The introduction

January 6, 2013January 7, 2013 / Gin Getz / 12 Comments

Three months ago we met, though still not face to face. A strange coincidence. Those seem to be the best kind of meetings, have you noticed? Something about the things we cannot explain. She told me there are no coincidences. I don’t know what I believe, but I do believe getting to know Ginny has been somehow magical. I wonder how much more so when we finally meet. In a way she’s turned my world upside down already. Because of her, Bob, Gunnar and I are heading to the other side of the world. Patagonia.

Let me tell you a little bit about Ginny. Oddly enough, I know a lot. I have spent these three months pouring through notes, writings and information on websites that she compiled over the past several years covering her life stories, from birth to present. What a life it is!

Gin and Ginny. You might just get confused. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it if you stick around a while.

I am Gin, and just the writer. Working to put the pieces of the puzzle together into hopefully one beautiful picture. A memoir manuscript with consistency, interest and intrigue, capturing the essence of this remarkable woman.

The story is Ginny’s.

The adventure, well, that’s all of ours. Even yours if you’re ready to go for the ride.

Tomorrow, we leave our mountain and begin the journey south.

The fun begins.

And so, now.

Finally, an introduction.

For those who have been wondering where I am going and why.

For those who would like to “meet” a truly remarkable woman.

Tonight, I share this treat. An introduction to Ginny Carrithers.

Following is a rough draft, a condensed bio of Ginny Carrithers, and an introduction to her memoirs.

For now, we shall call this “Dancing in the Winds of Patagonia”

One remarkable woman’s inspiring adventures of living life fully with MS.

Welcome to the world of Virginia Tice Neary Carrithers. Welcome to a world that covers two hemispheres and spreads wide across the worlds of the Aspen art scene, Thoroughbred horseracing, jet setting and a fairy tale world where Prince Charming still sits at the head of the table. This is the story of life as wild as the land she chose to settle in, and as fast the winds that now embrace her. Ginny’s is story of extremes and challenges. Beginning with a childhood laced with trauma, Ginny has confronted, overcome and learned to live with physical and emotional obstacles throughout her life, and managed to come out laughing. Her drive and passion led her to the highs that are hard to keep up with, and lows that would be devastating to so many of us. Hers is a story of living the high life and ultimately choosing the simple life.

On the surface, this is a fun, fast and racy story of one woman’s wild journey generated by her own strength, positive outlook, and brilliant, shining character. It is a story of the power of creativity and nature. Deeper down, this story is one of personal growth, healing, and inspiration that the reader (viewer) will want to cheer, cry, scream and ultimately hug and rejoice for the celebration of character that Ginny Carrithers is.

Her story begins in 1949 in New Orleans, Louisiana. From the beginning, her strength and resolve are challenged with life threatening bouts of the croup. Hers was an odd and lonely childhood on private island with a psychiatrist father, and mother that had her first nervous breakdown and was institutionalized when Ginny was only nine. From her earliest days, art, horses, and nature where her consolation and inspiration.

Life begins to bloom at age 15 as her body blossoms. Her world widens and begins to speed up with boys, cars, and wild rides to Aspen with her best friend, Janice. Yet again, Ginny’s world is severely shaken by her brother’s car crash which left him forever in a wheelchair, her father’s suicide, and her mother again institutionalized.

With her great resolve and joy of living, Ginny continues to create her place in the brilliant world filled with wealthy and powerful men, painting, and horse racing in New Orleans where she lived the young beautiful life. Her notable accomplishments include becoming the first licensed woman in Louisiana to train Thoroughbred racehorses, commissions for her equestrian art, modeling and acting and being a body double/stunt woman in a James bond movie. This woman was indeed living the “racy” life, with a whirlwind of travel, power, passion, and fame.

In 1976 at the age of 27, Ginny has become paralyzed and is given the diagnosis of MS. A chronic, progressive, disabling disease. And still this woman is not slowed down, does not back down. For Ginny, it opened new doors. After a year and half of paralysis, Ginny goes into remission and begins her work for the National MS Society, becoming a world-wide spokes person, creating and donating her own artwork, raising millions of dollars over the years, creating promotion and awareness with her talents of horse racing and art, and inspiring so many, not only those affected by the disease, but so many touched by and finding themselves in the embrace of this exciting woman.

It is during this time that Ginny meets Ashley Carrithers. The year is 1986. Another one charmed by this lovely and vivacious woman! It is because of this connection that two new worlds are opened up for Ginny. The first is Patagonia. The second is motherhood. Ultimately, it is the combination of these two that transform Ginny to the next stage of her life.

As their relationship begins, Ginny is living the Princess Dream come true, continuing the jet set lifestyle though now between hemispheres. There she is on the Estancia, riding her white Arabian, continuing to evolve with her artistic endeavors. playing polo, flying out on their private airstrip. She is on one hand the wealthy Patrona, juggling baby, paintbrush, estancias, a challenging marriage, building airstrips, buying land, travel, travel, travel… Yet all the while the darkness of MS follows her about like an uncomfortable shadow. A shadow that at times can be fierce and cruel and painful and all consuming. And somewhere between those two extremes, she is learning about healing. She sleeps outside alone on the ground. Builds her fire, drinks her mate. She finds a deeper, stronger place of visions and medicine cards and animal guides.

After the divorce, Ginny continues the back and forth between North and South America, and ultimately chooses to remain in Patagonia. She is drawn to remain because of her daughter. Because of the simpler life. The grounding. Nature. What matters most. She finds her own strength, learning to live without the Prince Charming fairytale and become her own woman. Still the artist. The artist of life. She is continually challenged as she deals with the progression of her disease, her broken back, her independence and loneliness, her desire to continue to give and reach out to and share with others, her connection to the earth, her creativity, her horses, her limitations, and her broad and beautiful spirit shining possibly stronger than ever.

This brings us to The Present. This brings us to Ginny, today, dealing with a debilitating disease while living in the dramatic setting of Patagonia. And still finding ways to give, motivate, inspire. New ways to share beauty and life. This is her spirit. Brilliant and warm as we all have seen or are seeing.

This is Ginny Carrithers.

On the surface one sees a beautiful woman and talented artist living a dream come true complete with fairytale lifestyle, world travel, wild adventures, fast horses, and elite connections. The high life. Look again and see the lows of trauma, drama, loss, and the side of the same passionate, vivacious, driven woman learning to live with MS. Multiple Sclerosis for some. Messenger of Sprit for Ginny. MS became her call for transformation and inner growth, for waking up and living her life real, strong, self guided, empowered.

The greatest element of this story is still just beyond my reach. It is within Ginny. Her true essence, her spirit if you will, which you can read so much about on paper or the computer, but no doubt will change me and complete this story. After months of becoming relatively obsessed with the life of this remarkable woman, we will finally be meeting. And there, my friends, lies the missing link to this story.

And so it is that the rest of the story, in fact the part we will begin with, starts there. Next week in Patagonia.

In the meanwhile, I can promise you this. Ginny’s story is a wild ride. Hold onto your hats, sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride. Ginny’s story will take you first to places you’ve only dreamed of, and then to a place and space within that you secretly long to be.

(for more information, please see Ginny’s web site at CreativityHeals.org)

Well, sorry to leave you hanging. You’ll have to read the book to find out all the juicy details. In the meanwhile, stick around and enjoy the adventure as Gin meets Ginny, the Mountain Man leaves his mountain again because of his woman’s crazy whims, and the Pup heads to Patagonia.

Parting ways

January 4, 2013January 4, 2013 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

The dog jumps up on the second story window and tries to get out. I don’t blame him. I feel like doing the same. We watch the boys head out on snowmobile, towing a toboggan sled containing houseplants started from cuttings that came from California, Washington, and somewhere back east from before I was born. And cats. Three of them. Two are 16 years old. A gift to Forrest when he was three. Because his mother doesn’t like mice. I had never had good luck with cats. None lasted with me for more than a year. Maybe I was doing something really wrong, but I swear, it was not intentional. Mostly, I guess, just bad luck. Like it was for the little black cat that got hit by a car. Guess my luck (and theirs) changed. Many a dead mouse later, these two girls aren’t good for much more than a snuggle now. But you know, there’s still great value in that.

First the horses. Then the chickens. Then the plants, the cats, and THE BOYS. This dog knows something is up.

Bob, he’ll be back tomorrow. Time for us to pack. Tie up loose ends, close this place down, and get ready to head out.

Forrest, well, we won’t see him until the first of May when he’s done with school for the semester. College in Canada.

Seven thousand miles away we’ll be. Geez. 7000 miles. It looks like less when I write it that way. Or his way. Over 11,000 km. No, that way is bigger. Way bigger. Let’s not go there.

I was not ready to see him go. I never am. I wonder if I ever will be.

New beginning

January 2, 2013 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Here’s to a new beginning. Today and every day we choose to see the newness. And here’s to being a part of it, not just watching it pass by.

A new beginning
today, as every day.
Is it any different?
the crutch of familiarity
balancing
inevitability of change
when so much around is changing
solid ground moving beneath still feet

The act of choosing

Today I choose here. For now.

The sound of the pot of water on the wood stove hissing into dry air. Breathing. My husband’s, my son’s, my dog’s, my own. I can make out each breath, underscored by the sound of a purring cat. Is this what the world sounded like in the womb? Or the sound, perhaps, of drowning. And then there is nothing more.

Though maybe there is touch. My dog’s cold nose against my hand waking me. My husband so soft and warm, his back to me. I roll towards him and fit just right. He doesn’t stir but settles into the comfort he is now so used to.

The little things please me today. Time with my son. We don’t need an elaborate celebration. Save that for those who need a thrill. There is no need to put on airs for more. We have plenty.

It’s not like you wake up one morning and sit up in bed with your feet on the cold floor and say to yourself, “Oh my, I changed!”

No. It’s slow, steady, deliberate. Think molasses. And yes, chances are that means thick and messy, too.

Two weeks into my seventeenth year I boarded a plane for France and stayed there for a year. That was almost thirty years ago. To pay for the ticket, I had spent the summer working as a camp counselor at the local Y, caring for 18 8-year old boys, shuttling them around by subway between the boroughs of New York City, holding the door that wanted to keep closing open against my skinny little back until all my skinnier little kids were safely on board or off. When I returned back to my parents’ apartment, nothing was the same. You don’t go backwards, do you? You can choose to do something over, try it again, that sort of thing. But the same? Really… never. Something is always different. Though sometimes, of course, that difference is pretty profound.

At what point did I change? Maybe when I was still working as the camp counselor and my superior had taken mescaline that day we were schedule to take the boys to another borough, and I knew it was up to me to take care of the kids by myself, and it didn’t cross my mind I could not. Maybe it was when I boarded that plane alone and was flying across the ocean at night, and saw darkness I had never seen before, and found such peace in the hum of massive engines pushing steel through the black sky.

I don’t know. We usually don’t know when we go through change. Only upon reflection do we figure it out. So what can I say? Maybe tomorrow I’ll look back at today and wonder. But I don’t think I’ll have it figured out for a while. And I’m finally starting to get this much. Maybe we never know. That mystery thing. Maybe it’s not so bad after all.

Confessions of a mountain mama

December 29, 2012December 30, 2012 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

So yes, travel… But first, life. The big picture.

Don’t forget what matters most, and what I’m all about. I’m not asking you, though if you know, please tell me. I just have to remind myself. Or trying to figure it out in the first place. Because this travel thing sure takes a lot of work, and time, and money, and we’re not even there yet. Remember, we scratch out a living providing vacations. We don’t take them. So what am I doing? Questioning myself.

Lessons learning, and will be learned on staying grounded. On one hand, I leave my world for a new one. On the other, I carefully pack parts of my world to bring with me. For example, obviously I care not to leave my relationship with my son behind. This is the hardest part – the sheer distance that will separate us. Or my business. Odd to consider I will begin taking reservations for this little bit of paradise from another one over six thousand miles away. I embrace my responsibilities, and have no intention (quite the contrary!) of tossing them to the side as I leap onto a limb. My shoulders are strong and I intend to carry these with me. Otherwise, I would not go. I’m really not interested in such frivolity. Leaving it all behind was fun when I was young. I had nothing else I cared about. Now I love what I have. But still want to experience more. Thus, the added weight, but added fullness of life and character. Embrace it all.

All these darned details of getting there from here (did I mention: with an eighty pound dog?). Complicated by a different country, a different hemisphere, a different language, trying communications, emotions and relationships. Going where you’ve never been before. Minor details. Get over it. None of that matters, just makes things hard, and I never said easy was good. What I’m going for remains the same.

And still it’s all just a small part of the big picture for me. For you, dear reader, might I guess, the more interesting part? The rest might seem like boring details in comparison. They are not for me. Helping my son with course load and career choice decision, setting up a reservation system and advertising for next summer’s bookings, juggling numbers and balancing the books (this never really happens but I go through the motions every year), arrangements for critter care and shutting down our guest ranch for almost four months… Do you really want to read about these things? (The few of our faithful cabin renters who read the part about cabin bookings are smiling wide and shaking their head saying, “Yes!”)

Do you know that feeling of arriving at a place you have never been to before? You know that dream state you find yourself in at first, so odd and a little eerie, of not being sure if you’re really there, or just watching life pass by like a movie until you finally find yourself in there and participating and then it slowly soaks in that it’s real? Nothing (except perhaps, hands-on positive parenting) brings you more face to face with your inner self.

Did you ever think what you were all about? Really, take a minute and think about it. Maybe write it down so it’s clear. Or tell someone. Then it’s somehow more real. You shared it. Tell me, if you’d like. I’m glad to listen. It’s interesting what you learn.

Me, first and foremost, I’m a mother. Nothing has created me more. I am a wife. I’m one part of a team of three, my boys and me. (And dang, we are one helluva great team, if I do say so myself.) I’m a dog mama, a horse mama, and the mama of whatever other animals I’m blessed enough to have and care for. I’m about nature, solitude, creativity and passion. I’m not always stable, a little too sensitive and filled with compassion. I strive for grace, and have so much to learn.

And what about artist, writer? The encore career. Or some may note, back to where I was going before. After the mothering and housewife part of the job has, well… I can’t say I’ve retired, but that part has turned into more of a hobby, shall we say. We’re three equals now. There is less for me to do. Now there is room for more. More of another side of me.

Somehow this matters. Defining yourself from the start. For travel will change you. Not tourism, but travel. Going to be, not just to see.

My fingers hover above the keyboard but make no contact. Slowly they settle, but no letter is pressed. I am waiting. Waiting for a way to explain all this and nothing reasonable is coming. Maybe this isn’t the time. Make the time.

Writing. Sharing. We all have gifts. I believe this is mine. I’m too shy to give of myself when we’re together. Some of you have seen that, or figured that out. This is my thing. Sharing stories. Maybe just images. Images painted in words. Bringing you out there with me. Or inside, deep within.

This makes no sense, I know. This is no explanation for where I am going. Though maybe it is. In a round-about way. I’m not big on straight lines.

I need to go outside. Everything makes more sense out there. The crisp morning air. Breathe… Yes! It’s six below zero (-21C) without a cloud in the sky and the new sun that just peaked the back side of Finger Mesa to the east has stretched long blue shadows across a rolling, waved hill like a frozen sea of pale golden snow, broken only by a meandering line of tall trees that define the river’s winding path, and then ending abruptly at the jagged wall of black timber on the other side.

After what seems like five minutes of pulling on, piling, layering and zipping up, I’m out there with the dog running way ahead, clearing my path from unforeseen dangers. And my big fat boots, loud. Each step crunching in the dried, sugary snow. White noise if ever I heard one! Music to my otherwise wildly racing mind. Relax now, there is nothing to think about except the next noisy step and grasping the next deep breath of this frigid morning air.

Fine tuning point and purpose

December 27, 2012December 27, 2012 / Gin Getz / 13 Comments

when I wake I
remember what
is outside I love
but in my head
is not where
I want to be

You know I never meant for this to be a travel log. Quite the contrary. It was always meant to be about home. Building home, making home, home making. Homesteading. But it’s not, is it? Though I think it was four years ago when High Mountain Muse first began. Seems long ago and far away now. Though the view outside the window looks just about the same as it did back then. Maybe less snow this year. That’s a problem. But I don’t want to discuss that today.

Maybe I’ve lost my way. Maybe I’ve changed direction. But look! Here I go. I’m changing again.

After our adventure last winter battling the Empty Nest syndrome by flying my own coop to Northern Washington, I was pretty sure I was ready to return, settle down, stay a while. But it seems I am not done. I can’t blame the Empty Nest syndrome any more. I should be over that. (Or does one ever really recover?) Maybe it’s just Itchy Feet.

But I think it’s more. It is about life. About passion. About a wild desire to experience life, full and rich. About tasting life, not just reading the recipe. And diving in. Not just touching your toe to cold water and being afraid to dive in.

I’m diving in.

Time to think about packing now. We’re two weeks away from launching. I hope you’ll join me. Sit back, tighten your seatbelts, and enjoy the ride.

But first, I’m here. Now. And that’s still the best place to be. (Especially with our son here with us!)

hold steady the camera
to the mountain
my muse
and breathe in another shot

ingrained

chiseled somewhere in
there where I am
reminded of
the smell
of crumbled aspen leaves
and pine sap
spruce bark
and the odor of the bull elk
who left his bed of melted snow
to silently blend
into pale trees
and wood smoke wafting from
the cookstove chimney
lingering out on pasture
where the horses should be

ingrained

Trying not to write is like morning without coffee. Very incomplete, but without the headaches.

On these trees

December 22, 2012December 22, 2012 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

The rhythm of movement. Lost in thought, and trying not to think. Just observe. The beauty and silence of the early winter on the mountain. Over cast sky and hills flattened without shadows, broken by dried bunch grass and the leafless cinquefoil poking through thin snow. Speckled hillsides where we expect by now to see smooth white. Don’t think about the continued drought. Don’t think. Just observe.
Cold hands. I struggle to press the shutter with my mittens on. As clumsy as boxer mits. Such contrast to the delicate subjects before me.

~
Dead trees. And dying ones. Sending out their last sap in a losing battle.
Beetle kill. Part of learning to see, finding the beauty in the beast. Getting used to it. Living with it. Knowing the tell-tale signs. Pin holes, loose bark, dried and heavy sap runs. This is Cutting Edge science. They look for answers. I wish they had them. I am learning to see reality. We are seeing changes yet undocumented, not yet understood. We learn to live it, not analyze it. We use our eyes, our heart. We listen to the falling needles on cold ground in spring and brush a tiny black beetle off our shirt in early summer. We walk trails silent from the layer of needles spread out before us like sand leading the way to the beach. Needles that once were shade. The view is opening.

~
It’s big, hundreds of thousands acres around me, but I am going to look close.
Some days it gets to me. Looking up at the rolling hillsides of brown blue spruce. Looking closer, say, at one pin hole or piece of slipping bark, is easier.

~
Living in a land I used to think was one of the last to be affected in this country, kind of like the late bloomer. Behind the times, if I may say. But now we find ourselves ahead of the game. Water issues. Drought. The aquifer drying up. Farmers paid not to grow. Entire forests dying. This is the forefront. There is nothing to refer to except for today.
We learn to listen with our eyes, our hearts, and let the so-called experts spit in the wind. Hopefully not too close to you or me.
I’m a dark timber kind of woman. A wood sprite of sorts who hides in the big heavy trees where my spirit is free and soars. I found my grandmother wisdom in the old growth fir, and my passionate bliss among the vanilla scented ponderosa pine. I’m not a silken bark aspen kind of lady putting out a fanfare of garish delight one season, and letting loose my leaves for half the year. That said, I have grown to love a hillside blending one into the other. That is Colorado.

~
At last count, Colorado lost 17% of our aspen. The aspen, some say, will be replaced by the conifer. They said that before the conifer began to die. Now some say the aspen will replace the conifer. I say no one knows. Such claims bring false hope. Can’t the land be beautiful for how she chooses to be? Ah… but are these changes her choice, or her reaction to our changing world?
All we can do is watch them slowly die, a quiet death, without fanfare. It doesn’t take a scientist to tell me. It only takes my eyes.
I see it. Plain as day. Plain as death.
Perhaps it is meant to be a mystery after all.
Have I lost my way again? What happened to quieting my mind and just observing?
How hard it is to just breathe.

Seeing solstice

December 21, 2012December 21, 2012 / Gin Getz / 12 Comments

Learning to see. Not just what I want to see. But what is there before me. Real and raw. And then find the beauty within, hidden as it may be at times.
Lessons learned looking through the lens.

(this inspired by the work of Harold Reinisch on his blog Okanagan Okanogan.

Light. Such a fascinating subject to focus on. I’d like to learn to capture a person’s light. Few opportunities present themselves here and now. There will be time. In the meanwhile, I turn to the mountain. Even on these days of long nights, with falling snow and white washed sky.

Learning to see. I’ve spent years here looking from afar. Now I find myself zooming in. Looking closer, deeper, slower. Does this have to do with age, patience or simply perspective?

The intimate point of view. Am I bringing you in there with me? Into the trees, a little lighter now than last year, sparser now with needles fallen from the dying spruce, and bare aspen trees tipped over and piled like match sticks in places. Seems like a new one across the trail each time we take our snowshoes through the trees. A nice place to sit and rest.

The camera – teaching me to slow down, maybe even stop, look closely, see the details. Breathe into an intimate gaze. I have seen the landscape. Know the view. Coming home from a snowshoe yesterday and my mountain, my muse, is spread out before me like a naked model, tempting, teasing, taunting. I lift my camera, held my breath and really look. I had taken the same picture before, I was sure. Probably more than once. Same snow, same light, same time of day on this very same day in December. I do not press the shutter and move on.

Learning to look close, close enough to touch, to feel, to smell and taste. To share that taste with you. Leave it sweet and bitter on your tongue.
It takes patience for me. Like being aware of my breath. A walking meditation.
Finding light on the darkest day. A metaphor for living.

After the even zero of winter’s mornings

December 18, 2012December 18, 2012 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

the weight of cold and clothes
slows us
down, lifting
bundled legs over
snow covered rocks
advancing up the
seemingly silent stream

a white ribbon running
through a white land

from her banks
she is silent still but
up close she
continues to sing

then suddenly she is
open, loud and
rushing from
a black abyss

broken

upon her smooth
surface, or gives
way beneath footfall
leaving breathe caught
mid way and
heart pumping a little

louder

we listen to find
our way, the stronger
she sings, the thinner
the ice, the closer we are
to rushing waters
and her secrets
chanting below
each hushed step
of snowshoe on powder

untouched

but for the occasional
criss cross pattern
bank to bank
like summer’s spider webs strung
tree to tree

in warmer days as we
come to the creek
and brush silk from our
sweaty cheeks
as we find a place
to cool and escape

now no more than an easy
crossing for
coyote and shoeshoe hare and

dog that turns wild on days like this
and allows us only
brief sightings
of brown fur and

domesticity

he moves silent as
the river, stealth
through dark timber
in his own world yet
never too far from
where we are

then just as suddenly
by our side
and we slowly progress
up stream together
while the waters continue
their muffled flow down
beneath each

uncertain step

I would also like to share this. It is beautiful.

The following was written and shared by “Yourothermotherhere” as a comment. I think you will see why I felt this should be shared in a post. Thank you, for your words.

it is about you
because your eyes
belong to you
and where you stand
the view is unique
to you

but it’s also about me
because you are more
than your eyes

you are heart
and soul
and mind

that all long to connect
with others of the same
creator
creations

an infinite gallery
of beauty
seen through
eternal beings

What I’m trying to say

December 16, 2012December 16, 2012 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

a scene from a snowier winter, what we’re still waiting for…

some days I see
nothing new
the same
blue bird in bluebird blue sky
and yes it paints a lovely picture
but what I need to see
to share
and what you look for
long for
is somehow

something more

the breath of the sparrow
last year’s grass standing stiff as straw
breaking the endless white hillside
into soft waves as the wind catches
stirs and deposits
obstructed by no more than
a blade of dried grass

the tell tale tracks of the
coyote catching
the snowshoe hare, white fur
scattered on snow like
heavy grains of frost

pin holes and chipped bark
on the broad rough side of
the blue spruce
that has scattered its needles on
the fresh snow below
pick-up sticks played as a child

the orange wash of the lightening
sky spilled across the flat white
of the horse pasture
now cleared of tracks
calm as the sea on a day
when the wind holds
its breathe

it can’t just be about me
and the pretty world
I live in
and all I can do is
hope
that what means something to me
might mean something
to you

No real cowgirl sings the blues

December 13, 2012December 13, 2012 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

So plug your ears, or you might just hear me cry.

`
(Picture of me and Flying Crow in the High Country in warmer days. Photo taken by Kate Seely)

`
Decisions are not random here. More often than not, they are based on nature. The high country, the rainy season, dropping temperatures, wind, drought, glaring sun, the road closed by snow. Things like that. Pretty simple, except we tend to complicate things with… emotion.
Our attempts at living where no one has before. A balancing act between human needs and nature. Complicated more by our decisions than what the weather does. Why can’t things be simple? As they are for the family of coyotes, loving the late-to-come winter, still out there pouncing voles in the dried brown grasses just out of Gunnar’s radar. Or the four elk still up high on Pole Mountain, grazing at an elevation of 13,000 feet. They say the Big One is rolling in tonight. These guys have not followed the forecast as intently as I have. I can only hope as the snows begin, they will turn to the timber and find their way to lower ground.

Now I’m looking through old photos. Warmer days. Sunshine, green grass, leaves on trees, solid ground to walk on, run on, kick up your heels on.

`
As I lay in bed last night, I cried. My husband unable to comfort me. And I am sorry I refused to let him try, for try he did. I know his warm touch would have soothed me, his gentle words a peaceful balm. Instead, I pushed him away, turned my back and cried myself to sleep.
I think you should know this. I don’t know why I share it any more than why I feel it. Sometimes I am tired of feeling and would rather find the perfect pill that washes it all away. Only not really, because I want to feel it all. I don’t want an unnatural solace, a potion that would make living less. I guess you have to take the good with the bad and there is always at least a bit of both if you’re really living.
This is ridiculous. I need to be stronger.

What do I really want?

Home. One. Seems pretty simple but it’s a constant theme. Here I have a love/hate relationship with the land. Yes, more love than hate. The best of relationships are that way. So why am I leaving again?
This is the last time I look elsewhere. If I find it there, I will move there. If I don’t, my search ends. That’s it. This place is not perfect, but it is mine, it is home. Complete with horses, chickens, cats and dog, a little family and a big mountain, and a healthy dose of normal problems to keep us all in line.
And there I am, loading the last four of my horses into the trailer to send them down to lower ground. Winter pasture. Before the road is closed. I wait until the last day. The last safe chance. My husband allows this of me. He knows how much it matters. He understands.
The hawk flies above me in the clear blue sky as my tears fall down into the snow. He is mine. There for me now when I am losing so much else. By choice. Damn it, what is wrong with me?

`
Winter will hit hard. Stinging against your cheeks like small stones as horizontal snow feels in the sub zero temperatures of early morning.
I won’t have to go out as early now. Tres will not be on back porch pulling down the snowshoes and ski poles to get my attention. I can wait for the sun to scale the mountain to the east and flood this little valley with sun on snow. But I won’t. I have been up early for years caring for those who need me, and really, I wouldn’t want it any other way. I will find something. The Steller’s Jays in the blue spruce, the pair of raven in the naked aspen, maybe even the magpie that shy from the coyote fence as I take the slop bucket down to the chicken coop each morning.
These will remain, a part of my morning ritual.
I frighten myself with my own decisions. Repercussions of creating life. It is not meant to be smooth, but we long for those still moments. They do not last.

`
And sometimes they die. A sorrow I care not touch on today.
The losses we have shared. Five foals in as many years. The scars are deep within me. I have carried each loss in my arms, bathed him or her with tears as he or she poured forth life that could not be contained.

`
No. Now I would rather focus on joy.
It is not always easy. But it is there if we look deep enough.
Horses have become me. A part of me. Chosen. Created. Not given, assumed or taken. I’m no lucky horsey girl grown up. I’m a horse woman, self made. An adult decision I like to say. Painted my own picture. And now I watch the last of them drive away…

Only for a few months. I remind myself and hold onto these words. Only words. But I can close my eyes and picture this. Some time in spring, long before leaves on the trees, streaks of snow patch cleared from pasture, brown waters in the Rio Grande, and tourists considering this a destination, we’ll be driving back with them in tow. And I know the feeling I will have, almost uncontained, bursting, just to have them again out of every window, following us about like bored children as we work about the ranch, the point and purpose to first light of day, ready to allow me at any given whim to wrap my arms about their neck and bury my nose in their warm hair.

`
It’s hard enough bringing Gunnar to Patagonia. I cannot bring all of them too.
How redundant to say “I will miss them.” These words are already assumed. You already know.
It’s not just about riding, is it? Maybe it was. Maybe that is how it started. But the deeper you go, the more there is.
They are now partners. We work with them, live with them, depend on them as they on us. Unlike pleasure horses, lawn ornaments, hobby horses, or toys. We are out there together and you hear me reading at night to the boys in our tent, while I hear you shuffling and stomping in the nearby trees. And some days we are both grouchy and other times both tired and short of patience, but you remind me to breathe deep and I do, and I smell you, your sweet musky sweat. And we get over it and get to work, and it’s not so bad, you know and I know so we get through it together. And then sometimes, just for the fun of it, we ride off to who knows where. Just because we can. We did more of that this year. And I thank you for trusting me to go where most wouldn’t dare and some places maybe that no horse has been before. You trust me. I tell you you can. And then I see your confidence grow stronger with each wild ride, like my child evolving into his own person. Maybe with a little bit of my help, but mostly because of you. Or maybe it’s a team. You grow, and I trust you more because of it, and really, it’s a very beautiful relationship changing all the time. It does not stop with what we did yesterday. Tomorrow will bring something new. Maybe subtle, like eye contact, little signals with a flick of my wrist, body language that we humans usually don’t quite get. We can learn to dance together. Not for ribbons or sport, not for some game or to show off. Just for each other.
And in that very moment, you grow and I grow. Perhaps not together. But maybe side by side.

(Here, Norman pulling a big rock and about as proud of himself as I am of him. This photo from “The Ditch Diaries”)

Yes, this is about home. It always is for me. The love of place and space. Balancing my love of home, mountain, horses, dog, husband and son. May be simple. But this is what matters most. To me.
And words. Though more than words. The spirit that words represent. The sharing of it all.
Now, something deeper than the pleasure of company which I will have again. Get over it. Be strong. Look what awaits me!
This is what is meant to be. Call me hokey but I believe that. I believe in the openings that presented themselves. The choices I have made. I will not let her down, let myself down, my husband down, who has believed in me through all the crazy stuff I have got him into.
At the end of the day this is my choice, what I want to do. This is what I wish I’d be the one doing if I heard someone else was doing this. Really, this is beyond a dream come true. I never could have dreamed this one up. This is no vacation. I wouldn’t want that, you know. “Vacation” is not my thing. Because even though I’ve made a living providing vacations, I have no interest in taking one myself. It’s got to have that point and purpose thing. And this does. See?
So, what I will take is this. Life. As full and rich as I can live it. And try to understand it’s just not always easy.
And then again remember this. I never ever would have dreamed up a place like this. Right here, right now. And this wonderful life we built here together.
But can I not want more?
How can something so simple become so complex?
Would I change this sadness and stay safe and warm in yesterday?

`
(The beautiful life of Bayjura)

Gin Getz

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

photography

The introduction

Parting ways

New beginning

Confessions of a mountain mama

Fine tuning point and purpose

On these trees

Seeing solstice

After the even zero of winter’s mornings

What I’m trying to say

No real cowgirl sings the blues

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post

Share this post