, “The Gifts of Imperfection.”
Are you committed? To person, to people? To place? To your craft. To your chosen lifestyle. To your beliefs and creed and faith? To the place that you call “home?”
… and a few photos from the past few days, leaning in and stepping back.
About the power.
Bob and I have lived off grid as long as we’ve been together. That’s twenty something years. And twenty something years of relying on solar power.
We’re no pros on solar power but we make do (with help on big stuff, without a doubt). It works. Well.
I thought I’d take a few to share with you what’s working for us here and now. I’m not saying this is “the” way. It’s just our way. And it works for us.
The tiny little camper we’re living in has a tiny little solar panel, battery and inverter that actually works well enough to keep us in a few tiny little lights. Good thing to note is that the batteries are sealed, which means safer in a small space, and if left for the season well charged, don’t freeze. We don’t use this much and I’m not big on lights anyway. I’m more a candle, oil lamp and solar twinkle lights kinda gal.
But we do have needs. And the tiny little system in this tiny little camper wasn’t going to cut it.
Back in California, I did some research into a portable solar system that would satisfy our simple needs. We’d need to charge devices, power tools and (yup) Starlink. The regular household Starlink, not the portable one designed for on-the-go. I decided on the Ecoflow Delta 3 Plus. This is the system we purchased on Amazon at about a thousand dollars: EF ECOFLOW Solar Generator Delta 3 Plus with 220W Bifacial Solar Panel.
So far, we’re glad we went with it. It felt like a pretty big drop in the bucket at the time, but we’ve had no regrets what so ever. Super simple, straightforward and reliable. It’s been more than enough power for us. Could have gone a little smaller, perhaps, to accommodate our minimal needs, but maybe we’ll get something else to plug in – like a portable cooler or something to keep groceries cold. Right now, we just make do. Refrigeration is great, but it’s over rated and not necessary. We go to town once a week and only get enough perishables to last that week. Cheese, butter, yogurt do fine. Likewise do most veggies. We don’t eat much meat but a pre-cooked roast chicken from our little local market, between meals made with the chicken and then soup made with the bones, lasts the better part of a week.
For emergency back up of charging devices, or for charging when we’re out in the field, I still love to use my Goal Zero Venture 35 mini battery/inverter and the Goal Zero Nomad 20 portable folding solar panel. I got this set up for my Long Quiet Ride, and rode with the little solar panel strapped on the back of the pack horse charging one unit, and a second small battery pack in my horn bag to get me through the day. I stressed about losing power a lot, but made it through. Now it just serves as a back up, and a seriously sweet stress reducer.
Of course, today is Summer Solstice. A beautiful blessings indeed. Solar power is having it’s heyday and the need for lights is just about nil, with the sun so early to rise and late to set, pretty much coinciding with our needs.
As for these photos…
Here’s an assortment from the past few days. Some are leaning in. Getting up close and intimate. (I finally unpacked my big camera, so that’s been a pleasure for me to work on in well needed breaks from the dirt pit – more on that next time!). Others are stepping back. Seeing the bigger picture. All of them, for me, are about finding beauty and awe with what is right there before you. It’s easy here. Looking closely. Feeling what you see. Quietly. Deeply. Intimately. Mine is not a view big and bright and shiny enough to attract a big fuss and crowds. But it is more than enough for me.
(looking back at the healthy forest surrounding our little bit of paradise – that little clearing in the center – here in the far north of California)
~
Contemplating slow living and the complexities of the simple life.
So much of that is based on making the most of what you have, and doing it yourself.
As in, if you want lumber for building…
You fall trees, skid them, clean the slash, load logs on the mill, saw them to size, stack them.
And then in this case… haul them from here to there.
California to Colorado.
Simple living, sounding somewhat complicated.
I’ll explain.
This is my first attempt at sharing a video on this blog. I want to show you what milling is like. However, it’s hard to hold a device in one hand AND crank the mill with the other. So I may have some figuring out to do. In the meanwhile, go ahead and say it: Cinematography is not my strong point.
Bob did a lot better. This is the video he took after I whined about how bad mine was.
~
So about the mill.
It’s slow, old, free and ours.
It was left behind at another “high and wild” property we once owned, just for a little while. Another fixer upper. That place was a little TOO high. At an elevation of 11,400 feet, turned out to be too much even for Bob and me. We got headaches, bloody noses, had trouble sleeping, got battered by the elements… but we did fix the place up nicely and flipped it.
And, bonus: we got this mill out of the deal.
Yeah, I know, it’s old. Go ahead and say it (Bob does all the time): too old! It’s crazy slow. You gotta crank the wheel for several minutes just to raise or lower the carriage that holds the blade, then crank some more to move the carriage as the blade inches it way through the wood. Crank again to raise it, crank it back to the beginning, then lather, rinse, repeat. It’s a lot of cranking and a helluva a test of patience. Apparently I have a lot, because even as the one doing all that cranking, every time Bob shows me pictures or starts talking about a new mill, I’m quick to shut him down.
“This is what we have,” I remind him (and myself). And though it’s slow, check it out: it works. We’ve used more modern mills. You know, those fancy ones with bells and whistles, flashing lights, keyboards, electronics or at least hydraulics that cost about as much as a mortgage. This one is gear and chain and crank drive, do your own measuring and your own math, and it was free. Simple. Slow living, slow milling, see what I mean?
Slow as it is, I love it. Yes, I love milling. I love the smell of the wood, and working out in the elements (most times). I love watching dead trees turn into valuable lumber. And I love working with my husband, which after twenty something years building together has brought us to that place of operating in relative wordlessness and this flow that feels almost like a dance. We know what needs to be done, move in unison, use hand signals, nods and knowing glances (and probably a few grunts) to converse. Slow and steady, it works for us.
Despite clothes, hair, and all parts of exposed (and somehow even covered) skin getting enrobed in sawdust every afternoon, the pride in making our own lumber from our own trees is a thrill for me. Maybe I’m an odd sort, but I’m in the right place.
And slow as the mill and the process is, it does work. Beautifully. We milled all the dimensional lumber for that “high and wild” remodel with this mill. There, a buddy milled all the logs for an entire cabin from the beetle kill trees on that land. When we moved from Colorado to California, we brought the mill with us and processed all the lumber for this remodel we’re living in now (you can see some of it HERE.). And maybe when we’re done milling here this spring, chances are we’ll move it back.
Here and now, because of that mill and the beetle killed timber on this land, the majority of materials for our upcoming build are free. (Oh and a big shout out of thanks to my sis and her man for the incredible windows we scored as they replaced theirs!) Beat that. Makes slow somehow okay that way.
The process starts with Bob doing most of the work you forget needs to be done before you even get to mill: falling trees, delimbing and clearing slash, skidding logs, loading them onto the mill. Then I get to do my magic.
I’m the (not necessarily) smooth operator of this old roaring beast, which entails a lot of cranking as I said: cranking her up and down and back and forth, moving the blade through the log with each pass. Sloooooowly. Like everything about this process. Yet… beautifully! At least it’s beautiful to me.
We’ve used it so long, done it so much, by now it’s muscle memory for me. I’m so used to the sound and feel I can do it with my eyes closed. And often I have to. Because when the wind blows my way, which often times it does, so does the sawdust.
And after almost every pass, there’s the joint effort of rolling the log on the mill, which involves a bunch of prying with peaveys and few grunts and groans, then carrying each board off to be sorted and stacked.
Board by board, beam by beam, slowly we’re amassing what we need to build a new home.
It’s exciting. Rewarding in so many ways. Not the least of which is that in the process of taking down trees to mill, we’re cleaning up our land. See, a lot of the doug fir is dying. Beetle kill. Not even close to devastating and depressing as it was back fifteen years or so ago in southern Colorado when we witnessed the demise of 90% of the blue spruce trees there. Year after year, mile after mile, mountain after mountain, a giant wave, gradual and all consuming, turned the hills from green to gray. All those trees, killed by a tiny beetle no bigger than a grain of rice.
Pine beetles, bark beetles, call them what you will. They’re in California too. Only here in Trinity County, at least on our land and the hills surrounding us here, it doesn’t feel devastating. It isn’t. See, here, when one tree dies, another spreads it wings and seems to take flight in the newfound open space. So as some of our doug fir die, the black oak, white oak, live oak, oregon ash, alder, dogwood and madrone already in place, open with the added air space and water that the crowding conifers otherwise devour. It feels somehow natural, normal, beautiful to witness this change over the past nearly six years we’ve been here, as parts of the land unfurls like a giant exhale, revealing the sky and a sense of spaciousness, and we watch as part of our land shifts from a conifer forest to a healthy oak grove. The diversity of species here is remarkable. You barely notice the loss of evergreens were it not for the low stumps left behind.
Thanks to these beetles, we have plenty of trees to build with.
Damn. After the devastation our Colorado mountains endured due to those little buggers, I never, ever thought I say something nice about them.
And so it goes: if you want lumber, fall trees, clear slash, etc. and then… haul to Colorado.
So about that part about hauling to Colorado…
Really?
Yes, really.
See, even after milling off the rotted two to three inches that many of these big trees often have around their girth, what we’re left with is a lot of lumber. Good lumber. Really good, and better than what we’d mill in Colorado. These dead doug fir have heavier, heartier wood than beetle kill blue spruce. Wood strong enough for framing, thick enough to stack for walls, and dense enough to hold heat inside the cabin they’ll one day be.
That’s what this work is all about now. Like mining for gold. Getting down to the good stuff. And this wood is good.
And here’s the thing. Time is of the essence. Sure it would be great to take our time and log and skid and peel and notch and slowly stack logs from our Colorado land where this house will be. And for our next project, that’s what we plan to do. (Yes, knowing us…)
But for now, for starters, for just getting a cabin built, quick and simple and safe and sound, lets be real. We won’t have that time this year. The only chance we have of getting this project done and having a roof over our head and solid structure to winter in (which in the high wild mountains of Colorado is a serious thing) is to do it this way – mill the lumber now, while we can, before the crunch of summer building begins. Or spend a lot of money we don’t have and hire some crew to do it all, wham bam.
Tempting as that sounds some times, that is not what we’ll do.
Slow and steady, we’ll get it done, by making the most of what we have. A lot of beetle killed trees and one old mill. And we’ll work around what we don’t have: time! Building a house from the ground up in the short season between the ground thawing (May) and the ground freezing again (October) – and building something solid and secure enough to winter in – is already a daunting project for a couple that some say have a few too many years behind them to be taking such a project on. Oh yeah, and in addition to the cabin… there’s getting the solar, septic, greenhouse, horse shelter, chicken coop and wood shed (full) done during that time frame as well.
Geez, when I think of all that, I wonder how the hell we’re going to get it done. I probably shouldn’t be sharing our plans as it’s not going to help with our mounting stress.
Just get to work and get it done and stop whining.
And all the while, try to have fun, find the magic and joy and awe all around, be good to each other, each and every day, no matter how slow it goes.
And really, that’s what we do.
So that was the part about “plans.” Haven’t even started sharing the part about “place.”
Guess I’ll save those deep thoughts for another day.
The rain forest returns. Warm, wet, heavy air held suspended in undulating gray skies. Electric green moss wraps around rugged oak limbs. The roar of the river through open window where we sleep at night drowns out the cadence of heavy rain on hard metal roof.
Here in the far north of California, spring makes her first intimation with the return of the robins dappling the meadow, Canada geese flying in formation low along the river, Pacific bluebirds and several other songbirds I have yet to spot even in the nakedness of leafless giant oaks, all gracing us with joyous chatter. I imagine them happy to be home. Discernible leaves of shooting stars emerge on damp soil, new life awakens on the gooseberry bush, and the first daffodils of the season promise to burst open in what may be a matter of days.
I’m not ready for winter to end. Yet. Yet…
It’s hard to figure what to do next when I don’t know, like drawing straws, it all needs to be done and soon. Some days it feels like there’s no way we’ll get it done. Other days we remind one another: we’ve done this before. We can do it again. Yes, yes, please remind me that again and again and again.
Some days I get scared.
Can we do this? Again?
Not yet old, but already, I feel it. We’re older now. I don’t have the energy I had in my twenties when I built my first two hippy houses in the desert south of Santa Fe, stacking and stuccoing straw with a baby on my back.
Nor do I have the energy of my thirties when building the first of several Colorado cabins while guiding horse rides in the morning, peeling logs in the afternoon, and evenings spent cooking for the crew. All the while trying to impress my new lover and somehow sort-of home-school our son. I guess I did okay with that lover because he’s still by my side. As for home-schooling, God knows how he learned so brilliantly because it wasn’t my doing.
Nor do I have the energy found in my forties when we built what was meant to be the forever house, from the ground up. Falling trees in deep winter, deep snow, hauling logs across frozen river by snowmobile, and again pulling on the old draw knife day after day after day as my husband and son raised the walls.
Now I’m nearing sixty and though I sure feel far from old, I no longer feel that infinite fire and limitless energy I felt in younger days. Maybe that’s not all bad to let it simmer.
But the reality of facing the formidable task of building a cabin tight enough to winter in, putting in off-grid systems, setting up shelter for the horses, a coop for the chickens and something to keep plants alive… all this (and more) at an elevation of 10,000 feet which means high, harsh and wild…
It’s a lot.
I could use that infinite fire right about now.
Some days the stress of what is not getting done weighs heavy.
Some days the grief of what I’m leaving nearly paralyzes me.
Some days the excitement of what we’re starting electrifies me and takes my breath away.
Gin Getz 
