personal stories

Waiting for the roar of spring waters

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

I hear the river only to realize it is no more than the rustle of last year’s life clinging to the trees, brown and thin and wrinkled like an old ladies flesh over bony fingers.

 

My Rio Grande awaits me.  I hear her in the leaves, the wind, an SUV driving before daylight down the gravel and snowpack road on the hill below my apartment.

 

And now I am gone.  Heading there.  Back to her.  To her wail and roar and brown fury bursting through frozen grounds.

 

The sound of the engine numbs me for hours today as I leave the past behind, a good past, a good winter, good people, the best friend I found since I was a child.  And we drive, the same truck we’ve been driving since we met ten years ago, now towing  a 24 foot trailer loaded down with horse tack smelling of the beasts I left behind, packed with snowmobiles, motorbikes and furnishings that transformed a little white walled north facing apartment into a cozy home. And three cats, one dog, and the two of us.

 

Loud rain on the truck, hard metal, cold pavement, wash away tears of goodbye.

 

If it wasn’t bittersweet, I wouldn’t be doing it right.

 

The forest wept a sweet farewell.  The mildest winter I have had in years.  Over night, it fell apart at the seams. Rain, pure and rich and heavy from the intensity of a magenta and steel grey sun rise rolling overhead so close I could almost touch it. Tenacious snow spilling white and wet from the secret sides of hidden trees on the north bank.  Soft rain on hard metal roofs, tapping a familiar tune on my window sill awakens me.  I am stirring back to life.

 

Farewell, I say, as I begin to leave.  Shedding a new layer of skin. Her soft ways have pleased me but not drawn me in.  Intense passions have been subdued.  Somewhere through the rain streaked window in the hum and splash of traffic, I consider the tangled commitment to the land like legs of a lover beneath sweaty sheets.  Passions reemerging.  Perhaps with a familiar horizon.

Where I’m coming from

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

(The following was drafted a month ago as we were considering how life was turning in such a way as to send us back to Colorado) *

 

Am I odd to define myself by where I find myself?

Here, now.  It is soft, mild, easier.  Words I don’t want to use to describe me.  I sound too old.

I would rather use strong, wild, passionate, stormy, intense, maybe a little bit gritty.

But those words don’t fit here.  And I see now, neither do I.

Here is “nice.”  It’s comfortable.  I’m used to extremes.  Isn’t that why we chose the mountains?  High, harsh and frigid.  Obviously not.  That’s why more people live here.  Comfortably.

What is it about those extreme elements of the San Juan Mountains that draw me?

Here, nearly seven thousand feet lower than where I was and about as far north as you can get in the Lower 48.

Here, where the thermometer regularly read a full twenty degrees higher than I was used to all winter as I headed out bundled like a swaddled babe to brave my morning chores.

Here, where the wind sort of puffs.  People don’t store spare tires on their shed roofs, hold their breath each time they drive through a snow drift hoping they’ll make it to the other side, and discuss afternoons in terms of how bad and damage done.

It snows, but one could hardly call it a storm.  More like a flat white sky slowly merging with boughs on these tall trees and then descending to the monotone curves of the ground which rise a little higher every few days.  It’s gradual.  I’m missing drama.

Here excitement is noted by current road conditions and the futile battle to conquer the slow, steady stream of the elements. My neighbors exude a passion for plowing.  No conversation is complete without discussing the finer points of snow removal techniques. Standards are based upon V-plows on pick-ups, push blades on ATVs, snow blowers, berms, banks, and the underlying assumption of a shovel standing sentinel at every front door and lurking beneath the hatchback of every Subaru.  The evolved philosophy of chains, studded tires and four wheel drive.

Snow accumulates, a few inches at a time, then is worked religiously, pushed to the side in monstrous banks traced with lines of mud and spots of gravel.  In the eternal freeze/thaw hell the road turns first to slush and then to a sheen of ice smooth enough to qualify as a skating rink, though not quite as fun due to the steep slope. And then as soon as one finishes sanding, a fresh layer of snow just sort of appears and consumes the sand and you start all over again.  How many layers of this sand/slush/ice lasagna will reveal themselves in spring?

Even shadows are pallid and mild mannered. The sun only semi-shines.  I swear. It too is soft, sweet, demure and polite. What’s with that?   Give me some gusto!  Burn me!  Let me feel you sting my chilly cheeks and smell you on the small bits of exposed flesh when out there in the wide and wild opens mid day you heat my garments enough to peel me down to pale skin.  (Forgive me for this confession, for I know it is hardly wise considering the known facts of the sun’s damaging effects on skin, and the ruthless wrinkles I’m revealing already at forty five are testament to the damage already done.)

I’m lusting for biting winds and burning sun and temperatures so low they freeze your breath before it leaves your nose.  For views that continue beyond where I can see until the mountains fade into a fiery sky and if I climb of any one of those peaks tempting and teasing me to make it to the top, I can let loose my hair, lay back my head, and howl like the feral beast lying dormant within me and know no one can hear me and wonder what the heck this crazy woman is up to now and I take great comfort in that.

I want to feel alive!

And so what would you do if you were me?  That’s silly to ask, for if someone asked me what I would do if I were she, chances are, the answer would be to play it safe and stay.  Grow up and give up.  And you’re not going to hear that from me.

 

* A disclaimer to all my Washington friends:   I allow myself artistic liberty when it comes to writing, but the last thing I mean to do is put down your beautiful state and my awesome neighbors (trust me on this:  I’d trade a few of those from Colorado for the crew I got to live near here in Washington).  However, sometimes I write because it sounds good, or feels good, or I like the way the story works.  Besides, writing about the better parts of winter, like skis/snowshoes with Tricia, Lynne’s Three Rivers dog training and our agility crew, open minded intelligent and stimulating conversations on one hand or Hobbit House destruction progress on the other with the best bosses we’ve had in years (the only, I confess too, as we’ve been self employed for years until now), and the best bitter ale from the Old School House Brew Pub… those things probably wouldn’t sell stories. (Or maybe, just maybe, they would…). So yes, my love for Washington, at least the Methow Valley and these people, I hope you know is sincere!  Only… different…

The nitty gritty

/ Gin Getz / 14 Comments

Here’s the deal.   Last fall, we packed up and moved out, leaving the home and business we built, saw the son off to college, and Bob and I flew the coop together instead of wallowing in our empty nest.  Took a few months away from blogging to finish a separate writing project.  Then suddenly I reappear only to say, “Guess what?  I’m moving again!”

Where?

Back where I came from.

I would tell you life is all about change.  Perhaps it is for me.  For now.  Of course it won’t always be.  This is my challenge. What is yours?

Friend and author, Laura Crum, reminds me, “…the still pond is not always stagnant. Sometimes it is clear as crystal and of an unimaginable depth.”

I remind her I have not been so lucky.  I am no Wendell Berry who has “never not known where (he) belonged.”  Some of us were not born in the place where we were meant to stay.  We have our work cut out for us in a different way.  Our lives are not about diving into the still quiet depths in the world around us, but in learning to find it within us while the world around us spins…

And yes, I do get dizzy and wait for this thing called life to slow down.  I too shall allow deep roots to take and spread some day, though the land on which they grow will be my choice and challenge, as finding it seems to be.

There is not one right way.  As I responded to Laura, “…points of view bring further wisdom if one is willing to listen (or read).”

For now, a few specifics. The nitty gritty.

First, about blogging.  I am glad to be back. Back to the blog, that is. Back at the ranch, well, that remains to be seen and is still a week or so away.  Though I think you can imagine how I might feel when we arrive.

I have missed this form of writing, sharing, bouncing ideas and receiving your feedback, not to mention the opportunity of keeping in touch with many of you. So, back to blogging.  To bouncing ideas and pushing myself to get my work out there, even if it is rough and rustic and falling apart at the edges.  At least I’m trying, writing, growing, evolving as a writer, slowly but surely.  Pushing myself.  I’m keen on pushing myself.  For now, I’ll try to post at least three days a week (Monday, Wednesday and Friday). Check back regularly; there should be something new.

Second, where we are, where we’ve been and where we’re going.  Well, this is a little more complicated.  I’ll sum it up by saying we’re in northern Washington State, somewhere between the edge of the Methow Valley and the North Cascade mountains. And we’re going back to our Lost Trail Ranch in Colorado. The rest of the story will come out in due time.

And third, what the heck are we doing with our life?

I’m not so sure what our plans are for the future, though we’re not running the cabin rental business anymore and the outfitting business is changing hands.  Time for us to move on with the rest of our lives and find our next calling. (No offence to y’all, but this one has been fulfilled.)  Still just a whisper, but I’m thinking it will turn into a song before you know it.

Where to next?

For now, we’ll stay firmly planted with our feet in the clouds.  We’re sticking to our land in Colorado, way high up in the San Juan Mountains and figure things out from there. We are oddly excited. Nervous as young lovers. Butterflies in our stomachs.  I just caught Bob whistling a John Denver tune. (Don’t tell him I told you that.)

So you see, same place we were, but everything has changed.  Life is like that. Guess it all comes down to how you look at things.  Right now I’m looking at a still pond that is very, very deep.  Only it’s not the land.  It’s me.  So I am learning.

Thanks for checking in.  See you Monday.

On Returning.

/ Gin Getz / 15 Comments

Am I returning?  Yes… and no.  I am not going back, but moving forward to a place I once was.  A place where I belong.  Now.

By choice.  My choice.  My land.

I’m moving again.

Remember this. Moving does not necessarily mean staying long enough to get comfortable.  (As if “comfortable” was what I was looking for?)

Moving does not always come with a sense of commitment set in stone.  Life is more like the flow of water tumbling rocks.  Still waters turn stagnant.  We must move, change, evolve, bloom.  Surge and swell like water and waves fed by no more than a gentle stream.

So we move. It’s what we do.  Or at least what we did before and are doing again.  I can’t say it’s been a conscious choice.  We did not plan for a short term move and back again. But I can tell you this.  We are living life full.

As I look back on my adult life (and at 45, that can read “only?” to some, and “OMG!” to others), there are the facts. Moving happens. For example, the first three years of my son’s life, as a single mom trying to make it on our own, we moved a dozen times.  Say what you will, it worked. More or less. We survived, if not thrived.

Sure, I’m looking to settle down.  And our ranch is (and was) the most stable sense of permanence, of home, I’ve known.  Crazy when you realize all the conflict and turmoil it came with.

And here we are. Returning on one hand.  Leaving on the other.

We wouldn’t be living right if leaving was easy.

Of course there’s more to say.  Another day.

Thanks for being there.  Wherever your “there” may be. For I am learning this. “There” does not define you.  I wonder if, if anything, it holds you back rather than sets you free?

Take a break!

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

My dear readers,

I am taking a brief break in posting while I’m completing another writing project. But before I sign off for a little hiatus, I believe a brief “thank you” is in order. A thank you to my readers – especially those who have been with me for years, who I now feel I know intimately though many I have never met.

(I always say I write to be read, to express, reach out and share. Not just to get the words out of my head. Though sometimes it feels like the latter.)

My gratitude is sincere though my ability to express it might be a bit lacking.

While I’m off for a while working on my “other” writing project, please continue to keep in touch, through this blog or by writing me directly. I’ll be here. Writing, and reading, and as always, thinkin’ and dreamin’.

For now, I leave you with a list below of a few of my favorite posts written over the years, just in case you have a few minutes to share here with me a while over a good cup of strong coffee.

Warmly,
Gin

The Night the Chicken Blew Away
Moving the Little Cabin by the Big River and a few words about Hillbilly Ingenuity
Untitled (The death of Artemis)
Grains of Sand
Losing the Bull
The Homestead Bear
Grill Chicken
Ditch Diaries
On Truth
Newcomer
Lucky Girl
Return
More on the Fear Factor
Two Poems by Two Special People
About Not Getting Lost

From a New Perspective
 Cowgirl Up
Leap!
An Open Letter to My Son
Seduced by Earth and Sky

Driving home

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

At the bottom of the hill the truck pulls over, a seemingly automated response, and we step out without a word, each on our own side, headlamps over wool caps shining the way, bending over under the wheel well to unhook the chains from around the back tires. We’re getting this down to record time. Then shake off the snow, slush and mud like a wet dog in from play and return to the haven of the truck, pressing our cold wet fingers up against the heating vents to revive them before continuing on down the road.

Exhale, deep and full and rich, our breath steams the windows, adding to the fog we drive through as we descend this little mountain. All this oxygen. We have adjusted. It is easy. Natural. The body and lungs quickly forget the struggle from ten years of high altitude.

The pale blue glow of the dash on my husband’s face as he focuses on the road ahead, a narrow path of vision, white tracks on a white road with white branches bending over. We see only as far at the headlights allow, a narrow tunnel, all white ending abruptly in black. The unknown void beyond. Nothing too interesting. We’ve seen it all during the day. No surprises lurking (like the sudden sheer drop off fifty feet down into the vast expanse of the Rio Grande Reservoir found on our drive home in Colorado) except the regular crossing of the deer, calm and oblivious to our big truck with its potentially daunting grill. I swear they have a sixth sense of the speed which we drive.

We drive slow. With each bend in the road, we descend, the snow thins, pale old grasses emerging, and deer become more plentiful, bounding before the narrow view of the headlights. Houses twinkle like stars on the snowy hillsides. They sky is hazed over with probability. Chances are there will be more snow tomorrow.

Our last night of commuting. The back and forth ritual of separating work from rest, day from night, business from pleasure. It has been years for both of us. Years since we had to separate the two. There is comfort in the overlap. A solid sense of place, of belonging, allowing the two extremes, work and play, to intertwine. Becoming our life. Life without boundaries. All consuming. Defining us, each day, all around the same sense of place. And harder to walk away. Work follows you home at night when you live with it.

Redefining of self. I am not this place. I am not my job. Who am I then? Odd the sense of comfort we take from these simple knowns and givens. And the unease we find without.

A new world we have walked into. On our own four feet. Bob’s two. My two. A solid couple. Not me as a part of his life. Finding a way to fit in, to make the most, to enhance and enrich, an accessory, finishing the outfit just so. We survived and thrived. Survived living in a construction zone. In potential poverty. In limbo. In the midst of stories lingering heavy like fog carried from the past to the present where they carried no weight but undoubtedly obscured ones view. In the middle of the in-law’s battlefield. In harsh elements and extreme conditions. Now what? What next?

I can’t tell you much about it yet. Like a new parent preaching about how to raise a child. It feels so wonderful we become euphoric and want to share. But in reality, we must await the solid test of time.

I’ve never been one to hold back.

We start with simple tasks like chaining up the truck tires. Do actions define us?

My mind has got ahead of me again. Forget it for minute. And just concentrate on the task at hand. Driving down the road, dodging deer, on the snowpacked road.

Before we arrive at our temporary home, the last night in a new place that quickly got old, snow begins to fall. Big fat chunky flakes glowing like a million moths in the headlights. Mesmerizing. Dazzling. A confusion of elements and light. Somehow calming and comforting. We have seen this before.

And the net appears

/ Gin Getz / 5 Comments

For those who read my post “Cowgirl Up” earlier this year, you might recall I have a track record for acting before thinking. It’s that tough girl syndrome, and I’m not so sure it’s a good thing. However it has landed me in some interesting situations. Sometimes flat on my butt.

And sometimes, just sometimes, that craziness pays off. Those few times are probably responsible for that naughty little voice inside egging me on with just enough confidence to try it again. That little voice urging me, “Sure, give it a try! What do you have to lose?” At forty-five, with a husband by my side and a son in college, dog, cats and a dozen horses, a writing career that is refusing to take flight and a fabulous property that we can’t seem to pass on… Plenty.

Leap! And the net will appear!
I told him
He believed me.
And tell you what, for a while there, I was pretty sure that was a stupid thing to say and do.

Leap! And the net will appear!
We had held hands and jumped.
Left behind everything we built and most of what we owned to forge ahead like the pioneer I dream myself to be, looking for the perfect place to settle down.
And there we were like the rabbit falling endlessly wondering where time was going and when we’d reach the bottom.

Eight days. All it took was eight days and the pieces of the puzzle began to shift into place. The picture they are forming into, I might add, is even more beautiful than I imagined.

But of course, during those eight days, it was he supporting me. My weakness was wrought with spells of tears and fears and foolishness.

Perhaps moving 1400 miles and five states away with no more than a blind rental in place is not the way to make a move. But no one told me you were supposed to have it all lined up, job and all, before you give it a go. Bob said he had heard it is usually done that way, but again, he trusted. After all, he hadn’t done this sort of thing before. I was the expert. Ha! God, I love this guy.

I haven’t figured out if it is fate, fortune, or just dumb luck. But sometimes things work out. Fall into place. Come together just so.

Go figure. I don’t know how or why, or who or what to thank, but I’m mighty grateful. Saved my butt yet again.

And this time, made me look pretty good in the eyes of my husband.

“See,” I can tell him, “Told you it would work out!”

But I don’t say that. Because I think secretly he knows I was pretty scared there for a while. But don’t tell him that.

Where I am

/ Gin Getz / 9 Comments

Where I am.

I would share with you a soft and soothing scene. A glimpse of a connection to be. A description of the pastoral view before me. Another time. When I see it, feel it, and find it. Don’t get me wrong. It is truly beautiful here. It’s just not mine. Not here. Not yet.

We have arrived. Here for now. But alas as every traveler knows, arrival is only temporary. The journey is far from over.

For those expecting grief and some longing for the past, turn the page or close the book for you won’t find that here. For one, that’s not my style. I’m not one to cling to yesterday. In fact, I’d rather not cling at all. For two, it just aint there. Only a sense of relief, of strength and growth, of self understanding, and probably a stronger marriage and family because of it. We did it, together. After all these years of planning and trying, we finally made it happen.

Is it what we expected? Funny thing there. We had no expectations. We never looked ahead for what we’d find, only looked behind at what we were tied to. It was all about leaving. And now we’re free. Floating rather precariously perhaps, but free.

Where am I? I do not yet know… I could point it out to you on a map, but I do not yet feel it, know it, have secret places, and intimate connections. Perhaps I never will remain here long enough to create all that. I’m not sure there’s quite enough room for me. My feral side feels somewhat caged.

What I miss are the wilds. Not the ranch. Not those mountain. But the ability for me to be untamed, unbound, and a little bit uncontrolled. So far here I feel trapped between neighbors in plain sight, private property fencing me in, headlights shining in my windows, and an easement road running through my front yard.

We said it would be temporary. We didn’t know just how temporary, but no matter. The ball got rolling. As Bob told me yesterday, we leaped and the net appeared. Problem is there are a bunch of holes in that net, so we’re not settled yet. And as we slip through further, lo and behold, our wings begin to grow.

So last night after unpacking and pushing aside most of the boxes that carried our past to our present, and preparing a meal of steak au poivre with the last of our Highland beef, we settle in amongst the orange shag carpet and 1970’s veneer paneling, poured a glass of wine from a big white box, and enjoyed a candle lit dinner in front of the fake gas fire place.

I end with this quote, borrowed from a source I have not traced but cannot take credit for these words as mine:

“Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass….it’s about dancing in the rain.”

On the road again

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

750 miles up (north), and 7500 feet down (in elevation). That’s where you’ll find me.

Yesterday found me fixing fences and getting sunburn on my nose from the intense high mountain sun on fresh snow. Six degrees as I walked the dog before sun up.

Where will tomorrow take me?

And today, I’m on the road again. First time in a long time without my Bud, sitting there shotgun beside me, plugging our noses and singing… On the road again… I get to ride shotgun now, with Bob at the wheel… and that’s pretty sweet too. And anyway, where we’re heading, besides up and down, will be two days driving time closer to Forrest.

It it will take three days of driving to get there, and I’m not quite sure what “there” will be like when we arrive. We have trusted… odd connections made… the right person, the right place, the right communications and feeling… We’re leaping. If we don’t find a net, I believe we’ll sprout wings.

Excitement and anticipation swell. A new world to open before my very eyes. Will it be blinding and brilliant like the new snow? If I make it so, and some days I will. Some days I’ll probably look around my new world and wonder where I am, what I’ve done. It’s up to me. I think I’m gonna make it great.

Yes, of course, I may say something different as we drive through the front gate. But after years of my stomach twisting into a knot as we pulled around the corner each time we returned home, wondering what to expect, what disaster or conflict or problem awaited us upon our arrival… No, I’m not thinking it’s going to be anything too terrible sentimental.

Driving through that front gate, I think I’m going to feel free.

I can feel those wings starting to unfold…

Stepping out of the comfort zone

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

The blanket of snow I remember as a consolation for half my days of the past ten years I will no longer be allowed. Not here.

Awakening. The bubble has burst.

Stepping out of the comfort zone.

Development, just beyond where I found myself yesterday, the place and space of ease and solace. A shock of humility. I wake up and the world I thought I knew so well is gone, going, no longer what I thought it to be. Expanding views, minds, horizons, beliefs. Habits are broken. The chain tying us to past is torn loose.

I ask the woman in the mirror, “Who are you today?” There is no answer.

“What do you want of me?” Silence. A cold hard surface.

I don’t know the answers. I look for them inside. They are vague and misty and mysterious. A game I’m not sure I’d like to be playing, but there I am, in the middle of it, and the ball is thrown my way.

Still I smile. I am looking forward to not having “The Ranch” define us, bind us. But without it, the bottom falls out. I fall, seemingly endlessly. The rabbit in the dark hole.

Listen. Silence. In that void, I start to whistle. My own tune. It means nothing to no one but me. I can be myself again. Something I never was here somehow. The history, the attachments, my husband’s family, the stories told of me I still don’t know and don’t want to know. All of it. I just felt I fit into the picture. Contorted to the shape I was allowed.

Now I begin to draw my own picture, tell my own story. It starts now. With a simple breath. Deep and strong and dizzying with the dazzling stars of this high altitude I find myself staring up at as I walk the dog in the middle of the night. His wet cold nose nudging me awake becomes the blessing rather than the curse.

It’s all a matter of how we look at things. As long as we look. Even in the pitch black of mid night as the infinite stars above bedazzle my sleepy head.