An intimate view.

January 20, 2014January 21, 2014 / Gin Getz / 11 Comments

An intimate view.

Stand here with me on the mountain, exposed to the elements.

Look closely.

A mid winter thaw.

Can you see it? Feel it?

Little secrets softly revealed.

hike 7

A snowshoe breaking trail along the river in among the dying trees. Well, I guess anywhere you go here, you’ve got dying trees now. The New Normal? I look to find the lighter side of… death. Where? How? (See, I’m asking new questions. It’s not just Why?)

Before & after (or still in between)

Some of you are probably way ahead of me and have seen this one before. (Where have I been?)

“We abuse land because we regard it as a commodity belonging to us. When we see land as a community to which we belong, we may begin to use it with love and respect.” A great quote by Aldo Leopold from “A Sand County Almanac.”

I found my community, the neighbors I was seeking, the friends with whom I would belong, among the Blue Spruce. And now I watch them leave me.

For the aspen behave like summer people, shedding their vibrant foliage as the tourist close their shutters and leave for the season. Aspen are a shorter lived tree, averaging perhaps 60 or 70 years (without drought and warming trend). Yet the spruce are harder to start, slower to grow, and once they get going, live one, two, three hundred years or more. Usually. Now I watch the young ones die.

To hell with this damning death! I’m turning my view to something full of life!

For those who read the article in Ranch & Reata and might just be wondering… This is Bayjura today.

Some thoughts on horses. For those who have chosen a life with horses. And for those who wish they would, and maybe someday will.

Insight to the heart of a horse(wo)man.

A horse(wo)man is a different breed.

On one hand, she can move with a simple suggestion, a subtle signal, an animal weighing ten times more than she does. On the other hand, she’ll climb back in the saddle after being bucked off onto hard ground. Once. By the second time, she might be too mad. (A good time to keep your distance or walk away.)

She acts not through force yet the horse finds comfort in her direction, not because she is sticky sweet, but because she is strong enough.

In her consistency, she creates trust; the horse becomes confident in her solid strength, and at the very same time, she becomes stronger because of the horse at her side or beneath her.

She has a sense of responsibility, beyond but not above daily care, continuing through all interactions and communications. She works with a steady course and direction, for the horse chooses chaos no more than the handler. It is an unnatural state for horse and horse(wo)man.

She strives to be the person her horse wants her to be. The gentle leader. She leads with softness, clarity, point and purpose. Calm, consistent, clear communication. Fairness. Firmness. A balance of confidence and compassion. She is learning when to push onward; and when enough is enough.

Reminders for myself as well as those of you who are going through the mid-winter no-can-ride blues.

Don’t let anyone stop you if it’s your dream, but don’t expect it handed to you on any silver platter. It is more than likely going to show up in the form of a manure rake.

Enjoy. It is a wonderful life.

Within.

January 16, 2014 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

For a moment, I look within. Not too long. It can be scary in there.

Not out side, at the trees, the mountain.

For a change, I don’t look around. My eyes are closed. My heart is open instead.

I’m sitting in a perfect circle of exposed dirt at the base of one of my favorite big old spruce trees just a little ways up the Ute Creek trail in the Weminuche Wilderness. My back is pressed against the rough bark and my snowshoes stick up before me boldly on the ends of my outstretched legs. Gunnar is beside me of course, sitting, on the look out. I’m safe.

Forrest’s Throne, we call this tree. Another one with a name. For the many times we stopped here, stared out over the Rio Grande Reservoir in all her seasons, and he rested at the base enwrapped in the bulk of aged roots.

I am sitting there now, thinking deeply about what Amy shared in response to my last post. Wisdom, insight. More welcome when it comes from a friend, a dear friend of the family as she has become, though none of us have met her yet. Perhaps the words she shared would not have rung so true if I was not battling this concern within my mind already. A confirmation. Drilling it in.

On anger.

Answers come.

Less with mind than with heart.

Anger moves, motivates, and must be left behind.

A hot coal under my seat.

I jump up. Put out the flame. Set back and breathe again.

Balance the flame of passion, of anger, of how to draw the line.

Whatever happens, please don’t let me fizzle out and turn lukewarm.

And don’t let me burn too bright I scorch, burn myself, turn you away.

Seek.

Try.

I will make mistakes.

As I will make love, and may make you mad.

Not intentionally, of course.

It’s just part of living life the fullest way I can.

At times, my heart acts stronger than my mind.

How does one find balance?

Anger.

It opens my eyes, but closes my heart.

My eyes are open.

Now, it is time to leave it behind.

Will you see a gentler me?

I’ll try.

Though as a friend visiting the other day said, there’s something about those Jersey girls.

Can I use my “spunk” (his word, not mine) in positive ways?

Yes, I can.

Just watch what I can do.

Anger.

As a form of passion.

Passion can be our greatest motivator and raison d’être.

Or it can eat us alive.

Let it move me forward. But not leave you behind.

This is the message that came to me, Amy, in my walking meditation:

Get on the right path and watch doors fly open.

How do I get from here to there?

Step on board.

It’s that simple.

Move on.

Forward.

Positive.

Partner with the enemy. (Your wise words, Amy, and those of Nelson Mandela.)

Just write and write well.

Show the intimate side of this situation. That’s what I can do.

Yes, leave the “why” behind. I am not a victim.

Turn towards the “what” and the “how” and the “where” and “when.” Share what I see. Be a part of the solution.

Maybe that’s why I’m here.

Stick with my path, share my gift, and perhaps you can use it, perhaps you will hear, perhaps it will help. And maybe it won’t. But at the end of the day, I’ll sleep better for believing at least I had the guts and grit (and spunk) to try.

To try. To stand for what I believe in.

Without burning bridges.

Anger may be what got me started.

I’ve started. Now I can let it go. Of the anger, not the path, not the movement. Anger will no longer bring me forward, only hold me back. Leave those I care about behind. That’s not what I really want, is it?

Let it go and replace it with… sharing my gift. Writing about the intimate view I have, I see, I touch and smell and taste and feel. I am here for a reason. Anger helped me remain here; anger helped me fight to be here. I swear, if it were not for anger, I would be long gone by now. It gave me strength when I needed it. Now I own it. I am here. And it is time to leave that anger behind and move forward.

I don’t need to fight for it; Maybe I just need to listen to it now.

Let me tell you what I hear.

Listen.

I’ll tell you what I hear. I don’t need to say more.

Where? Where will I go? How will I get there?

Start.

Write.

Share what I see. Share what I feel.

Look deeply, write passionately. Bleed, as Hemmingway said and we writers will do. Bleed, I do like the trees with their sap. Bleed to share the life, the beauty, the reality of the world I live in, we both care for. Passionately.

Our weather comes from southern Cal. The rest of Colorado may be watching the Pacific Northwest and the Great Basin, but here in the southern San Juans, we watch what hits Baja and get excited when they get rain this time of year. That means we’ll get snow.

So, the continued California drought concerns us. We’ve been in what some say is a twenty year drought. Call it what you will.

Every year we hope. Every day we watch the weather and look for another Big One. And as is typical for this region, more often than not, it isn’t there. It isn’t coming. Though don’t get me wrong. It’s hard to complain about blue skies and sun.

Back to my snow shoe. Trying to balance that anger, that passion; working with you, not against you and still shaking things up without turning my back or having you turn your back to me.

I return home after feeling I found the answers only to see the news. Fires on the north side of L.A.

So the positive? The answers? The direction that I long for, I lust for?

I’m still working on it… back to square one… something to do with trust in the Earth, and belief in her eternal beauty.

Call me what you will: angry, passionate, or a Jersey girl. But I do have that.

Belief in eternal beauty of our Earth.

Yes!

December 13, 2013 / Gin Getz / 33 Comments

Time to break out the champagne and have a toast! (The non-alcohol kind is just fine by me – I’ve a bottle of Welch’s sparkling chilling right now in a snow bank waiting for my sweetie to come home and celebrate with me.)

After years of working on this, working towards this, it’s finally happening. My first book is being published.

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Bob, for believing in me.
Forrest, for inspiring me.
The mountain, for letting me.

(and S&D for being 100%!)

For really this is about the mountain as much as it is about me. A love story, if you will, between us two.

And out there today in this big wide white silent open expanse of mountain and me and the barking dog (yeah, I know, so much for that silence…) once again I cried upon her and she did no more than let me and the tears became part of the snow, one more drop to feed my mighty Rio now soft and still encased by the early winter’s generous load.

These are my prayers.
Here is my religion.

Silently she takes me in
her cold embrace and tells me
words
The one thing I have she does not
Words
I write for her

And somehow empowered, knowing I am not never will be alone, no, not here, for here I belong and she allows me to be and I have work to do for her, I tread home on clumsy snowshoes, the same ones I’ve worn for so many years and how many hundreds of miles, solitary but for a dog and the mountain.

And the big moon up early and almost full over Finger Mesa in front of me chimes in a silent refrain, so strong, so strong.

And together this is the song we sing, though I vaguely remember from where I learned it, way back when, upon my knees, weeding in a garden.

Humble yourself unto the Mountain
Gotta lay down low
Humble yourself unto the Mountain
Gotta know what you know
We shall lift each other up
Higher and higher and we
Shall lift each other up…

Enduring and endearing.

December 6, 2013December 6, 2013 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

So it’s Thursday afternoon and we stop working on the new snowplow blade to bring the horse trough into the house by the fire and get water heating on the wood stove.

It’s bath night.

Think of the folks working their tails off to afford a fancy bathroom with a shiny bathtub that’s easy to fill with water that you probably don’t know where it came from anyway, but that tub is quick to fill and simple to drain and it has to be easy because you’ve been working all day at a job you don’t like just to pay for all this and don’t have time to mess around. Long hours, big debt, no time for a bath anyway – just jump in the shower and get to bed because tomorrow you’re back at it.

Or, a hundred buck investment, an old garden hose, and all we have to worry about on this chilly afternoon is heating water.

No, I don’t have a car, a cell phone, TV, a hairdresser, a hairdryer, or fancy clothes. But I got a tub, and my husband has time to fill it.

Now it’s seven below zero and dropping and we’re sweating in the horse trough inside by the woodstove.

I step out with bare feet (and bare butt) dripping onto the snowy deck to let the dog out for one last bark and still I’m warm to the bones from my bath.

Maybe, just maybe, the heyday of consumerism is passé.

Another morning of fifteen below.
(nothing compared to what Forrest is dealing with down there)
He loves it.
And really, so do I.
The cold
brings out the wildness
chills your lungs as you howl as the sliver of moon reflecting on the flat white surface of a snowy pasture.
weeds out the weak
sends them south
and to lower ground
then again, most everyone I know
lives at lower ground.

Cold reminds me
of the fragile threat
of existence
When I can see it
at each exhale
Steaming forth like a dragon’s fiery breathe
or so it seems
a delusion
delicate like hoarfrost
as my eyelashes freeze closed
for just a moment and
I remember to blink
after every mouthful of air
escapes

But for our four leggeds
my beloved horses
out there in the cold

seeking relief of the sheds
the hay
my presence

the promise of more hay
the sun coming over the mountain
and hitting flat across their

solid brown sides
winter is too long
too cold

too harsh and white
and makes them too irritable
with frost on their muzzles

icicles dangling from their manes
and snow gathering on their back.

Three were given.
Three were born into my arms.
(Fragile life upon this hard harsh land
that through too many untimely deaths
I learned
this is no place to be born.)
And two have more than paid for themselves
through their offspring
not to mention their years
of carrying us
caring for us
and letting me care
being there with us
when really maybe
like on days like this
I’m pretty sure
They’d rather be somewhere else

Some days I think
they think
they are the luckiest of horses
with a balance between time to work and time to play
point and purpose, and spoiled rotten
wild and free, and my little ponies.
Other days, like today, I think
they think living in some stall on the outskirts of a city sounds pretty darned nice…
They don’t hate me
though at times I wonder why not
for it is only because of me they are here
And if resentment within them builds
(though I think a horse is beyond such things)
they forgive me fast when they see me
trudging through the snow three times a day
with the wildly barking dog
to feed them.

PS.

Carlos and Indi, please don’t write home now. These guys don’t need to know how nice it is for you in Hawaii!

The last of the living blue.

December 3, 2013 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

White washed.

The snow mounts while the temperature drops.

The last of the living blue.

A live Blue Spruce. Vibrant blue green.

Have you forgotten the fragrance, the sweet sap, moist needles, the soft pastel color?

Now take a closer look.

Pin holes, running sap, slipping bark and yellow needles.

Another tree is lost.

The mountain across river, and the mountains as far as I can see from our little bit of paradise surrounded by a lot of wilds once were blue green. Now they are red and grey. Oh yes, still beautiful. I will always find beauty in these wilds, no matter what we go through together, how beat and burnt, stripped and stark, old and withered we both may become.

Some days it gets to me. Today was one of those days. Watching the next wave of dying trees lose their needles, lose their life.

Maybe you don’t see it. It’s easy not to see if you remain safe behind a desk, or just stop in the woods from time to time to take a look, and leave. But for those of us who chose to live amongst the trees…

This is my community.

And can I do no more than sit back and watch through beetles and burning?

And then there is hope.

Baby Blues.

A line of spruce trees barely taller than the snow is deep behind my cabin.

Forget titles and stereotypes and labels and names your big brother has called you. Instead I ask you this: Have you ever hugged a tree? If you haven’t, try. A really big one that takes three or four of you to wrap around like a Giant Sequoia, or a Ponderosa with a vanilla fragrance when you bury your nose deep in the warm crevices of her bark, or the big old Blue Spruce with pokey needles and sticky sap that stays with you all day, or the soft sensual smooth skin of a Madrone wet in winter.

I used to get attached to trees. Forrest and I would name them. Maps across the ranch and mountain, landmarks. You could plan your route around them, explain where you were, where you were going.

The last we named was Grandfather Tree. He was dying a slow death by beetles. We cut him down. A loud crash on a quiet mountain and the scar of his big stump remains. Now he will be a base log for our new home. A Giving Tree.

Gunnar and I cross the frozen river and listen to the whisper of the running Rio beneath. My snowshoes stay above deep tracks of a bull moose who broke trail into the woods. A tall, cold grave yard that still gives me comfort even in its empty embrace.

Snow already over my knees and the winter has not yet begun.

It’s not enough, this snow. This won’t change the drought. That’s what they still call it, you know. A twenty year drought. Not a change. Oh, no. Just a drought.

What will happen to this snow, sprinkled with dead dark needles to absorb the sun that now filters through the once dark canopy of tall stripped trees?

What will happen to these trees, these mountains of dead standing fuel no longer with a windbreak? What do you think their fate shall be?

It’s a package deal. The trees, the river, the rocks, soil, wildflowers and wildlife. The cold white winters and blustery springs, monsoon summers and flamboyant falls. This is the world I live in.

Yes, there are people too. They come, they go, they take what they want and leave no more behind than the winds can blow away and the snows will cover. Or maybe they do more.

It is for them that I write, though I try not to care, I do. It’s a package deal. People are a part of that package.

Because I want them to see what they cannot, do not. So I share with you what I see.

Look.

I have less of some things

More of others

Learning to let go of

identifying myself with

how many hours each day I toil

And still I must justify myself to you

for no longer

keeping myself too busy to think

Now is the time of

intentionally slowing down

Taking time to see

to smell and taste and touch and feel

And listen.

Yes, now is the time to listen.

Hear the shiver in the wind.

Writing a new beginning.

November 29, 2013 / Gin Getz / 13 Comments

Of my words, of my self.

“The Color of the Wild.” What will be the first of many. None but Harold and Hillel and A.J. have read earlier versions. Now there is a new one, because if nothing else this past year, I have learned and grown as a writer. So my words must change.

Though there has been so much more. Life is neither static nor stagnant.

As my mighty Rio flows, so shall I.

Let me start by telling you this.

I’m still here.

That wasn’t my intention when I wrote this. I wanted to be gone. I don’t know what happened. Really, nothing. The economy crashed, the real estate market collapsed, our debt grew, and our best wishes of selling and making a million that would be our ticket out of here was held on a string for years and then finally just fell off. Faded away.

At some point, we figured, well, I don’t know. Maybe it’s not so bad after all.

We tried. We looked. All over Colorado. Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, Washington, Northern California. And found nothing. Nothing that compared to this. Nothing as remote, as beautiful, and breathtaking. Every time we piled into the pickup, that same one Bob had when I met him, and drove for days on end looking, skimming through ads, getting directions from brokers that thought we were nuts, hiking out of the way and skirting through fences, off dirt roads and in deep snow, driving through town after little rural town with “Meth Kills” billboards and women not much older than me with thinning hair and missing teeth smiling and waving at us from the front porch of the local bar, the only open business in town. Bob and Forrest in the front seat, since Forrest is now taller than both of us. Me and a dog in the back. Now it’s Gunnar. My bold partner with whom I brave the wilds. Before him, there was old Alan. Alan Shepherd. His head on my lap, my head turned out the back window smeared with his nose prints, looking for something I never found.

And then we’d drive back to our mountain. And when we’d start to get close, you could feel it. The excitement. The thrill. The connection. Damn, it’s beautiful. It takes your breath away every time. It high, harsh, wild and free, and the most beautiful place on this earth. It’s our mountain, our home.

Now the in-law matters are behind us, the trees around us dead from beetles and burning from continued drought. I gelded my stallion but keep riding, training and getting new horses to work with. We’re still digging ditch. Forrest is working for the winter in the South Pole, and Bob and I are here. Happy. I didn’t know I’d say that when I wrote this. And you know me; maybe next year I’ll say something else.

This year brought us closer to the land, strengthened our connection, tested in terrible challenges starting with driest year the mountain has seen. Then there were fires, the big one, which burned a hundred thousand acres of wilds and came within miles of our front door. Then rains, and floods and early snows.

I think what happened was this. You define yourself when you defend your space.

Brothers in arms! Or sisters of the earth. I don’t know. I don’t know if it matters. All I know is I learned I’d fight for our land as I’d fight for my family. And I’m not known to be really easy going.

So, here we are.

Here.

Home.

Where I’m at. (taking time for personal updates)

November 12, 2013 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

Remedy for an empty nest.

Fill the nest back up.
Or at least the barn.
Get new horses.

OK, so it might not be a cure, but I swear it helps.

Kinda strange not knowing
where on Earth he is Now.

As far away as one can go.
The end of the Earth. Really.

Somewhere between here and there,
I know that much.
Not much more.

Heading south for winter, he is.
All the way to the South Pole.
Can’t get much further away than that.

And I am pleased, and proud,
and know he is living life
full and rich and brave and strong
and what more could a mother, woman and friend
hope for?

(Update from late last night:
He’s there!
A day ahead and a world away.
And what can I say but
-stupidly-
Keep warm)

We remain
Home.
Bob and Gunnar and me
a couple of old cats
a bunch of good horses
And a few I’m going to try to teach.

So much to do and
our list keeps growing
fantasies of idle winter days
replaced with
lessons in time management
we had our idle time this summer
when we should have been
busy

try to count on things, make plans, assume
More often than not it turns out
so different than what I had hoped for

but if different is neither bad nor wrong
then why can’t I stop planning
learn to let go and just go with the flow

because really you know
what a disaster that would be
when at the end of the day
if I lived like that

we’d all be sitting around starving
wishing I had thought earlier about
what we’ll eat for dinner

These are the six months I live for
the easier ones to leave
the hardest ones
the ones that have become me
are me

and nothing no one no where else
allow this wild time

Time to release
my wild side

Intoxication
Of the elevation

Bob’s driving home and I’m watching the digital numbers on the thermometer on the rear view mirror drop. Ten degrees as we climb our mountain. By morning, the thermometer reads one below zero (-18 C). Bob’s up before daylight rebuilding the fire then climbs back in bed. The cats have been sleeping on him and I am wrapped around him and clinging tight to keep warm. He is the only one now very warm, but probably can’t sleep with all of us latched to him.

Some days I wonder what the heck we’re doing living here. Later on, that very same day, I wonder how I could ever leave.

Finally I leave you with these words for thought.

An observation on the Forest Service.

For those who live here, see.

We are willing to make observations based upon what is before us, what is happening, and common sense. It’s a matter of survival here, responsibility, connection.

On the other hand, many of those that come in to try to Manage (their term, not mine, though I believe even they are beyond maintaining such claims here and now) well, do as their told, say what they are supposed to, do their best to maintain of control of that which they will never.

My apologies to the wonderful men and women who remain within this Big Business because they care, and actually do see. I know there are plenty of you. The Cindys and Annes and so many I’ve had the honor to know, observe and work with… But I see so much more, and I’m tired of it, seeing the nothings happen and the so much spoken, the time wasted and the obvious ignored. I am sorry.

The latest bit of paid propaganda from one of their finest Yes Men is entitled (I swear to you): “Dead trees do not equal more fires… maybe.”

Really. When you’re done laughing, let me tell you this. As the title suggests and the piece confirms, it is no more than a way to get around admitting they have no clue…

However, rather than admit that then be free to open their eyes, look and think, they recommend this: let’s hold off on common sense, observing the obvious, and let’s wait for those scientific studies to be completed… which usually take a while, as we’re stuck sitting on our hands and can’t quite make it out there … there, where it is happening… there, where all of those folks who live, see.

What do you really need to comprehend the world around you, including the greatest of mysteries?

Beyond the front door.

October 18, 2013 / Gin Getz / 1 Comment

Bear tracks in the snow
on the front porch of the Little Cabin

he cleans up the last of my homemade cheese
sour and spoiled and I forgot to clean up

he steps on the bucket with which I gather wood ash
from the old cook stove
Crushes the metal side

and smears the mirror we keep outside under
which we hang wet coats
To dry in the intense high altitude sun

How many times have I see such marks
on the outside of cabin windows or inside of the old dump truck
stinking and smelling of last winter’s trash

who but me, my son wonders,
claps their hands in glee
to know her porch is chosen and shared

Wild enough
a rosebud
Ripe to bloom

awaiting patiently on my front porch
and all I need to do is reach

what I have been waiting for
may finally be here.

in my temple

outside
beneath heavy clouds
grey at noon
pink in evening
anointing me with soft snow

I sit back on hard rock in cold wind
and feel the bliss of eternal passion
in the wail of the still open waters
tears before the silence
of the deep freeze

Though far too much for me in summer
the crowds within a half mile of this dirt road
I have never found any place
As wild
as it is
in winter

Here

as far away from traffic and telephone
and gossip and a grocery store
from sound and synthetic stimulation
from humidity and heavy air
open trails and exposed flesh

far away from you

The wilds call

Here I have wide white wild wind
and really, I wonder,
what more do I need

maybe I already have

enwrap with
wind and white and wide open
remote, removed, far, far away

and for now I find myself
Here
Home

and am glad to find the world surrounding me
A world you know nothing about
and care for even less

or perhaps you have a picture
of where you once were that looked a little like this
But it wasn’t won’t be and is not

for this here and now what I see and what I do
Is mine
and not all of it do I chose to share

glimpses I allow
Open the door and let in the wind
with a swirl of brown leaves and white flakes of snow

and I may let out the smell of
fresh bread and warmth from the woodstove and
the sound of my boys’ laugher and

my dog barking and the cats purring and
my heavy breath and labored beat of my
heart as I have only just returned from

seeking out the last of the wilder beasts
from the big back yard a place where few remain
Where even big game seeks solace in lower ground

They say it’s the highest, hardest
place to hunt in the Lower 48

what I hunt
is just as elusive
within me

Winter here is a more wild, harsh and remote

place than any I have been to

any place I choose to be

though summers at times are hard to endure

This one was different
drought, fire, floods
evacuating all but us,
silence like winter
only it was warm
And we were waiting
in eerie silence
for something
more than flames and smoke
or the feeling that maybe it was time to leave
stuck in silence in a time there should have been children laughing
And the only noise you heard was
rumors as destructive as wildfire

I won’t forget this summer
and I can’t say my memories will be fond
Though you know how that can happen with time

There will be no ribbons for you my friend
only miles beside me
beside our horses

freedom you tell me you
need
spoken in loud barks

after a coyote
a half a mile away and
you’re hot on his heels

reckless they may say
but I see a heart bigger bolder and braver
than any I have known

at times I confess I thought to
Train him, teach him, subdue him
and break him like a old swayback horse

finally I have come to know
These things can’t be taught
and come only when we learn to let go

the wild beast that ran away
And when I awoke
on my doorstep he was waiting for me

And then there was… snow.

September 30, 2013September 30, 2013 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

And then there was… snow.

Snow!

It happens every year. Lots of it, sooner or later. More or less, starting sometime early in fall.

This year just a little earlier than some. It’s been one of those kinda years. If you think you can predict it, you’re wrong. If you’re counting on it, don’t.

In this case, what I did expect, I got. Here, snow scares people away. Those that try to remain a little longer hole up indoors. Or maybe they were there all the time. They’ll all be gone soon enough. We’re still the only nuts to remain. Slightly cracked as we three may be.

Meanwhile, the mountain makes her silent transition. This is the part I love. The slow silken slide into Winter. The voyeur without a voice, only the written word within me, hiding behind a tree or out there on a browning withering slope, exposed, watching as she returns to her soft, serene existence. Sharing her secrets, this intimate time, with those who care and dare to step away from the safety of a dirt road, rattle of trucks and warmth of cabins. Far away.

Coming to life in the snow and ice. Fifteen degrees in the morning (that’s minus nine and half Celsius) and she only begins her long season of deep, dark blue days of frosty breath and sparkling white nights.

Cold and snow bring the wilds back to life. Wild life.

On the surface, the dormant season begins.

For us, it just begins to stir.

We head high.

Now is our time to play.

We ride up and across the Divide.

The snow teases, leaves us wanting for more. I see the boys on their horses and know their hearts and souls are gone, lost in deep powder and blinding sun and wind, fast and wild on the back of a snowmobile, where the white world is theirs and they are a part of it.

Nine hours in the saddle. Wildlife sightings include eagles, hawks and coyote sitting to watch us on the ridge of the Divide, one moose, more deer and elk than I have ever counted in one day, and only one other human being, a solitary bow hunter probably a little surprised to see us riding down through the snow where no tracks lead up and in.

I’m not political, prefer keeping my opinions to myself, wish y’all might do the same, and in general, like politicians about as much as big business.

But today, I let lose a roar. Why not? After all. I am woman…

Our government is again on the brink of a shutdown. Many of us have already shut down. We have lost hope in a government and people who support and vote in those who think it’s funny to read children’s stories instead of taking charge and initiating change from a place of business and a house of our government.

I am not impressed. In fact, I think it’s disgraceful.

Good riddance to this government? If so, then all of you. Does this mean the politicians won’t be paid and their benefits will be frozen? Or as usual, is it just those of us who vote, not those for whom we vote, who are affected?

I’m sorry for what it will do on the global level and all the jobs that will be lost because of this foolish choice. As for me on this mountain, all we’ll see are things like this: No more decorative fences built for the fun of it, or new hitching rails installed beside old ones left in disrepair. Shucks.

Selfishly, I can hide out up here and ride out the wave and wait for someone who really cares enough to act to wake up. I’m an optimist. I still think there might be someone in Washington who will.

Otherwise, I see a nation quick to point fingers and slow to take responsibility. It’s not just our leaders. It’s all of us. Wake up and look around.

What is the excuse the politicians (and perhaps, us?) play with this time? Fear of change?

Change, damn it.

Some change is better than no change, unless you’re too afraid to let go of the past, and are too dumb to see that past is already gone.

How silly I feel to allow myself to be down when I see how easy happiness is.

Just do it. Be it. Now.

When I was nineteen, the rat race I was born and raised to run in New York City proved to be not that which I wanted for the rest of my life. I found – or rather, made – a way out, and left.

In time, I built a life that I didn’t know then could exist and that if I wasn’t the one living now, I’d be wishing I was.

It starts with a dream. And then you have to have guts.

Or not, and be happy where you are and with what you came from, because I look around and know many who actually are.

I wasn’t one of them. So for those of you who are more like me and who had to write our own rules, I recommend this little bit of a reminder. Inspirational reading. I read it this morning on line and printed it out and pinned it on the fridge so I read it every morning.

Twelve Things Happy People Do Differently

It starts with gratitude.

Look around. See how much you have to be grateful for.

Maybe I have it easy. It’s beautiful here. Last year I invested in a good camera. Now it’s even easier. Through the lens, any lens, we can learn to see, to look, and even, to feel.

Harder still is looking within. And finding the beauty in there, too.

I leave you today on a happy note.

For all those who have helped to make this dream come true… thank you! Indi and Carlos are home in Hawaii!!!!

Farewell my friends! What a wonderful new life is beginning!

And then there was rain.

September 13, 2013 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

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Days lost in the fog of fever
While rain pours outside silver smeared windows

Another day it rains
Now the feast drowns the famine
Clouds cling to the wet hillsides
Like lonely children
Lost
Trying to find their place
Amongst the blackened moss and fallen needles

The dog stays close
He has never seen me sick
Heard me cough
Remarkable the sensitivity of our four legged friends
How much I have to learn from them
Start by looking
Listening

The sound of the hard rain against the metal roof
The rush of the running creek
That has been silent since spring

Now I am grateful for the beetle kill
In a twisted sort of way
Presently burning in my woodstove
A plentiful supply

In lower grounds
Flooding streets where pavement breaks
And here above the asphalt

We are washed clean

I remember every person who reached out
During the fires here
And each offer for us and our critters to stay
When it was our time to be at risk

I remember every person who did not

Which do I choose to be
Now that I have the choice
Lest I forget my family and friends
As their time of need
Swells upon them

My first journal was a diary, one of those little baby blue faux leather books with a decorative lock and key in which I put false hope. Paul Proknoun, my boyfriend at the time, stole it, ripped it open with ease as the faux leather was no more than thin cardboard, and inspired by what he read, I suppose, shared wild but untrue stories and a passed a photo around class he must have torn from his father’s hidden Playboy magazine of a woman he said was me. I was not yet in a training bra and although in hindsight perhaps I should have been flattered, I was not. I was mad.

Privacy is not something I take lightly. You see where and how I chose to live, don’t you? And trust once lost takes close to forever to regain.

Perhaps it was this experience and resulting anger and fear that later inspired me to burn ten years of journals and memories of teenage angst rather than risk them falling into the wrong hands. As if anyone would have really found them that interesting.

And perhaps it is because of this infatuation with privacy and trust that I raised my son with my journal open at my bed stand and knew it was as safe as I kept him… and his.

I imagine there was a time or two when in his youthful anger and inevitable mother-hatred stages he may have stolen a peak as I imagine too the weight of guilt that then pressed upon him was punishment enough. Besides, I bet there was nothing there of interest to his then adolescent mind. Middle aged woman angst?

Similarly I have trusted my husband like few I know can. And I consider this an irreplaceable and indispensable element of our beautiful marriage.

Trust.

In a big plastic storage box from Wal-Mart stacked on a cedar shelf down at the Little Cabin labeled MEMORIES in black sharpie ink are the results of the thirty years since then, that fated year of burning, erasing the past, allowing room for the future, now tucked in a box filled with spiral bound pen and ink recollections that may never be seen a second time. And more than likely, none of those words and stories are worth a second glance. At least, I don’t need to remember them.

There still remained plenty of angst. Writing about loneliness from a moonlit desert with my head and shoulders sticking out of the tent in which I found myself alone, escaping another failed relationship. Frustration, poverty, hurt, confusion… Finding nature while scouring the New Mexico mountains for the elusive magic mushroom and seeking solace in the solitude found on the top of a wild mountain with my dogs on each side of my skinny tanned legs sticking boldly out of my levi jean cut offs.

Maybe someday I’ll read them over. Do something with them. Maybe not. Maybe someday my son will want to read them – I told him he could – though I think he knows me well enough and respects my past as… past. Over and done with. Maybe a curious grandchild, a little girl who sees me as the strong tough woman I am now (or will be hopefully when and if she comes into my life) and finds comfort in knowing that I wasn’t always this way. That I too have weaknesses. Faults. Soft mooshy spots. Insecurities. Problems that exist only in my head, but there are pretty weighty. That life isn’t always easy, and probably isn’t meant to be, because easy for the most part is pretty dull…

To date, I can say my life has been neither.

I don’t know why I am sharing this with you now
I guess I’m just feeling reflective
Thoughts swirling on the shifting surface of brown waters

Imagination flowing
With the waters rushing down our dirt road
Chartreuse green pasture
And wild waters of the Rio Grande

Writing from a state
In which I am living
But from which I may never belong

Gin Getz

On the intimate connection between person and place. Sharing words and images of wilds within and around.

personal stories

An intimate view.

Within.

Yes!

Enduring and endearing.

The last of the living blue.

Writing a new beginning.

Where I’m at. (taking time for personal updates)

Beyond the front door.

And then there was… snow.

And then there was rain.

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