Digging up dirt

July 26, 2013 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Ditch Diaries.

Year Seven.

Trip One.

There is nothing like this to clear the air, erase the past, tire the body until the mind finally stops thinking.

Hard work. Good, hard, dirty work, in the purest, simple sense.

Digging ditch.

Packing into the Wilderness by horse. Just the three of us, six horses, and one bold dog to keep us all in line. Shoveling, picking, dragging, slipping, saddling up, hauling, heaving, heavy breathing and plenty of dirt, sweat and soaking from the rain. Sleeping an inch off the ground, getting comfortable with creepy, crawling, flying things, and tossing cleanliness out the window, if we had one.

Lo and behold, there before us as we sit with our tin cups filled with cheap box wine and plates hot on our lap. The Rio Grande Pyramid and Window before us.

We’ve been doing this so long we’ve seen hillsides die and new flowers bloom, drought years and decent water years which means a lot of hours working in the rain, good grass for the horses and slim pickings, early frost and late blooming, grass stalks setting seeds weeks apart from what they did the year before, and waiting for the moon to set just so in middle of that Window.

We look at the ditch in terms of what year we worked on each section. Time told around shovels, slopes, slips and blisters. By the number of ibuprofen popped, packages of hamburger helper consumed, gloves worn through, and horses trained on the job. How about the number of slip handles repaired, leather horse hobbles lost in the grass, corny jokes told in tired delirium and photos taken of that same incredible mountain looming so large before me as she does right now?

We set the tent up in the same old place. Home away from home. The horses put their heads down and proceed to graze before we even unload. They know the deal. The dog digs up an old bone and finds a faded red ball left behind from last year or the year before.

And yet nothing is ever the same.

Of course more trees have died. Now we count the devastation in terms of mountainsides ravaged, add it up by the miles of forest, not the actual trees. You couldn’t count if you wanted to. I don’t want to.

We sit by the fire in the evening with our wet socks off and tired feet drying and hear one fall in the distance. Sounds like a gun shot. Only for those of us working in the woods, far more frightening. We don’t say a word and look down at our toes.

This year the spring has gone dry. The one by which we’ve camped for the past five years. Each year a little less water. This year, not enough to water a horse. We have six here with us. We walk further and let them drink at the river. Norman, the gentle giant, pulls up his stake and walks there alone. He’s usually back by the time we notice him missing. He never goes far.

Empty trails with the only tracks being that of the elk. Eerie. This is peak season. Not that it’s ever too crowded around here, and not that we are here to see people. Really, not at all. But somehow, this time of year, they belong here. Backpackers. Hiking the Divide. A few days. A week. A month. Maybe the whole trail in one long season, Mexico to Canada. Somewhere in the distance. Bright colors and big backs. Part of the landscape. Like afternoon monsoons, early morning dew, and deer slipping in between the timber as we lead our horses out to graze.

Where are the moose this year that have in the past been a regular part of our weekly viewing? Neither home nor here. I worry about these things, too. Has the low snow taken its toll on this species as it has on the Canadian Lynx trapped up there and brought down here, and did we really think they might remain? Those that didn’t high tail it and try to head home, slowly starve. Beautiful creatures with which we’ve played God. Despite the trauma of trapping, transporting and being dumped in an area hit so hard by climate change, we still say we’re doing good. I’ve yet to hear someone say this is good for the animal. I only hope my beloved moose, slow and lumbering through the willows in the snow banks and one of the few brave enough to tough out the winters here with us, will choose to remain, and maybe even thrive.

For the first time we see repulsive brown sacks squirming in the willows, an infestation of fuzzy caterpillars, little white cocoons. Miller moths. We have not seen them here before. Not this high. The willows, already weakened from the ongoing drought, are suffering further still as their branches are stripped to feed the chrysalis.

They don’t belong. Out of place, as grotesque as initials carved into the trees by passing tourists who somehow think this is ok. It’s not graffiti because it’s on a living tree? *

And trash. Tell me this, please. Who would come this far only to leave their garbage here? Some things are better left back home. Perhaps some people, too. And tell me this, too: who the hell packs in Diet Coke to the Wilderness?

I’m having trouble bouncing back, seeing the beauty, finding the good. The fire burned a part of me too. I bet if I went to town (which chances are I won’t for a while) I’d hear others say the same.

It was hard. We all lost something. A part of the forest. A part of us. Something we all deemed sacred. Why we are here. Our connection has been burned. If we feel deeply enough, we feel the loss. We are left somehow lost, lacking, incomplete.

It’s time to heal. Rebuild. We can’t go back but we can move on. Do you know how? I can’t wait for time to heal it all. I need to do something now.

Get me back to work. Stop worrying about litter and trashy folks, forget for a while about finances, fires, future decisions, and blasts from the past still haunting me. For now, just grab a shovel and get to work. For now, nothing else matters except moving dirt.

* Forgive me, as I know of one exception where such a memorial is sincerely a sad but welcome part of this land.

Smoldering

July 3, 2013 / Gin Getz / 14 Comments

Ashes to ashes.

Now they are laid to rest. We watched them die their slow death. Screaming, unheard. Which, I ask you, is a sadder time? Witnessing then the swelling fatality or now the inevitable funeral?

Grief. When shall be the time of mourning? And how shall the mountains heal?

Two days ago I find a squirrel in the toilet of one of our vacant guest cabins. Bob lifts him out by the little scruff of his soggy neck and we are pretty sure we are too late. He is barely breathing. I tap his bony back to see if he’ll cough up water. He appears lifeless in my hands, cold and wet and limp. I hold him against me, and walk out into the sun. I sit there with the little guy to my chest until he starts to shiver. I think that is a good sign. It is something. Movement. Life. After a while, he moves his front paws and blinks his eyes. I wrap him in my shirt and set him in a safe corner of the yard. We are late for lunch. Forrest will be worried. What more can I do? When we return an hour later, we expect to find him there, again cold, this time dead. Instead we find the shirt empty.

I don’t know why I tell you this, or why I did this. I do not like ground squirrels. The tourists find them cute, feed the rodents, and leave. The squirrels remain much longer, devastate my garden, the flower pots, get into the cabins and make a mess. (Ending up in toilets has happened more than once before.)

I think you should know. Or maybe, I just need to remind myself. Maybe I’m just glad to finally share some good news. That squirrel lives.

Maybe it’s just today. Moods are fluctuating like the plumes of smoke. You can’t help but feel sad and tense and although everything looks the same from here, the eerie silence reminds you it’s not, and all you can do is watch and wait.

I’m feeling sorry for myself. Silly me. How selfish. I know. I try to tell myself. Get over it. This too will pass. Think of how darned lucky I am. I know. I know. I know.

We head down the road. My first time down the mountain since Memorial Day, best I can figure. I need to get some answers. Tourists are writing with questions. Their one week a summer away from Texas vacation is at stake. I should understand how much this matters.

It feels cold, or maybe it’s just me. There’s cloud cover, real clouds and smoke, both, you can smell and feel them in the still, stuffy air. Black sticks and ashen earth. Charred hillsides play a patchwork with untouched stretches. Wafts of something smoldering.

I don’t know what to think or say and I don’t want anyone to see me cry. Not even my husband. So I turn my head, don’t think, stare blankly as we drive on. I look out like it’s just a movie, passing by. Unreal. I can remain untouched.

We approach the road block. Keeping people out, and here we have been in. I can see from the side of their truck they are from Arizona. They are big men, yet soft spoken to me. Sympathetic to the inconvenience and loss this has brought to my family, home and business. That doesn’t really matter, I want to say. How do I tell them how I feel? How sorry I am at their loss, their colleagues, their bereavement brought so close to our homes as our bravest stand beside them? Life! My God, I know that is what matters.

I say nothing. I don’t know what to say. I know I will cry. My eyes swell and each look at me with such compassion and I can’t find the words to tell them “No, I am sorry for you… I have lost nothing that really matters,” though I wish I could. I look both in their eyes. Deep. I hope they feel it and know my silence is not enough. But what is the alternative? A middle age woman breaking down before them? My husband puts the truck in gear and slowly drives on and I roll up the window instead.

There are deer sleeping at the side of the road. Fire trucks from Arizona, Utah, Wyoming, northern Colorado. Finally, a familiar face, turns and walks away when all I wanted was a smile, a nod of recognition, the understanding that we all get through this best we can. I don’t get that. I think that’s what I came for. There’s nothing else I need.

I return to the mountain and mourn not only what so many have lost, but what I am left with.

It is not over yet. The road simply smolders, the raging path already burned its greedy swath of over thirty six thousand acres to the east and south of us.

Here I can almost hear the fat lady singing.

Here there are blue skies in morning, rain clouds pass us by in afternoons, the Milky Way dancing like tempting muses overhead at night as we step outside to brush our teeth (we have no bathroom here) and the only smell of smoke comes from the chimney of the old wood cook stove.

Here where the trees are not charred, only left to stand the eerie red your eyes still read as green.

Here we are left with the silent cry of dying trees.

There, a ghostly wail in plumes of smoke.

Some days it seems all you can do is not cry, or if I could cry enough, would my tears help douse the flames. But they do not, and my heart aches for the trees and all those who have lost so much and those that are giving so much of themselves to stop this wild burning.

What have we done? What have we been waiting for? Didn’t we all know they would burn?

Is a million acres of dead standing trees enough?

Will these fires wake us up?

Don’t you remember when? When the trees were still green here and we first saw those sprawls of dying, crying trees, the old pinon, down in Carson, New Mexico. And I, like you, stood around and did nothing more than watch as the death continued to spread until now I may not see flames and smoke from my front porch, but I am still surrounded by death. Someday, dare I say it, won’t this too have to burn?

The forest around me still stands. Not live, but standing. 90% of our spruce have died and over 15% of our Aspen. This part is obvious. But stop for a moment, and look closer. The damage is much deeper. Look at your cool, shady trail that is now in the sun. That spring that used to flow is dry and the bog you just walked across is now solid ground. And the saddest but hardest to see and I bet few have noticed: the moss on once sheltered hillsides is now exposed, choked by pale green needles fallen from dying trees, flaking off rocks in large dusty chucks when the wind blows.

Haven’t you noticed the change?

All it takes is looking. Nothing fancy. No special tools or skills. Right now, I don’t care about who or why. But don’t tell me my climate is not changing. It already has. And it’s not done yet.

This here is one mad mountain mama. Does anger help? I think it’s better than acceptance, doing nothing, brushing the bad stuff under the carpet and pretending it’s all OK. It’s not OK. So… do something about it. What? What can I do?

A month ago, I wrote a friend. Another woman who writes. She is also read. She is published. Big time and the real deal. People listen to her. I do. I ask for her voice, but she tells me I have to use my own. She is already screaming. OK, I tell her. I will try. I will speak softly, though few will listen. Most won’t agree. Some will be angry, and maybe a few might even be hurt.

But this won’t be about me. This won’t be about you. Right now, for just a moment, this will be about the trees.

The trees. I’m talking about the beetle kill devastation that has hit the entire Rocky Mountain region from New Mexico to Canada. I’m talking about seeing every stand of dark timber on every mountain surrounding my home turn from green to brown. I’m talking about seeing the Weminuche Wilderness forest die. I see it from my kitchen window as I sit in the comfort of my house with a cup of coffee and wonder why. This isn’t science. This just is.

“It’s natural,” they say with a stupid smile to a room full of yes-men shaking their heads in agreement.

Remember what they told us:

It won’t go over 9,000 feet.

It won’t go over 10,500.

It won’t burn as well as a live stand.

And my favorite, when in doubt, use this one, old reliable: It’s natural.

(Excuse me for stating the obvious, but I look around and say, no, the results of these beetles getting in two breeding cycles in one extended season year after year does not seem very natural to me.)

And above all, do NOT let the elephant out of the closet. Let us not mention climate change.

Instead, let’s wait and see. Push papers, have meetings, make plans and policy, change plans and policy, keep calm, try to maintain control and cover your ass. Leave it to a scientific study. An environmental impact report. A thirty thousand acre “test zone” they are watching to see what happens with beetle kill while we’ve just watched almost a hundred thousand acres in this part of Colorado alone show us what happens. Beetle kill burns. Thanks. I didn’t know. Pardon the sarcasm. I told you I was mad.

Don’t upset the public or stir the waters. Waters that are now being used to douse the flames and maybe then will wash down charred slopes and clog our rivers, silt the creeks and what will it do to the fish?

Sit on your hands and at the end of the day watch while a million acres of trees are consumed, first to beetles…

From a letter I wrote a month ago:

“The trees are dying. Not just a few. All of them. The spruce trees. All the way up to timber line. Entire hillside, thousands of acres, dying a slow death. The beetles are small as a grain of rice. Who would have guessed something so small could do so much damage that will last for generations to come?

The forests are dying, and we’re amassing miles and miles of curing fuel for an inevitable fire. And this is Wilderness. So we’ll let it burn.

Now the Forest Service is talking about starting the fire.* They have no idea how huge this will be. They never really know but it seems to be their job to speak as if they’re certain until they are proven wrong and then change their stance. They say these things safe from behind their desk while we are here living with it, in it, crying with the loss and now scared of what will happen next.

We use this wood to cook with and heat our home. I know how well it burns. I’m not sitting around looking at facts and figures and talking big and trying to ease the troubled mind of the public. I’m here living with it and it’s sadder than you can possibly imagine to be surrounded by such death, frustrating to hear the fabrications and incompetency around us by those denying the change has anything to do with the bigger picture, and horrid to think of what is going to happen, because something is going to happen, and it’s going to be more terrible than just sitting around staring at a bunch of dead trees starting to blow over and create a lovely pile of fuel across a half a million acres that is the Weminuche Wilderness.

Of course there is much more I could say, much I could share with you to give you a wide array of facts, figures, guesses and lies concerning the causes and creation of this disaster, and more important, so much I could show you just from my kitchen window without any words at all.

Can you help be the voice that these mountains are crying for and I am not strong enough to be?

There is a story here that must be written. Will you write it?”

My voice may not be heard.

And now, am I not too late?

*For the record, the Papoose Fire was started in the Weminuche Wilderness by lightning strike.

An update from the Upper Rio Grande

June 24, 2013June 24, 2013 / Gin Getz / 20 Comments

Updates from the Upper Rio Grande

I’m sorry – I’m unable to respond to everyone who has written to check in with us as in depth as I would like. I know you care. I hope this helps answer some of your questions, relieve some of your concerns.

I’m overwhelmed with the current situation and still understand everyone’s interest in what’s going on. I especially appreciate your concern, your compassion. I do not mean to be impersonal by writing one post and sharing it with you all. It is written for you. Each of you. All of you. Anyone who cares enough to ask and then to read.

I can’t tell you what’s happening. I can only tell you what I see. Here. On the mountain. My eyes. My words. From my home. Read them if you want. Don’t if you can’t. They’re not always pretty. But they will be real.

What do I see? Morning smoke rolling up from the Reservoir like a heavy fog. Afternoon plumes like mushroom clouds over Finger Mesa. This morning I see clouds. Real clouds. I see hope.

I’ve seen other things. Like a dead calf on the outside of fence line. Mother on the inside. A fence weak enough to let in a bunch of free range cows. Tight enough to keep in an abandoned horse. Things like a horse trailer half full ride right by the pasture where that horse has been left. Things like a woman more concerned with the contents of her fridge spoiling than the well being of her fellow man (and another so quick to think of us up here, and offer us those contents). Or a guy hauling out four truck loads and two trailers worth of “stuff” from his summer home (and another showing us the keys to his and the vehicles he left behind “just in case” we need them).

What matters most? Stuff? I think of people who built here, people who live here, people with no other place to go. I think of how many have their homes threatened, places they built or built onto, their livelihood threatened, their back yard and within feet from their doorstep charred. Stuff doesn’t matter. The three of us each packed a backpack with what we thought we’d really need, still hanging by the door, just in case. That was evacuation day.

The mountain has been evacuated. The fire is below us. We are still here.

If you want an update with facts and figure on the Papoose Fire, now included in the West Fork Complex, there are some good web sites. These are a few: http://www.inciweb.org/incident/3436/ ,http://www.hinsdalecountysheriff.com/Emergency_Incident_Info.php, http://www.acemergency.org/. Look at them. Don’t listen to Facebook rants and e-mail gossip, please. Or if you choose to, take it with a grain of salt. Some of it may be right. Much of it is wrong. And trust me, it will be emotional. This whole deal is. It’s frightening, humbling, sickening, sad, and confusing.

Suddenly you realize how little you are. How little control you have. This Mother Earth is far stronger than you or I will ever be. That should give you hope. No matter what we do to mess up this beautiful place, She will heal and be OK, long after we are gone. I take comfort in believing that. Everyone has their own beliefs.

Anyway, let me tell you where I’m at. Lost Trail Ranch. Our home. Our guest ranch. At least it was. I mean, it’s still here, standing, untouched and rather unaffected by the massive fires and smoke. Except we have no guests, and it may be a while before they are allowed to be here. So the “guest ranch business” currently isn’t. It’s like winter – the half the year here on the high mountain that we’re used to blocked access, closed roads, and no people around for miles. Only it’s warm. The horses are on green grass and the chickens are laying eggs. And people are supposed to be here. This is how we make our living. Or not this year. But that’s just a minor detail. Money. What matters most, you find, is your family. And we’re fine, here, together.

Yes, I’ve seen a lot from up here this week, and much of what I have seen has been glimpses into the best and worst of human nature. Once again, I’ll stick with Mother Nature.

But I’ve also seen the best of human beings. I’ve seen bravery. Kindness. Reaching out. Generosity. I’ve seen compassion. So much compassion. This makes eyes swell hot and full with tears, because this is really beautiful, and this is really what matters, and this, compassion, is what at the end of day allows us to remember everything else around us – from the minor unpleasantries of our fellow human beings to the huge, overwhelming destructive fire we watch rip up an acre of dead standing timber in a matter of minutes as we sit back against at rock and watch. And for all this we send prayers to those brave and strong, dedicated and determined enough to be out there, in there, doing what they can to help. And because of that we can still sleep at night.

And that is what you need to remember when you think about your back yard burning up, a forest once lush and green that will never be again in your lifetime or your children’s lifetime, homes and lives threatened, businesses blown away in the ashes, wildlife fleeing or worse, remaining. You do have to think about it all. The good and the bad. But make sure you end by thinking about the good. No matter how hard you have to look to find it.

There are brave people, good people, great people. I’ve seen a few. I don’t want to name names. They know who they are. I’ve got a lot of thank you letters to write when this is done.

I also must put in here a special word to our guests and to all those reading this who may be scheduled guests for other places nearby: This road is closed and the area evacuated. Today. (Who knows about tomorrow? I’m not going to try to guess.) Lost Trail Ranch is too currently closed, though we are living here, watching, waiting.

We understand how this affects your vacation plans. This is currently the case for scheduled guests for resorts in South Fork, Creede and up in these mountains. The losses are tremendous and continuing. This is a natural disaster and emergency unlike anything we have ever experienced here. We cannot predict nor assume how or when the fires will subside and the road will open. We thank you for your patience, your understanding, and so often, your kind words and your compassion.

There are no answers we can provide at this time. We ask that you please follow the links provided and other official sources to keep up to date with current conditions in the area. We are inundated with trying to communicate with county, Forest Service, guests, summer home neighbors, family and friends during this terrible time.

There is much more to say, to share, but you only have so much time to read, and I only so much time to write. So, that’s all she wrote for now. Until next time.

Sending love and light from these high wild mountains,

Gin

Back in Bigness

April 30, 2013April 30, 2013 / Gin Getz / 8 Comments

I wanted to be home before the full moon. I was thinking about riding horseback in moonlight. I forgot how cold it is here. After dark, I’m happy to be home by the woodstove. Afternoon siestas in the sand by the river seem very far away right now. About 5,600 miles away.

Travelling takes over a week. The “goodbyes” take longer. The “welcome homes” aren’t enough. Culture shock. I am learning this. It’s not as hard leaving when you know you’ll be back.

Between here and there. It starts horseback. Leaving “our” home along the Rio Trocoman. Between here and there is a long and fast car ride across Argentina, followed by a day of walking the dog through the crowds of downtown Buenos Aires. There is a beer at an outdoor café. There is mate and malbec in the courtyard. There is the refresher course in Texas hospitality, and something more about good friends. There is Wal-Mart. Biggie size it. Bigger is better. Consumerism and convenience. Channel surfing from the king size bed of the hotel room. Bombarded with commercials, violence, terrorism, and how to build an assault rifle in your back yard. Just what I need. Welcome home.

One of these days I’ll share the details. Recommendations and tips. Where to stay in Buenos Aires, the best way to get across Argentina, and what it’s like to travel with a dog. Boring but necessary. Cold hard facts. Another time.

For now I want soft and warm. Home. I want to stop worrying about paying three times as much for a bottle of bad wine, and wishing there was goat meat hanging in the shade and remembering simple smiles instead of complicated family bullshit. For now, I want to be in the sun. This sun. The here and now sun. The intense sun roasting my cheeks and forehead, the only skin exposed in the still cold wind on the deck of our home at 10,000 feet in the mountains of Southern Colorado. I guess this is the same sun that’s already dried up the run off creeks and parched the pasture and it’s only April. But it’s my sun. The same sun, like the same moon. Seen from a different perspective.

I thought maybe it’s just me. It’s not. It’s him too. Bob spends his evenings on Google Earth, seeing where we have been. Where we will be. He shows me, a digitized image on the computer screen. It almost hurts to see it now.

Being home. There is my river. My horses. My bed and my bathtub. There are the familiar sounds of robins, Steller’s Jays and crows out on the field. The metallic zipping sound announcing the early arrival of a hummingbird. There is the smell of cedar burning and bacon frying and the familiar scent of my favorite mare. There are my trails, trails we found and forged, for us to ride and clear in the softer orange light of early evening when the spring wind slows and the porch door is left open and firewood is brought in and stacked in preparation for the cold night.

Un American? I had a good excuse. No electricity. No internet. No motors. No town. Now I’ve got it all. Too comfortable. I haven’t been on Facebook in how many months. I have little to say, to share. I’m sorry. I am self absorbed. I know it’s selfish. I take a quick peak this morning and quickly sign off. It’s scary. On my wall is a picture of a mate gourd. Thank you, Amy. I should have known how much you would understand. There is nothing else I need to see. Nothing I care to share. I feel somehow lost. Lost in my own home. Funny it should be so aptly named. Lost Trail Ranch.

Writing, reflection, soaking. That’s what I’m doing now. As I remind Ginny, legend has it that Hemingway had to move to Paris before he could write about Michigan. Presumptuous to compare myself to him. If not my self, then my situation. I need the distance. I need to be away to see. I need to look inside now, not just in front of me. I cannot keep up with the stories that want to be written. Words flow like blood from a slaughtered goat.

Healing. Heal myself. Simple wounds. We are all built of flesh and blood. From time to time, we all must bleed. The earth heals me. Here, there. Here, I go for a walk. To the other side of the bridge we built together. I cannot cross. Snow on the other side. The dog falls in to his belly. Moose droppings and tracks and what looks like a big round spot where he may have lay in the last of the snow, holding fast on the north facing slope along the Rio Grande.

And wasn’t the sun to my north just a few days ago?

I remind myself there is no place I would rather be. Here and now. Yesterday and tomorrow are different stories. Stories to write about.

Now the dog gets up from his warm place in the middle of the bridge, on guard above me as I sit in the dirt of the little island with my notebook on my lap. He barks in a non-committal way. He wants my attention. We make eye contact. He looks up the hill. I know what he is thinking. It’s time to get up there. Get back to the horses. Back to work. His work. Guard duty. He has been wonderful. Putting up with me dragging him to the other side of the world. Now he’s home. His home. His herd. He is happy. I should be too.

Indepen-dance

April 11, 2013April 30, 2013 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Got my horse. Got my dog. Don’t need no cowboy. Or gaucho. I can catch my own damn fish, thank you very much.

Bob leaves me for a week. Horseback, working on a pack trip. Ouch. Isn’t that what we do, together? He temporarily forgets we are a team. I don’t. He figures I’ll be fine. Of course I will. But how independent do you want me to be? I think about wishing to soften with age, not get tougher. I don’t want a heart like rawhide to match my weathered skin.

Before leaving he says he’s going to “take care of me.” He forgets, and runs out of time. He throws four beers in a bag on the table and tells me to give them to Alcides and see if he’ll catch me some fish.

Guess what. I drank the beers and caught my own fish.

I have taken off my wedding band and yet I still feel it there after ten years. I’m mad. Chances are I’ll forgive him. He’s a good guy. But I’m a woman. And every once in a while, I need to be reminded that I’m a good one, too. He’s not big on saying such things. I tell him it is time he learned. I’ll let you know how he does.

~ ~ ~

So I’m thinking. About life. Mine. Ginny’s. Women. Women willing to live life. Really live. Not half way, part way, or sort of. It’s yes or no. It’s life with gusto. It’s having, well, if you’ll excuse the crude expression, just a little bit of balls. Not too much of course. Remember, I don’t want to be tough. I still want to be tender. At just the right times. I want to feel. And I want to be willing to feel. To get out there and do, not just stay home and wish. Take risks. You know what I always say. Leap and the net appears. Usually. Because sometimes it doesn’t. But landing on the ground isn’t all bad either.

No whining aloud. Stop complaining. If you want change, change. It’s up to you. Do it. Or don’t, but don’t come crying to me if you haven’t even tried.

What do you have, and what can you do with it? Look at Ginny. She wants her life, and thus this book, to be an inspiration to others. She has already been an inspiration to me. Little things like living with MS barely slow her down. Maybe her body, but trust me, not that mind.

I’m not going to judge you. It doesn’t matter where you’re at. This is what matters: What did you do to get here? And where are you going from here? Everyone has their story. This is mine. And I’m working on Ginny’s. What, my friend, is yours?

~ ~ ~

My thoughts are drifting to e-mails I need to check, arrangements that need to be made for our return trip. Two more weeks. Damn. I’m not ready to leave. You knew I would not be. But I’m not leaving yet.

Now is the challenge to remain Here and Now. Now is when my mind starts moving ahead of my body. My body is here. I must contain my mind. Remain present. Keep my thoughts where my body is. Live it. Feel it. Smell, taste, touch it. Dive in, roll around, and rub it on. Otherwise, I risk wasting the next two weeks, waiting for the future to happen, rather than enjoying this incredible place and time. And what a time it is.

~ ~ ~

By day, the mountains turn to gold. Flaxen hillsides, flaming trees, yellow leaves caught in the wind. “Lluvia de oro” as leaves fall like raindrops of gold. Morning frost burnishes the broad grasses that grow by the little creek, as we jump from slick stone to slick stone, crossing to lead our horses in from pasture. Crisp light casts long, sharp shadows mid-day. The river a steel ribbon wrapped about this land on days when the sky hangs low and heavy. On those days, the grease bush smells like burning sage when we brush against with wet jeans and the bright red hips of wild rose stand out shockingly as Christmas ornaments on a Christmas tree. Layers of wool and down and the fireplace a welcome relief as we sit before a big blaze at night and talk about our day, today, everyday. Not tomorrow. We’ll discuss that after we wake in the morning, build another fire, have our matέ, and wait for the sun to hit this house.

~ ~ ~

We leave at lowering light, shadows stretching wide to absorb the valley withering pale, as sand would do in the wake of a swelling wave. I am mesmerized by the motion. Swirling sands around the horses heels, diffused light, filtered through dust so thick at times you cannot see the silhouette of the horse’s feet. Constant motion of grey foot, brown sand, golden light, blending into a moving cloud, alive and changing, silent by the wind. Look up or I will miss it. For at some point, the clouds give their last encore of scarlet promise, reflecting back the same first light of morning. Then they fade, shades of grey and the earth and sky blend into black.

Last night another ride home in the dark. One more time. Riding back from Buta Mallin. Bob leads Rolo the mule. Our horses stride side by side, faster now that they are nearly home. In the middle of a roughed out road we are unable to see, only the change of light where the mountain ends and sky begins told by the subtle variation of blackness and stunning sprinkle of stars. We are talking, softly as there is little sound while the horses step out on this sandy portion of long ride home. And there is nothing, no one, no other sound otherwise around us.

Blackness enveloping, still and clear, the stars reflecting on the river below us. The final switchback, giving in completely, the closest I hope to be to blind, as my mare suddenly turns left and begins the final decent and I am surprised to be this far already. I am absorbed in the darkness. I am complete and meaningless, a part yet unimportant all at the same time, at the moment, this very moment, when all I hear is the rush of the river below and the slap of the horses’ steel shoes on the rocky ground. There is nothing else to hear. There is only to feel.

Our last visit with Ginny. For this trip. It is not “goodbye” but rather “see you later.” You know that’s how I am.

And yes, of course I forgave Bob and slipped that ring back onto my finger where it belongs. That’s how I am too.

Celebrating Life

April 1, 2013April 11, 2013 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Here is another great post from Gin! As with the last few posts, this is Karen (shall I call myself, “The Phantom of the Blog”? ) posting from the states (Texas for that matter). For those of you who may be new to Gin’s blog, for the time being she is in the rurals of Patagonia and has extremely limited internet access so she emails me words and photos when she is able and I put them on this blog. This is an incredible post from Gin so grab a cup of coffee or tea or whatever you like and sit back and enjoy!

The day begins as we leave this house that currently feels like home along the Rio Trocoman. Just for one night. To see Ginny at her chacra in El Huecu. I have missed her and it seems as if it’s been a while since I had a hug from the other Virginia and a healthy dose of her stories, laughter and contagious passion for life. Coincidentally, it is Bob’s birthday. Not that I have anything planned, nor anything purchased. It’s been months since I went to a store. Though I wrote him a poem on a handmade card by candle light this morning. I think at times my words are my greatest gifts.

We take off in the still early morning before the sun rises high enough on the mountain to the north east to warm our little lush pocket along the river. We are horseback, heading out for the six hour dusty ride across the arid foothills of the Andes to see Ginny. She is worth it. Our horses are laden with our double sleeping bag, some tortas fritas to share with Sky, and a few gifts for Ginny, including a long branch I cut from a Lombardi poplar tree in the pasture just outside her studio, now strapped on to the back of Bob’s horse, the leaves now turning a vivid, glowing yellow and ready to sprinkle down like the golden kisses Ginny once told me would come in the fall.

We stop for a break mid day at Buta Mallin to visit with Sky. We arrive in perfect time to help dig out her septic system which has been clogged up after twenty years or so of use, and collecting socks. Go figure. We are amazed as Sky finds what appears to be a perfect match. Apparently old polyester does not decompose. I am grateful for the fragrant mint she grows in her herb garden just beside where we are working.

We arrive at Ginny’s as the sun is lowering, welcomed by warm and familiar faces. And the luscious smell of goat meat roasting over the fire. Jorge is preparing an asado for Bob’s birthday. The full moon rises and we are out there feasting by the fire with good friends, new and newer, somehow dear, one and all when joining together to share in a simple celebration out in the warm early autumn air.

The feast is topped by a masterpiece cake perfectly prepared by Ester. Crema de leche and dolce de leche and decidedly delicious. Our silly rendition of the American birthday song and a candle for Bob to make a wish for the upcoming year, and I can only imagine the love inside of him as he stands there somewhat uncomfortable being the focus of attention, which is not a place Bob chooses to be.

~ ~ ~

For Bob

Eight at night and the rain continues. I’m back home by the Rio Trocoman. The rain has not stopped today. Nor has the fire died. I have been here writing since returning from this morning’s horseback trip to our “kiss and ride” where I left you to begin your week long adventure where you will be working for TA at the Ranquilco on high country pack trip. Modestly, as is your way, sharing more of your gifts from your fifty years of pack trips.

I have worried about you all day, wondering if you might come home, the trip delayed, the thought of leaving on a drier day more appealing and more practical. Maybe it is to you. How many times have you had to saddle and leave in the rain and remain wet for the duration of your pack trip? And here you go again. Though somehow I hold the hope that it is drier here and tomorrow the sun will shine and although you will be out a little higher on the mountain in your half of our double sleeping bag, I will be home sharing our bed with Gunnar in my half. May my love reach you as you curl up at night under a tarp and try to keep warm without me.

I sit here warm and dry and wrapped in wool by the big fire, with the dog on a blanket at my feet. Soup boils and I am sipping tea and the only other light is a candle in the antique silver holder next to me and I wish you were here and feel foolishly incomplete without you. And somehow wrong for being so comfortable! How lucky I am to have someone I miss already and you’ve not even been gone a day.

For Ginny

It is not possible to look ahead and see how and when and from where we’ll say goodbye this time, for the thought seems unreal, impossible, and unpleasant, though I know that day approaches. At this point, I keep my focus on two things. First, of course on the book. It is taking on a life of its own and consuming me this week. I am happy to let it and give myself to the muse and find myself unable to hold back the flow of words, only struggle to keep my fingers moving fast enough to capture the surge of thoughts, roaring like spring waters. It is happening, Ginny. Your book! And I believe it is going to be very good. The second thing is how to come back. Longer. Maybe to live. I feel we are not done, but only beginning.

Really, the thought of saying goodbye to you, to Sky, to this little Spirit horse, to these trees, to the wind and water that have become me…. I will think no more of such things for now.

For Forrest

And now today is your birthday, Bud. Happy Birthday to you, my son, my friend, my team mate and partner and at times my guide, my creative equal and often inspiration and now physical superior (there, I finally admit you are stronger than me!). Twenty.

And I remember you being born. I suppose most mothers do. The things that change our life forever. For the better. The things that matter most. The one thing I always wanted. You! And oddly enough, this mothering thing is even better than I thought it could be, which I thought was pretty good. And that’s because of you. Who you are. The gifts you bring to the table of this growing relationship. They are as plentiful and full as your open mind.

I guess somewhere along the way the line connecting mother and son is rebuilt on friendship and a growing adult relationship. Not that I’ll ever stop caring. I care about those I love most, whether I’m your mother or not. I’ll worry, I’ll advise, I’ll think, plot and plan, I’ll lose sleep and gain grey hair and still wish I could do more. I’m just that sort.

Of course there is so much more I want to say, to share. Boy do we both have a lot of stories to catch up on together. I’ll guess we’ll have to wait. For now I’m down here in Argentina. You’re up there in Canada. Both lives and worlds are pretty amazing. And next thing you know, you’ll be meeting up with Bob, on another crazy adventure which involves snowmobiles and fine Scotch (though not the two at the same time, please) and I’ll be back with my horses, my cats, a new batch of chickens and crossing that bridge we built together, awaiting your return. There’s no metaphor there. That’s the real thing. Though think of all that bridge can mean. Teamwork, crossing the uncrossable, finding a place of our own, making peace, open souls, exploring and being brave. And a lot of hard work. Another dream come true. I have lots more of them to work on. And I can’t wait to hear and maybe urge you on to come up with a mountain of dreams yourself.

Let them soar in the wind with your growing spirit. Or perhaps it is a spirit awakening.

I love you, Bud. Happy birthday to you!

Que rico!

March 15, 2013 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

More stories than I can share. Some for the book, a few for you, many no more than to feed my soul. Which here and now is full and rich and on fire. Alive with rushing wind and water.

This morning I am horseback with Bob to our “kiss and ride,” a mile up river along our side of the bank. He crosses and heads to work at the Ranquilco, helping with their current hydro power project. Gunnar and I and my little mare run home to get the bread rising. Many a morning, we make it back in half the time it took us to get there. This morning it takes longer. Teaching the neighbor’s dog, Charlie, the routine. His short little legs must move four times as fast as Gunnar’s to get him half as far. We can wait.

Now I sit out between the house and the river, soaking in the first sun I felt in days. The river sings softly behind me. My mare in the shade to one side of me, the two dogs snapping at meat bees on the other.

Now I can be still, quiet, focus. Sit down to write. That’s where I am now. Taking a break from The Book work. Coming up for air. And such air there is. Much more than at the altitude from where I came. Much more of everything here. Or everything I’ve been looking for. Which is more of less, at times.

Starting with the horses. Here not as a hobby but as an essential. Transportation. The only way in. Learning the local tack, new straps and knots, saddle blankets piled high like the princess and the pea. Bridles and reins of silky soft and skinny tanned leather we spoil ourselves with and are quick to buy anew with the slightest signs of wear and tear, here replaced with rawhide. A lamb carried to camp horse back, slaughtered and hung in the shade tree, and cooked over an open fire to feed the hungry crew. Salad passed around in one big bowl with one fork and one napkin to wipe up the sweet sauce that drips from the carrots and onions down a greasy chin. Beer in big bottles passed person to person, as wine from the bota and mate from the gourd.

I learned to cook in France and for years we all figured I’d continue a career as a chef. I chose cooking for my family instead. Now I have a whole new techniques to learn. Like rules to abide to. Someone told me “Gaucho’s are picky about what they eat.” I think of the other places I have lived and travelled. The French countryside. The Greek Islands. Homesteading with the California bounty. New York chic and New Mexico green and red. Are they more demanding here? No, just more limiting, not wanting new, change, innovation, a different way. And oddly enough, I can accept that. Not that I want to close my mind and not try new, for this simpler way is new for me. But I can understand and even appreciate the simple cooking. Goat, stew, squash, potatoes. Peel the potatoes but not the beets. Whatever. When in Rome. If you don’t like the soup, get your hands out of the pot. I would like to keep mine in. The more I stir, the more I love the aroma.

I hear people longing for things they miss. I don’t know what. More ease. More comfort. More accessibility, communications, distractions, conveniences. Probably more variety. I’m here thinking it’s a great challenge. How long can I make a little last, and how easy to know what is for dinner. Likewise, I remember taking tourists on pack trips. Five days out, that’s it, and they’d be itching for a Coke, a bath, a bed. Sure they would miss the sound of wind and water, but they weren’t ready to live with it.

I know I’m not living like a gaucho. I’m still living it up. Fancy windows, European antiques, and even with one room blocked off, still more space than we can spread out into, sweep up and keep warm. This house in which we’re staying is truly the lap of luxury, lacking little but things I’d rather live without anyway, like phone service, electric lights and a gas stove. Maybe a few simple additions I might be wanting for, if I was to stay here forever. Like a spatula would be nice. But Bob fashioned me one with a disposable metal lid and a stick from a nearby tree. It’s not the first time we’ve resorted to such innovations. For those who have been with me a while, you might recall the time at camp the boys had to whittle me my utensils before I could flip an egg. I swear breakfast tasted better that way.

And yet what I thought was simple back in the States seems still like so much more than here. Excess. Waste. Too much. I’m trying to learn. Keeping an open mind, even if the minds I try to understand at first appear so closed. Perhaps it is this closing off, accepting what you have, and learning to not look beyond which allows for contentment. Tradition holds greater power here still than change. I both respect and admire that, and know it is nothing I was born with, being raised in a culture of change. But can I learn to live in it? Can I change – in this case, change my ways of constantly evolving and wanting to see, have, know and do more, and learn to accept this here and now that has so captivated me?

I will never be of this land, and may never quite fit in. Do I anywhere? And who really “is” the land but someone who is maybe nothing else and clings to a title instead of a sense of self?

But maybe I can live here. Be accepted for who I am, here and now. Where I was and what I did don’t matter. I don’t want to lose myself, and try to be what I am not. Yet somehow I think maybe I can find more of me here. Finding more with less.

Do you really need to see so far beyond the mountains in which you live? Will you be content if you already have? How will we know if we do not try. Farewell and good riddance to the isle of sugared cereals and more options of wines that you’ll try in a lifetime. Isn’t red and white enough? Here, there are but a few spices. Oregano, cumin, chili and sweet pepper. Here, there is no refrigeration. Meat slaughtered weekly and hung in a screen box under the pear tree. Take only what you can eat before the flies lay their eggs and the meat spoils.

This takes longer now. The air is cooler. Even now mid day in the full sun. A tingle of autumn in the first of yellowing grass and fading hillsides and teasers of golden leaves on the regal Lombardi poplar trees defining the edges of the occasional homesteads, perfect rows, little green lines in the otherwise arid mountains.

You can feel the first of the change of season. The river may never be warm enough for me to bath in again this year. In the earlier mornings, I’m wearing my wool hat and still my fingers are slow to dance on the keyboard when they are this cold. My thoughts turn to the wood we split and stacked earlier in the week. I’m holding out. I worry about getting soft. Think how cold it would be if I were back “home.” Still snowed in.

Now I’m sitting here warming up with the dogs and a mate and today’s big blue and thinking of yesterday’s heavy layered grey. Hopes of rain and sound of wind through the willows and river rushing over the rapids. Bundled under a borrowed shawl of Ginny’s, almost like having her hands wrapped around me. Encouraging me. Write, sister, write… Let’s get this story out there. So much to share!

I suppose if there were but one story to share with you today, you’d ask to hear the one about the branding in the high country. Though I am certain I have already taken up too much of your time. So once again, I’ll let the photos tell the story instead of my words.

And now I return to writing, what I came here for. Only to find the words, and so much more.

Another Beautiful Day In Patagonia

March 1, 2013March 1, 2013 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

A story with no words needed…

In The Middle

February 25, 2013 / Gin Getz / 9 Comments

A quick note to Gin Getz readers: I am Karen Bailey, a friend of Gin. You may have seen my comments from time to time on this blog. Gin has very limited internet connectivity and has asked me to help post her blogs: Basically she is just sending me post and photos via email and then I put them on the blog for her. Just wanted all the readers to know this in case you post a comment and wonder why you don’t hear back from her. Please do continue to post comments because she is able to read them! –Karen

Sometime in the middle of Nowhere, you may find there is no place you would rather be.

Five pens used up, one pencil, and I’m not sure how many trips Bob has made back and forth with my computer in his saddle bag, horseback across river to the Estancia Ranquilco to charge the batteries on my laptop. Writing progresses. But some days, progress is slow. Frustrating. There must be something wrong. That something must be… me. My writing. The direction I’m going. My method. My abilities. You know. Those evil thoughts of insecurities. Demons! Be gone!

The last two days were like that. More than likely, a case of The Middles. As a friend pointed out in her last letter to me, we’re half way through our time in Argentina. I’m half way through the roughest of rough drafts (though there will be many more stages following to refine this to a final product I am proud to put my name on, and Ginny so deserves). Summer here is half way over. Already a difference in light, rising later in the morning, and the start of a shadow now at noon.

And some days I feel it’s just beginning. Maybe I’m slow to get going. Maybe I just know I won’t want to leave. But I do want to complete this book. For myself. But mostly for Ginny. She has trusted me. I have promised her.

Today I wanted to be with her, talk with her, and ask for her help. Funny how she is always quick to help others heal. Holding my cold hands in her warm ones on a chilly morning back in El Huecu when I went to work on Morning Pages. Knowing a note from her would cheer me up, as she has so many times. Lift my insecurities and help me get back on track.

I didn’t want her to see my weakness. To know I too can falter. That, yes, there are times I doubt myself that I can do it and question my sanity for trying. But I wanted to have her tell me I can do this. And that I can do it well. To tell me that I am the right one to finally complete this project that she had wanted for so many years to complete. The story so many have told her needs to be told. I wanted to talk with her and hear these words because I knew hearing them from her, I would believe, and I would get back to work newly inspired, leaving this bout of The Middles behind. (Don’t get too comfortable, of course, for there will be more).

It’s just a thought, and thoughts can change. We can change them. We can heal. Ourselves. Others. Sharing wisdom, stories, parts of our self. When we think we have nothing more to give. We have words. Yes, Ginny, you are healing. Yourself and others. This book is indeed a part of it.

Otherwise, I remind you, my friend, of your formula for healing. It has worked for you before. Let us work on this now.

Reduce stress. This might mean stop doing what you’re doing, living where you’re living, dealing with that who or what that’s dragging you down and draining you.
Increase love. Be around and/or reach out to people who love you. And there are so many! You are never truly alone.
Include horses, some part of them, some where, some way, some how in this equation.
Include art. For as you know so well, Creativity Heals!

My time on this side note must be cut short. Get back to work. Use my precious computer battery time to move forward on this book. Adelante!

I leave you then with this. Written a day or two ago, and ripe now for sharing, for who knows when I will be able to do so again, and by that time, you know I’ll have plenty more to share…

Another beautiful day in Patagonia…

Today at the Estancia Trocoman. Today as yesterday, as tomorrow. Except for missing my son, I don’t know when and if I have ever been happier.

Every day based upon writing. It helps that it is a good story, and my “office” cannot be beat. A point and a purpose – to get this story done, to share Ginny’s story, to find the words to make it sing, the tune to inspire the reader, and choose the stories to make it dance. Dancing in the wind!

Side notes and fun stories, in the writing, in my time off. Balanced by daily rituals. Discipline. If it were not for discipline, I would not be here. Would not be able to promise a completion. No schedules, no hours to keep track of, no one looking over my shoulder as I write (now wouldn’t that be a killer for creativity?). Only my own sense of responsibility, my love of self discipline (yes, I know, that’s been considered a bit strange by some), and my driving desire to complete this project, and complete it well.

Morning matέ, followed by a brief hike or ride, and sit down to write until lunch. Leftover goat stew from the night before warmed again on the open fire, and bread dough fried in goat lard stored under a dirty towel to keep off the flies. Otherwise, the pantry is close to empty, and here there is no fridge. No more fruits or veggies or eggs or cheese. But there are fish in the river and meat hanging in the screen box under the pear tree, and flour, salt, sugar, spices, rice and beans on shelves that seem so rich. We sure won’t starve and eating simply suits us fine. Truly, we are wanting for little more and feel grateful to have all we do. Which seems so much. Plenty. Without the sticky dripping sweet abundance we left behind in the States.

With cooling air and a stone floor in the studio, mornings are now out in the sun, papers spread across a rough cut table put together with scraps and findings by Bob and Alcides, allowing me to be there, warm, in the elements, of the land, with my dog by my side and the guys working nearby. There I overlook the Rio Trocoman, across river to the herd of goats passing on their morning rounds, up river to the Estancia Ranquilco, and beyond to the endless waft of wind and weather that comes from I know not yet where. Not a bad place to work.

Still, writing takes a slow turn like a wide spot in the river. Quiet, unhurried progression. Time to linger languidly. Try not to be frustrated but rather lie on your back in composed deep waters and stare up at the unruffled clouds. I remind myself it is progress, though seemingly sluggish at times. Rivers don’t stand still. Now just without the drama of white waters. Not the thrilling rush over rounded rocks louder than the wind when all of it takes your breath away.

Now is time to breathe.

So much to cover. Some days it overwhelms. Words, only words. Trying to create a world of words. Paint a picture with pen on ink, or fingers nimbly dancing across the keyboard on my lap. Swirling words like colors in the clouds in evening. Papers spread out, binders open, journals turning pages faster than I can write with wind from the open French doors beside me. Put one word in front of the next. And a story unfolds. The rose does not bloom any faster if we ask it to.

As adobe bricks are stacked. Though words are light, easier to move, far less arduous to put in place, and hopefully remain as solid as the old walls around me.

And so, this is how I spend my time off. Hauling adobe bricks from the stack that’s been there for years. Covered with cob webs. Brushing off the meat bees and the occasional giant spider moved in under the black plastic probably years ago. Bob says my face is smeared with dust. I look down at my flip flops. My toes are the color of the sand. My shirt is not much cleaner. A past time for me, a break from the world of words surrounding and absorbing me. A dirty but fun distraction.

For Bob, a point and purpose. A small chance to share his talents. And for Alcides, finally a bathroom after how many years?!?! A silent work crew. Neither speaks the language of the other. A silent understanding. Based on hand signals, gestures, pointing, an understanding of what needs to be done, and the resources they have to make it happen. Everything they need is here, already hauled in by mule or made right here on the land, like chainsaw milled lumber and the adobe bricks that have become my part of the program, carrying them from here to there in the little old square metal wheel barrow with the chipped orange paint.

Now I must return to writing. Writing long hand on days my battery is charging, a horseback ride for Bob across river away where there is an off grid system already in place. I’m thinking… next job for my sweetie… how about one here? Already the ink of five pens has been spent, turning off white pages into black lines and scribbles into tales. Now I sharpen my pencil with my pocket knife, tossing the small wooden curls laced with bright yellow paint the color of a school bus into the wind and becoming a part of the land. Land from where these stories were born.

Until the next time, my dear friends and family and those who are just passing by and curious enough to stick around and read… I send light and love from alongside the Rio Trocomon in Patagonia. My apologies for lack of responses and additional communication. I shall try to send off a post on the computer with Bob once a week or so when he rides to the power/plug in source for which we are most grateful. He in turn sends out messages already composed, including these posts which I am sending to Karen, who most kindly posts in my absence. (Many thanks to you, dear woman, friend, office manager and business operator extraordinaire.)

Take nothing for granted… Every person, every experience, every meal, every day… is a celebration. If we choose to make it so. Cheers, my friends. I’m celebrating life!

A brief greeting from the Rio Trocoman

February 12, 2013February 12, 2013 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

A brief greeting and I return to silence.

My words are engaged elsewhere. Being used to write the story for which I came here. There will be time later to share this all with you, and so much there is to share! For now, communication is challenging. It is easy to do without, and easier still to forget I have a life beyond the here and now. Except for a sadness I feel when I think of my son, so many miles away.

For now, the occasional trip will suffice, computer packed into saddle bag, and a horse ride across river. From here where I write, with the river to my south and sun to my north, far enough away from electricity and internet, wood for making matέ and meals, candle light and stars, a sandy beach for our bath, and the only trail in is by horses. I could stay here longer than I know I should.

Please trust when I tell you this much. The story is emerging. Coming to life. Birthing slow and steady in the heat of mid day with note books and binder, pens and tea cup spread out before me on Ginny’s antique drawing table surrounded by her painting and ponchos, antiques and photo albums. Not always in the direction I thought it would lead. Like a river cutting into soft gravel in a sudden downpour and changing course. Yet to where the water leads remains the same.

Until next time. I send love and light from here where both are so bountiful.

Gin Getz

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

personal stories

Digging up dirt

Smoldering

An update from the Upper Rio Grande

Back in Bigness

Indepen-dance

Celebrating Life

Que rico!

Another Beautiful Day In Patagonia

In The Middle

A brief greeting from the Rio Trocoman

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