Forget Part Two.
I have pages and pages of drafts of stories to tell you, explanations of why ultimately I decided to keep the man and leave the land. But none of it really matters. Maybe it should. But not now. Now when I read it, it holds me back. To the past, to the place, to the same and safe and known and often times things I’d rather never were.
So I’m moving on. I’m leaving that behind. Yes, just like that. And yes, I’m scared. But scared won’t stop me.
I know it won’t last. Like a lollipop. If you’re gonna enjoy it, it’s gonna go away fast. By late afternoon, our tracks are down to dirt, muddy foot prints, tell-tale signs of our busy day.
It’s only October. The sunburn on my cheeks and nose is testament to the power of the autumn sun. Today, perhaps mud. Tomorrow dry ground. Though deep in the dark timber, traces will remain until spring.
Enjoy it while I can for I know it won’t remain. I won’t remain. Chances are, it will be gone before I am.
Snow. Here and now. No indication of what winter will bring, and no matter to me as I will not be here. No one will. Isn’t that funny to note? No one was here before me, and when we close the gate behind us, no one will remain.
All I know is what is out there now, and right now, there’s snow. Sledding tracks, a snow man and a giant snowball in my front yard. Obstacles for the work at hand.
A story to pass the time. This was written two years ago, just stirred up in a pre-moving cleaning spree, and a pile of memories I’m happy to leave behind. There is a funny twist to this story that reveals itself years later. I don’t know if you believe in karma, and I don’t know if I do either. But I do know this. One should never seek revenge. It hurts the bearer of bitterness far more than intended victim. Yet in the end, it seems as if justice is paid in better ways that I could ever dream up. The more I wash myself clean of my own anger, the easier it is to clearly see. And what I see is what looks like karma catching up. You know, like people who dig their own graves, figuratively speaking of course. Now I sit back with an admittedly twisted smile observing misery enjoying his and her own company. No vengeful act I could ever create would have come close… and I admit I take a certain sick pleasure in that. I know that’s wrong, but…
October 2009
We ride up the trail in the late morning, my husband and I, joined by another outfitter. We have a job to do up the mountain. We move along noiselessly except for the cadenced patting of the flat feet of the horses on the hard packed trail. We are in the autumn sun dappling through the golden aspen leaves sprinkled along this winding path. We are riding a trail of sparkling gold, floating along in these incomparable riches granted free in nature. I turn to see the men and horses behind me. All are aglow as we silently travel forward, each in our own reverie. I am enjoying the rhythm of the horse, my good and solid Quattro who knows these trails as well as I do. I am mesmerized again by the mountain. I am grateful to be allowed to be here.
On the next section of trail as it again turns into the trees, there are two ATVs parked alongside the trail and a few folks working on a fence. Not a regular sight to see on a trail where more often than not I am alone. Quattro knows. He stops abruptly, hesitates, tenses, and continues on. In front of him stands my husband’s brother. His presence alone is enough to frighten the horse. He is a big man. His demeanor is even larger. The horse fortunately trusts me as I take a deep breath, touch my hand to his warm hard neck, and assure him we will be fine. I too am used to questioning. We have been confronted too often. The tension in my stomach is a regular occurrence from these encounters. I can only hope he will let us pass in relative peace this time. We are always left to wonder. More often than not, he will choose conflict. Conflict. This does not come naturally to me or my husband. I am grateful for that.
A part of me is amused to see him there, replacing a gate which was broken or missing. This is the very same location, the very same gate, his wife had come years before to remove from its hinges. Why? I never knew. I added this to the inconsistencies I realized I would never understand. This act was as much of a mystery as their removing the gate by the drift fence right behind the ranch. For years, the mother would open that gate to allow the cattle through. I was told their bellowing as they bunched up by the fence disturbed the afternoon nap. Perhaps they finally figured it was easier to simply remove the gate altogether than have to sneak out in the afternoon to let it swing open. Story has it that very same gate is hanging in the brother’s yard. A trophy of sorts, I am told he has bragged. I am not impressed.
There is a third person there working at the gate, the last to step back as our horses make their way around the obstructions in the trail and continue onward. It is a woman, probably not much older than I am. She stares up at me and I briefly look back towards her, directly into her eyes as we pass by. I look for recognition. A fellow woman working, trying to make a living in the mountains was what I wanted to find. What I see instead is a look that sears. Perhaps I am presuming wrong; I hope this is the case. Yet somehow, in my heart, I felt a sting, a disappointment, a rejection, from a woman I have but met. Surely I am imagining. How could she look at me with hatred? Perhaps it is just a silly notion on my part, but I feel it, somehow, and it hurts. Why? How could a stranger have hatred for one she has never known? I look to the brother with his broad smirk standing their leaning on the shovel with more inflated confidence than I will ever know, and I fear I know the answer.
That longing for wanting to be judged, if one must make judgment (and few among us are strong and wise enough to make it through this world without) on me, on who and what I am and have done, not on the stories of angry and envious and threatened in-laws. This has been a regular experience, one I have been too familiar with in meeting strangers in this land that has for all these years reminded me I shall never belong. The stories are there before me. I am sized up and sentenced before we even meet.
So I guess it’s time to go.
Again. No, not quite as hard the
second time. It will get easier. It’s all in my head. In my heart, I am nothing
but pleased and proud.
And so Forrest has healed from the concussion, has more
character from his broken nose, and has learned to live with those missing and
cracked off teeth. Though even they will
be replaced before I see him next. Yes. He has healed.
(We laugh at it now, he and I. I
told him to dive in. He did. Head first.)
This is what he does. There will be other times. I’ll be
there for him again, hopefully faster next time. Just as I know he’d be there for me.
Me, I’m starting to day dream about riding horses through a
trail of golden leaves. There are certain
things I miss. My dog, my horses, familiar
trails, the resonance of the late season river sounding as if no more than a
gentle brook, evening light spread horizontal across the top of the poles of
Pole Mountain, long shadows through dark timber and blowing yellow leaves like
fairies loose in my wild woods dancing at my heels. And at the top of the list is, of course, my
honey.
Ha! Home? We have
work to do. Always. But different this
time. Time to pack, clean up, clean out, head out, move on. I am ready. Perhaps
I too am healing.
Change. How do I put this into words? Share this with you? It is not what I expected. Not what I am used to writing about. Uncomfortable. Not bad, just different. So different I am out of my element. Out of touch. Out of words.
I didn’t plan this part. Guess we’re not always in control of the world around us. But we can control how we react to it all. Ride the wave. Rather than tumble under and gasp for air. I’ve been there, too.
Still, this is not how I wanted it to begin for Forrest. This is not how I wanted to come back to visit him. But we do what has to be done. And hopefully learn from it all.
I’ve learned a lot already. I’ve learned you never stop being a mother… or sister or friend. Distance doesn’t matter. If you’re needed, you’re there. I should have known this one already. I’ve tested the boundaries of my own mother (and sister and friends) plenty in the almost thirty years since leaving home, and learned that this is in fact true. Tested and proven, over and over and over again. There is comfort in this for me. I’m not ready for mothering to end. Though I look forward to where it brings me, now dealing with an exciting and interesting adult for my so-called child. For now, it’s brought me to Squamish, British Columbia to nurse him back to health after a mountain bike mishap. I can think of worse places to be.
I’ve learned my son is as strong, smart, capable and independent as I expected, which is a lot. However, there are some times one should not be alone. Like after an accident. And then dealing with broken out front teeth, a busted nose, and a rattled brain… all after living here for less than three weeks. Minor details.
So here I am. Wishing I could do more. Not as upset as I thought I’d be to see this handsome young man looking rather rough.
Here I am. Sitting with my son on our rental apartment balcony in the morning sun, with downtown Squamish bustling before us, and these wild mountains cradling us all in the shockingly soothing light. I can almost hear the call… deep, old, wise words singing in the soft moist wind as it winds from the sea through these lush green peaks jutting out from the cold Pacific waters.
Yes, I could think of worse places to be.
Your peaks were painted with snow yesterday. And for just a moment I stopped my work, stood outside and looked at your white laced mountain tops, and felt the same stirring I have felt each year, a yearning for the excitement of anticipation of the season. Primal and uncontrollable, yet still soft and deep enough no one ever really knows.
For how many years have I worked on our little piece of land here on your big broad mountain side and looked over my shoulder awaiting your leaves to put out your final fiery display and then blow off, taking with them the last of the summer tourists, leaving you here with me, unadorned, as we remain and near the stark white season, that which settles in and consumes, quiet and calms, allowing me to hear my breath in your winter winds.
And yet this winter will find me on a different hillside, a different mountain to cradle my fears and passions. A winter, hushed and sleepy and snowy, awaits me but in a new land, new places to explore, touch and tease me, unfold before me like lacy golden wings, delicately covered with frost in first light of an early winter morning.
But will I find wilds? Will I ever be embraced by the wilds that have surrounded me here for half the year? The solitude and silence have become me. I have identified myself more with the mountain than the people who come and go, and from both I step away. I will find them again, that which matters most, the wild places and spaces, elsewhere. Some of us belong somewhere just a little more wild. Or is it that perhaps we don’t fit in the other places.
To my dearest Forrest,
And here it ends.
And here it begins.
I leave you in the arms of another mountain. Listen, if I may ask, for a moment to me. And then to the mountains. The rush of her rivers. The hush of her winds. You will never be alone. Let her embrace you.
This mountain, your mountain, a grand mountain indeed. She will always be there for you. She is yours. You chose her. Turn to her when you need to. She will listen. Some days she will shed tears of freezing rain or hail as your heart opens and breaks and mends. Other days she will enwrap you in her bliss with warm lazy sun to allow you a brief repose, or soft deep powder and invite you like a tempting muse to come and play. Enjoy it all; she has so much to give.
You found her. I see who you have chosen as your own for the first time and she has taken my breath away. She dwarfs our dear San Juans and the entire state of Colorado and the most dramatic mountains we have intimately known and lived on to date. And now, she is yours. She has lured you. And she has earned you, you wonderful and true child of the mountains.
You chose her. How brave and mighty! Do you see how you have grown? Perhaps I did not really see until now, until I turned one more curve in the road of these last two weeks driving together to be here, and there she is before us, grand and mighty and eternal, still and calm and old and wise, and my heart beats faster for her beauty is profound and she feels so right.
I am proud of you. Incredibly proud. You are a brave and bold (though quiet) sort. Your wild child side is strong!
You have earned your place here; you are worthy of your next great stage in life, the next opportunities, challenges and adventures. I watch this tall bright fine man standing next to me speaking for himself and I shine with such delight and honor. On one hand, I can say eighteen years of work paid off. This job is complete. And yet, I know parenting is never complete. It only changes and evolves. I guess I’m enjoying our evolving relationship as I am enjoying you as a growing man.
Everything changes. We do all we can to make change positive. This, my bud, is a dream come true. A wonderful, positive, beautiful dream.
To this mountain I now give you. I will leave you here. That is the hardest thing I have ever said.
For four years she will hold, include, support and nurture you. Accept her embrace. Revel in her fresh waters and unending views and powerful presence of jutting slopes, and delicate array of swaying wild grasses with jewels of seed heads ripening to full blossom in their short growing season that you understand so well. Remember to take time to notice the little things, the simple things, the quiet voices of the mountain you’ll hear only when you’re alone with her, quiet and still, touching and listening. Find a new rock to sit on, your place, a place to allow you to look within. Turn to her when you need the comfort that only the mountains can allow, only a mother, our mother, the mother of us all, Mother Earth.
And then I, your mother of this earth, shall turn her back to hide the tears as she steps into the truck and turns back to a home that is no longer hers. One we built together, for each other. I never meant to bring you this far only to leave you in a foreign land two thousand miles away. I shall keep our family together and shall be closer soon.
In the meanwhile, learn, study, grow, live, play, work, and enjoy all the wonder and beauty and richness that life has to offer and still thirst for more.
May her rivers never go dry, and may your thirst never be completely quenched so that you may always be open for more.
I can say no more. This is not good bye. You know I hate good byes.
And so I leave you to this mountain. But I leave you not in heart and soul.
I love you.
Beyond the surface
Dragonflies, big and blue and about the size of hummingbirds
But mute, mysterious, and yet somehow, more real.
There are no red plastic feeders here
Wild and silent and shimmering in the otherwise flat grey light of dawn
Leaving big ripples on the still forest pool
Perfect circles expanding
A bull’s-eye.
It is different here
New and as such, slightly odd.
We are camping beside a large pond with cattails taller than the camper on our truck and lily pads the size of dinner plates skirting the edges. Earlier this morning the largest bull moose I ever saw splashed in through these lilies and swam to the other side, his huge and heavy rack held above the black silk surface in the haze of first light like a burdensome and looming ship crossing a medieval mote.
At our camp site is trash, always an unwelcome site. Local trash. Tell tale signs of broken beer bottles, cigarette butts, shotgun shells and business cards from a shop in the nearest town about a half hour down the mountain. Little pride in their beautiful land. I’ve never understood that. Does it form from a sense of helplessness or ignorance? In any case, I call it a bad sign.
I am looking for signs. Signs that tell me “this is the place.” Home. I’m not finding it and it’s somewhat scary since I am committed to make this move and soon, yet have not figure where this move will take me. And depressing because I keep hoping to find it clear and simple, “Eureka!” there it is, and am disappointed each day as I sit in the back seat of the pickup and look out the side window at the landscape rushing by, hoping something there will call me, tell me I belong here. But I hear nothing beside the rush of the motor and the blaring music of my son and the regular outbursts of silly humor of the three of us telling jokes and stories in our funny and familiar way.
I lose faith in myself and wish I had faith in higher powers. But higher powers haven’t got me where I am. Hard work and a strong sense of daring have. I have no blind faith. My eyes are wide open. I know that will upset some to read. The same few who might admire my life and keep praying to live where and how I have lived. I would like to believe prayers will get you as far as grit but haven’t seen this first hand.
Funny though that I still keep praying, asking for a sign, asking to be put where I belong and do what I can to best serve this beautiful world.
And the truck rumbles on, and another day passes as fast as the view outside the side window, and in a blur I remember the answer but it’s not as clear and comforting as I wish it were.
Make it happen. There is no red carpet laid out for the journey of life. Weave it as you go along. And weave it yourself. All the velvety red ribbon is already inside you. It’s not the place; it is you. All you need to do is get to work and weave the path yourself. Believe in yourself. I’ve heard those words before.
There’s more to it than that. I’m listening for the answers. But I’m learning to listen within.
You’d have thought it was Friday the 13th, but it
was only Wednesday. I hate to be
superstitious. I know it’s
illogical. I prefer reason. But once again, bad things come in threes. I’m sure it’s just coincidence. Right?
How many times have I heard from backpackers we pass
horseback on the trail (usually those going uphill with a heavy load upon their
back as I “just sit” on my horse) that riding is SO much easier. Spoken by someone who’s not spent enough time
in the saddle, I say. Working with
horses, it’s not a matter of if you’ll
get hurt, but when, how bad, and how many times. I’ve heard of plenty of hikers getting tired
and sore. Yet I think of all the horse people I know who have broken collar
bones or pelvises, smashed toes, sprained wrists, lost fingers, and even
died. I don’t hear these things
happening very often to backpackers.
Please don’t tell me it’s easy. Because right now, as I’m
nursing bruises to both body and ego, I’m thinking it feels pretty darned hard.
Stop that belly achin’, you tell me. And you are right.
So it all comes down to this. Cowgirl up. No matter how tough things get,
hang on. Don’t let go of that rope.
Here’s my example, my Wednesday the Thirteenth. We’re packing into ditch camp. I’m on my Arabian who up until last fall was
a stallion and was (still is) the father of most of my herd. Not always an “easy” choice for a mountain
mount, but for those of us who choose them, we sure do learn to ride. Or at least, to hold on.
He’s in the lead. We’re
coming out of the woods into the open, right on the flats of the Continental
Divide, way up there, way out there. And
something spooks him. I don’t know
what. All I heard was a branch snap, and
it probably wasn’t much more, but you know how horses are. So he bolts.
Well, I’ve not trained this guy to neck rein. We still direct rein, which means to issue a
STOP command, I need one hand to let up and one hand to pull, thus turning the
head to the side, bringing the horse to a calm stop. That’s the theory. It’s technical horse talk, don’t worry about
trying to really get it if you’re not into horses. But the bottom line is this. It works.
If you can do it. Of course at
this particular moment, I couldn’t. I
had one hand holding the reins even, so all I could do was pull straight back,
which produces the “race horse response” by which the horse pushes into the bit
and goes faster. And the other hand,
well, it was holding tight to the lead rope of my pack horse.
So, off we go over the Divide at a full out gallop, me on
this fancy little Arabian who’s spooked from a broken branch, and my loaded
down pack horse, running along even beside me.
We manage to stop. Somehow.
I don’t know how. All I know is
there I was catching my breath, letting out the adrenaline, and noting that I
still had a firm hold of the lead rope and my pack horse was still there beside
me. I call that a good move.
Next incident goes like this. I’m leading Norman the New Guy across the
creek for his first day of ditch work.
Everything is new for him. New
harness. New environment. New creek.
New experience. I have to hop
across these three rocks to make it from one side to the other of this
creek. The rocks are slick and my rubber
work boots don’t have great traction but with enough forward motion, it usually
works. Usually. Well, on this particular day, I’m leading a
horse who is not as sure as I am about crossing the creek. So he stops to think about it. Fine.
Only he does that at the same time I’m playing leap frog on those
rocks. The lead rope I’m holding onto
jerks back as I try to leap forward and the ensuing physical response leaves me
flat on my rump in that cold water creek.
But… I still had a hold of that lead rope.
After a bit of anger and finding ways to blame my husband
for my own mishap (maybe he was scheming to get me to spend the day working in
those shorty shorts playing lady logger instead of donned in my usual baggy
levi jeans which spent the day hanging from the tent to dry), I’m back to work,
in the ditch with horse and shorty shorts.
I’m figuring maybe this would be a good time to work on suppleness and
responsiveness with my horse. Right
there in the ditch. Well it doesn’t work
as I planned, and the horse spooks, jumps my way, knocks me over, and the next
thing know I have a draft horse
scrambling over me while I’m down in the dumps in that ditch. I’m seeing long legs and mighty big feet all
around and don’t quite know which way is up.
When it’s all over, I realize he managed to avoid stepping
on me. Fifteen hundred pound on my
hundred fifteen pounds would not have been a good combination. I love that big boy even more.
And the best part of it?
There I was in the bottom of the ditch, my shorty shorts
covered in mud, my thighs battered and bruised, and my front end dragged over
my hind end. But I still had a hold of
that horse’s rope.
Anyway, the moral to the story is probably something to do with
holding on, no matter what. I can’t say
it’s something I thought about much at the time. Any of the times. But it’s something you got to do.
And about that part on bad luck coming in threes? Well, I still don’t want to believe that. But nor am I in the mood to try my luck. For now, my body is bruised and my confidence
shot. I think I’ll walk for a while.
At least until tomorrow when I got more work horseback
coming up.
And hope I have some better luck.
Sand between my toes. Not what I have felt in years, living in a land of snow and wool socks, jagged rocks, boggy pasture and cowboy boots.
I have painted my toenails for first time in over twenty years, borrowing “city clothes” from my mother, sandals straight off her feet to be here. It is special.
Sand pours through my fingers, back onto the beach, limitless possibilities of patterns in the sand, forever changed by wind and water and my footprints which will last only until the tide returns.
I think of sand filtering through the confines of an hourglass, slowly shifting, piling, only to be turned again as we watch the next section fill. This is how we tell time.
Changing times.
Times of growth. Always growing. Nothing remains the same. Only now we take the time to acknowledge and celebrate.
Graduation. My son’s achievement of completing high school. In his class of one, he is here to share with others who have achieved similar. The balance of education and life.
It’s been up to him. Alone. I don’t teach him. He has learned to learn himself. His mind has not only grown with knowledge, but with the self-discipline and skills of directing, focusing, motivating and empowering himself. He has learned at eighteen what I seen some still don’t know.
And he understands the power and passion of work.
Where will his dreams lead him from here?
A new beginning.
As my greatest dream to date is being fulfilled.
Only to have more dreams, new dreams, variations on a theme, or beginning to sing a new song.
I love you, Forrest Nile Getz.
Because I believe so strongly that it is the adventures we create in our lives that bring us the greatest riches. And adventures aren’t always easy.
Because my husband believes in riding for the brand, trying a little harder for the boss, doing all he can to get more water. In a way, it was all about the water. Checking on the ditch. Seeing if we could open the headgates on the other side of the Divide and start the flow in the ditch earlier than usual. Although the snowpack prevented the water from getting through, it did not dampen our adventure. Only made it a little “more.”
Because my son was first thinking about work, and the money it brings, and the ensuing parts and repairs this would allow him to whichever motorized toy (snowmobile or dirt bike) he’s currently tweaking… however when we said money probably wasn’t involved, we were looking at it as “a day off,” his enthusiasm did not waiver. He was not going to miss out on a family adventure.
Because the pup had some energy to burn and of course, not being with us would never cross him mind.
And I don’t believe it did. Nine hours and fourteen miles later.
Gin Getz 