photography

Listen to the wilds cry

/ Gin Getz / 9 Comments

Listen to the wilds cry

Confessions heard in dying trees

An intimate look at a big forest ravaged by tiny beetles

If anyone had told me ten years ago that the hills as far as I can see and beyond would be filled with such death, that I’d be surrounded by miles and miles of mountain hillsides draped with dying trees, up to the top of tree line on both sides of the Divide… I would never have believed.

I believe now.  For this is what I see.

Green turned red, brown and grey.

We try to be optimistic.  See the few green trees remaining.  Some smaller Spruce, and of course, the Aspen.  Glimmers of hope.

It’s not enough.  Look at the rest.  It’s dead. Dead, damn it, dead!  We are living surrounded by death.

I try to find the beauty in it all, and if the light is just right, it’s there, you can see the softness in the setting sun on the dying needles.  A more open view when you’re in the woods.  But really, that’s it.  It’s dead, death, and lots of it. It gets to you some times.

Genocide of the mountain and we sit back and say there is nothing we can do.  Rape of the land I love.

It’s not that bad, you say.  There’s still so much beauty, so much goodness, so much life.  Oh, I know.  I see it every day.  I do my best to appreciate.  Wildflowers, grasses seeding out, steel grey clouds, trout surfacing the river, captivating colors in the rocks, a rainbow, a sunset, the flash of the blue bird on the old cedar post.  But there is also so much death.  And dark clouds do get gloomy, intriguing as they may at first appear.

Cheer up, you say, it’s still so beautiful and always will be.  Oh, I promise you, I know and I see, very clear and very deep.  For I am here, remaining when your fairy tell ends.  This is our home, our reality.  So how can I turn a blind eye to this devastation?

I saw a stand of smaller trees, two, three, four inches in diameter, standing dead with tell tale signs of beetle kill.  Dripping sap turned hard, pin holds and chipping bark, needles falling off like rain, teardrops of the wilds as I ride by horseback and brush too close to death.  I tip my rim forward and let the needles fall onto my horse’s mane and neck.  He is used to this.

This was not supposed to happen.  None of this was.  I remember the first such ravaged land I saw, devastated by the beetles, back fifteen years ago or so in Carson, New Mexico.  Didn’t know what it was back then, as we watched the four and five hundred year old pinon trees that were here when the Spanish settled, wither away in one season.

I’ve heard all the “expert” opinions, and know it’s just a guessing game.  It will only get the pinon, or perhaps the ponderosa, scotch, limber, lodge pole, fir, bristlecone, spruce…  It will only kill up to eight thousand, then nine thousand, ten thousand feet…

Last year they even told us once it’s dead it might not burn as bad.  Colorado learned the hard way this year.  I don’t want to call it all “lies.”  The intentions of the so-called know-it-alls might be good.

Face it.  No one knows.  I’m tired of hearing predictions that don’t pan out and ideas to fix the forest or save one single tree that just won’t work when the entire view – yes, miles and miles and miles, how many millions of trees – die before me.

Death.  That’s the problem.  It’s not that it is ugly per se, though most of us who live in it still have a heck of time finding true beauty in the rolling red hillsides or one individual, unique dead standing tree, just one more in a forest of so many.  The problem is that the hills and mountains that once sang with life and promise now stand silent, stripped and exposed like a bleeding heart.  Our trees have been raped and killed.  And not just one or two or a hundred or so.  But mile after mile, mountain after mountain, millions and millions and millions of trees.

Dead.  Don’t tell me it’s a natural cycle and it’s all going to be OK.  I’ve heard enough of that.  You’ve proven you have no idea what you’re talking about, what is happening. But it’s happening.  It’s happened. These trees are dead.  These mountains are dying.  It’s death and it’s ugly and it’s real. So stop sugar coating the view before me because I take off the green tinted glasses and I see red and brown and grey.

I’m tired of lies.  Of guesses.  Of ignorance for which I am guilty too.  I’m tired of listening for what I want to hear, taking solace in the latest glimmers of hope like blind faith, as the plague continues to spread and we place our bets on how far it will go next year.

My child’s children will never see these mountains as tall and green and lush and majestic as I once did.  But no longer do.  Now I see red.  I am red with anger.  The mountain may silently weep.  But I can rage loud as the color red.

 

(…to be continued)

 

OK, friends, readers and passer-bys, on that happy note… I’m off again this week for another round of ditch camp.  See you at the end of the week.

Ditch Diaries

/ Gin Getz / 9 Comments

Week two; Day one.

Back after a break.  Gunnar has healed well.  Still a bit groggy at times, and left with a good scar above his eye which we say gives him even more character.  But he’s good to go and back at his place working with the horses.

Peak season on the mountain, and we need to get away.   We have learned to endure July.  Moods fluctuate with the weather.  July has it all, from heat to hail.  Like ants on a birthday cake. Too many people driving by with blind, blank stares; passer bys who remain unnamed, unknown, unaccountable.  I long for a friendly wave of a vehicle I recognize.  A permanent place in the wind.  A summer neighbor drives up fast and furious behind our full load of horses in the trailer.  The only one rushed on the road.  You can feel the stress from the car back there, too tight on our tail to see the wide places to pass as we pull to the side again and again to let her by.  A rush to get off the mountain, back to work, back to one’s own reality.

My reality is here.  Yes.  It is very, very real.  Though at times, like July, it seems a surreal moving image surrounding me.

I look to the morning frost on pasture and long for winter already.

Be here now.  Riding up the trail. Beyond where most make it in a day.  Higher even than the Aspen grow, delicate silver bark, flesh scratched with initials, scarred by those who come and go and leave nothing better than this behind for a generation to endure.

And then we are there.

I hear the horses heave and sigh and let go with their heads down in the rich high mountain grasses.

Late at night writing by the light of my headlamp.

Crazy the contentment I find here in the tent together with my boys, our dog between us, our horses in the trees just outside.  The occasional stomp of their feet as they shift their weight easily, the snort of their relaxed breath.  They are satisfied, tired, full bellies; they worked hard and well and have earned their rest. I am proud of them.

Crazy the contentment in this 12×12 tent, complete with woodstove on which we cooked elk burgers for dinner.  A nice change from Hamburger Helper.  Life does not get much better than this.

Day two.

Slept until the mountain was light. Gunnar and I get the horses out.  They know the routine and handle with great manners.

Morning work proved other than perfection in paradise, between Norman balking at being out their working alone, and poor communications between the three of us.  It’s bound to happen.  It did.

Lunch in the tent while thunder rumbles across the steel grey sky.

We are damp and chilled and grateful for the woodstove.  I remember July days on the beach, sun and sand and sweat and sundresses in the evening.  I reach for my down jacket and felt hat and check the horses before returning to work.

Day three

Progress is slow.  Perhaps we are out of shape. We would like great transformations.  We would like the whole mile plus of ditch to be as well groomed, just the right slope, clear of vegetation, and solid high bank as the twenty feet we just worked on.  We are down and know it is only up to us to make things better.

We turn to ditch digger humor to lighten our load. How much more down can a ditch digger get?  It’s easy when you start at the top and work your way down.  We do manage to keep each other laughing and really, being out there working with my husband and son, dog and horses, it is easy to rise up again.  It never takes long.  Put down the shovel, slow down the slip, and smile.

A better afternoon.  Norman pulls a mean load, and the three of us get in the groove and get mean with our shovels and picks.  Truly a dirty job.

Day four.

I am up and out earlier than usual, with camera and tripod, to get a shot at a shot at the Rio Grande Pyramid at first light.  Gunnar and I sneak out before coffee and leave the boys to lead the horses out to pasture.

I am rewarded with clouds, color, and a remarkable view, unobstructed and uninterrupted, deep in the Weminuche Wilderness and realize that for now, no doubt, there is no place I would rather be.

Here and now.

Yesterday, today, tomorrow

/ Gin Getz / 8 Comments

A wonderful weekend working with and learning from photographer and teacher Bob Seago (http://www.bobseagophoto.com/).   No time now to review all the lessons learned and photos taken, but I’ll briefly share a few.

How lucky (yes, this is luck!) to have such an opportunity way out here.  The writer within me is envious.  For there I could use help, guidance, encouragement – but how does one find that, force that, improve one’s writing except by… writing?  The rejections weigh heavy; the confidence grows thin; hope flickers.  At some point, one finds it hard to rely solely on one’s own dream, and one hopes for a teacher, a mentor, or a lucky break.  Who knows if one of those will come my way?  In the meanwhile, I write. What else can one do?

Plan B.  If all else fails, you can be a ditch digger.  Classic “Caddy Shack” wisdom.

So, there you go.  Today, we return to ditch camp.

 

Horse matters

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

(photos by Forrest)

 

Yesterday was spent working with the horses in a different sort of way.  Starting with grooming far better than is normally needed for a mountain mount.  Currying off the mud along the back and girth usually suffices. But we were gearing up for a photo shoot with Forrest of three of our best horses.  Later in the day, when the monsoons did there thing, I edited, deleted and organized the nearly five hundred photos he took.  The end result will be up later today on our ranch website (www.lost-trail.com) on the new page “Sale Barn.”

Why the fuss over our four leggeds?  It’s time to sell a few more.  Downsizing.  Life is full of changes.  This one is harder than most.  Deciding who stays, who goes.  How do you decide which of your children to sacrifice?  Oh come now, it’s not going to be that bad.  (I have to remind myself.)  I will find the best of homes, new partners, and these horses will receive the care and attention they deserve – which will hopefully be even better than that which I give them.

Downsizing. It’s a down side of change.  Some plans get hurt in the process of building your dreams.  You can’t have everything, can you?  Somethings gotta give.  So, sometimes you gotta decide what matters most.  How on earth do I do that with my horses?  Except to look for truly wonderful new homes and partners… and trust….

Why can’t I keep them all, and find time (and money) to give them all I want to give?

On the practical level, there is the reality of us passing on our outfitting business and simply needing fewer horses around to complete the work we are continuing, like the ditch job.  In addition, the horse market is changing.   There seem to be more horses than horsepeople around. The cost of keeping horses and available land to keep them on is out of balance. Add that to the aging market and the change in our society as a whole, which is becoming increasingly less rural, more centralized.  As a result, we see the horse market nationwide becoming more elite.  I’m not big on elite.

But really, there is more to it than all that.  Something deeper. Consider the change of going from a small time breeder where every colt born was a celebration of life, and had a future on our ranch… to wondering if and how long he or she would live.  With the death of the first foal, everything changed.  And continued to change as foals continued to die.  Suddenly, birth was not the blessing I once considered it to be.  Life, or even the prospect there of, became tainted with a dreaded fear.  Birth became a time of trepidation, not elation.

“Only those who have can lose,” our vet told us in sympathy after one more loss a couple of years ago.  I intend to have.  But along the way, I know I’ll lose a few.  In the case of those I’ve chosen to sell, I comfort myself with the hope that I can and will find a perfect partnership for each horse.  Something I am unable to provide here for a dozen horses.

Practicality does have its downside…

Monsoon season

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

The thermometer on the porch reads thirty five when I wake up.  Grass out on pasture is laced with frost.  Yellow leaves of cinquefoil stick to my damp boots like polka dots. All morning it looks as if my squash plants are going to give up and give in to that sickly, mushy green of a frozen plant, but they do not.  They survive.  Not to say they will ever produce.  Just staying alive here is asking a lot for a crook neck squash plant. My little Arabian shows the first sign of fuzz from his winter coat, though the ranch raised ones shrug off the rain that drips down their manes and muzzles.

The monsoon season has settled in.  The hot and dry of May and June are but a misty memory. And when this pattern passes, the first chill of fall will find us as always unprepared, wondering how it came so soon, and where did the summer go.

It’s an arduous land, make no doubt.  Even now, in the easy season of summer, when tourists come and go, smile and laugh and play and leave their world and worries behind as if this were some wild park at Disneyland.  They will all be gone by winter.  Ok by me, as I’ll remain, but I’ve never been much for the social scene.

So here we are in mid July and the weather site on the internet we check each day has rain clouds for as far as one can see in the forecast.  This is how it should be, I am reminded, but I still remember summers in other places, hot and dry, where we swam naked in the river or sea, sand between my toes (yes, bare feet!), sat out in shirt sleeves and shorts at night under the stars, and took a siesta mid day.  Our spring this year was as close as it gets, with the never ending blue bird blue sky that made one long for a bad ass cloud to break up that blue and whirling dervish dancing of rain and hail on the metal roof.  Now we have that.  Every day.  Now we’ve got the monsoons, and it’s hard to complain because it’s greening up the pasture (sorry, it can’t do much for the red hillsides killed by those nasty little black beetles).

And I try to enjoy every wet, damp chilly storm and rainbow spreading across pasture knowing the fast and furious spell of summer will slowly sink into the comforting cradle of winter…

Lost.  

Amidst the changing landscape of green hills turning red and brown.

Give up, give in, fall deep into the darkness.

I try to stay afloat.  So hard in the rushing currents.  Waiting for my island to capture me, hold me up, pin me down long enough for roots to grow, flowers to bloom, seeds to take shape for next year’s dreams.

Wanting the yellow brick road to appear before me.  Instead there is a discernible path of last year’s aspen leaves still untrodden and I need to find my own way.

But this morning there is hope, relief, as I watch the footprints of my polka dot boots trailing behind in the frosty grass.

Last night’s rain lingers in low heavy clouds not yet broken and gone, and promising to renew again by mid afternoon.

For now there is cold wet ground before the morning sun.

Silver droplets on the railing

Each with a little world within them

Enter and lose yourself inside and away

Beads of rain clinging to the bottom of the rusted steel railings like welding lag or a row of sparkling diamonds dripping from a rough cut mine.

And inside each one are upside down images of brown and green hills over layered grey skies

Deep stratum of clouds, draped like velvet and barely moving

A lacy veil slung low along her hips in her slow dance of summer

Languid in the early hours

Like thickening water waiting to freeze

And by afternoon rain on the roof will drown out the sound of the growing parade of ATVs

Where for now the wilds are swept away in the murky waters of the monsoons

But I remain here

Hungry for more of whatever she hides

Starving for the wilds

 

Down for the day

/ Gin Getz / 8 Comments

Image

Otherwise known as Discontentment in Paradise

How can I be anything other than peachy when so many say I’m lucky just to be here (but can’t see all I did to get here)?  As if a pretty face would be enough.  Or in this case, a pretty view.  For better or worse, I’m not that shallow.  And surely, my friend, you’re deeper than that too.  Aren’t you?

Give me a minute.  I’ll try to get my thoughts together, at least in some semblance of order. 

Or just let them spill out randomly.  That will do, too.

Hang in there with me on this one.  I think you might relate.

I’ll start with the “down for the day” part. 

Here it is, a new week, and I’m trying for a new perspective, but not achieving the positive outlook I was hoping for.

Was wondering why I was so down yesterday, and still not quite sure as nothing is wrong, per se, especially when you compare my current state of affairs with the hard times, heart aches and traumas so many others are going through, or troubled times I’ve gone through myself. So what right do I have to whine?

Probably none.  But I’m going to do it anyway.  We all need some time to vent, don’t we?

As my honey reassures me, “You can’t be up all the time.  Not if you’re really living, feeling, observing, soaking in and an active part of the world around you.  Some things will bum you out.  Some days will be worse than others.  Some days you just wanna kick the cat…”  OK, so that last part actually came from a book by Zig Ziglar.  And no, anyone who knows me knows I won’t really kick a cat.  My three kitties can attest to that!

Anyway, sometimes I just don’t think the thing to do is fake it, pretend it is all ok, sunshine and bunnies, hunky dory and picture perfect.  Sometimes we need to get real, get mad, allow ourselves a day of being down in the dirt. 

And this pile of dirt I’m talking about now?  Well, I just realized I am exactly where I was, only with less. And I don’t mean a positive downsizing.  I mean, less to do, less work, less money (though larger debt), less identity, less going on, less direction, less sense of point and purpose, less sense of self and sense of giving and belonging.  Not a good place to be.  I’m not outfitting, not running the guest ranch business full time, not “really” mothering as my kid is grown up, not writing well as the manuscript has not sold yet so it’s hard to keep convincing myself it is all worthwhile.  I’m not really homesteading or even feeling at home as the home I’m living in is for sale, and we’re waiting to build anew. 

Yes, I know.  Look around and you’ll see some wonderful stuff.  Starting with and topping the list of course are Bob and Forrest.  I could go on with a hefty list, no doubt, but that’s not the point. I worked mighty hard and took more risks than most to make what I have possible, and still… I want more. 

Look around me and you might see many things that so many shallowly search for but aren’t willing to walk away from safe and secure to make happen.  As if they were handed to me.  Easy to think it was so simple if you don’t know where I came from.  We all have a story.  Came from somewhere.  And hopefully are going somewhere, too.  Where are you headed?  As long as it’s not the same place you were yesterday, for that place and space no longer exist. 

A friend puts it all into words I wish were mine:   “…Restlessness or discontent is part of the syndrome of our beings. I look for people who have achieved their “perfect” life..and wonder if they have compromised.  If they even know they have. Have they settled for less ?”

The human state of longing.  Is anyone ever fully satisfied, or is it human nature to want more?

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The other side

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

“You were made to contribute,” I read and these words felt strong and true.  But what do I have to give?

Isn’t there’s more to my calling in life than providing a vacation for tourists?  Building my world so others can enjoy it for a brief stay away from their own reality.

“Instead of wondering when your next vacation is, maybe you should set up a life you don’t need to escape from.”  Seth Godin.

I believe this and have tried to live my life this way, yet I’ve been providing that escape for others.  And doing so is what has enabled me to live the life others dream of, but don’t dare to walk away from safe and sound and secure to create.

Have I no further talents, gifts, abilities, that can help in some way?

Seriously, life is hard sometimes.  Why can’t the answers just present themselves?

 

I’ve been told they are out there.  Be still, silent, and listen.  I don’t hear them yet.

I try to find a quiet time alone with her.  Hear her wisdom.  In wind and water and hard earth beneath my feet.  Above the river, across the river.

Here, our Rio Grande, her stories are not old, but fresh and new, like fairytales heard as a child.  Here, only miles from where she emerges from snowbank and spring to tint, trickle and trail the mountains and wind her way through my land, my world, my dreams.  Here, she is new water, strong and pure, not yet softened and slowed, diverted, polluted.

Step in, she calls me.

And I do.

I thought you would be harsh, blunt, cold, shocking.

Instead I find you have softened with age, sun, seasons.  You are summer waters.  Childlike.  Or very, very old and wise.  Hard to tell the difference in your silver face.

Rolling over rounded rocks, as have I.

Take me to the other side, I ask of you, in a current too strong to remain.

And now I walk above you. And am there.  On the other side.

Washed away by white noise of the river.

Stepping upon last year’s leaves still untrodden.

Bragging rights

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Before.

 

After.

I’ve been waiting a long time for this.  Years.  So long, in fact, I think I’ve earned the right to brag about it.

A new camera!

This is big news.  For me.  Might not be the exciting news you were hoping for (and I’m still working on…).

I am learning that a good camera does not make a good photographer.  But it sure won’t hurt.  And hopefully, you’ll see an improvement in my photos.  Please let me know…

So, in description (and defense) of the “taken in the bathroom mirror trick” photos above, please excuse the lack of originality in method, and concentrate if you will on the object of this discussion.  The cameras.

Here’s what I had:  A Canon PowerShot SD780.  And don’t get me wrong.  I love it.  It has served me well and managed to make all the pictures you’ve been seeing from me over the past several years.  Of course I’m keeping it.  It fits in my pocket and is easy to carry everywhere, including when I’m horseback.  But…

Here’s the new deal:  A Canon EOS Rebel T3i EOS 600D with a EF-ee-250mm f/4-5.6 IS lens.  Wow.  I call it the Big Guns.  And no, it neither fits in my pocket nor around my neck comfortably when I’m horseback.  It is much larger… but there is no mistaking… much better. Already I am so impressed and intrigued by the depth, contrast, life and detail…  So much to learn, and so much fun learning…

I’ll be curious if you see an improvement in my work over time.  Once I learn to use this thing, for as many of you know who already have good cameras, the simple days and ways of point and shoot are over.  There are all kinds of buttons and settings and controls and adjustments on this.  It’s going to take me a while to figure this out.

So, off to figure a few more mysteries of this complicated (for me) little piece of machinery.  And back to working on the next bit of good news.  Because like waiting around for luck to fall in my lap, I’m pretty sure it’s not going to happen so easily.  At least it’s never been that way for me.

Go ahead, call me lucky!  Maybe that will help.

Extremely lucky, just a few initial thoughts

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

photo by Forrest

 

Now she rains

Cool and wet, green and lush

Wilds washed away

In a land of extremes

Balance is hard to find

With the pendulum swinging widely

Wildly

Only over time

Does balance blanket

A soothing shelter upon her soil

 

Flashes of the white of winter

The deepest blue sky

You ever were lost beneath

Drawing you in and back and beyond

Alone and silent and still

Arrested with an unforgiving chill

 

But now she finds me

Restricted to raingear, cabins, confines

And conversations where I remain so out of place

Who knows when I will no longer be able to remain reserved

Lashing with fire and fury and rage

Open the doors to the cage

And let the wild beast roam free again

 

Hot as a southern summer night

When here and now the monsoons douse passion

And barefeet and shorts and sunburn shoulders

Suffocate beneath down and wool and oilskin

 

My uncertainties are never doused

Fed well by water, sun and snow

The one element to flourish

In this land of harsh elements and extremes

 

 

I share our latest project, my latest dream, with a visitor from out of town, out of state, for I’m already far from town.

First I hear I’m crazy. Then I hear it must just be luck.  I’ve heard both before.  Funny how it always comes from those standing on safe ground.  Unable to see what it took to get here.

It starts with a dream of biting into the succulent peach and letting the sweet juice flow freely.  Then climbing the tree and stretching out, reaching to the edge of the limbs to pluck the ripest fruit.

Can you see more than the results? There I am, eating that ripe juicy peach.  I make it look good and easy.  Now.  But don’t you know?  It started with a dream.

There is a price to pay for dreaming.  One must step out on that limb to make dreams happen.  And it seems like out there where the wind whips and balance is a bit shaky, you might wonder at times if in fact you are more than a little crazy.  But that is where you’ll find the luck.  That is how you make dreams real.  They don’t seem to materialize on solid ground while sitting around.

Sure, one could choose to stay safe, secure, easy.  Remain on this side of the river because there is no road, no bridge.  Me, I’ll say, let’s build a road, a bridge, and cross the river, and go where the rest aren’t willing to go.  And there are my boys, hammers, shovels and saws in hand.  Because no one said we could not.

Luck is found out on the limbs.

That’s where you’ll find me, even if I fall from time to time.

 

Ditch Diaries

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

 

Year six, week one.

Heading higher.

My self, husband, son, dog, six horses…

That’s all.  Enough.  Perfect.

Away from those here to get away.

I lose myself, my home, my sense of peace and solitude. I find it again.  There.  Isn’t it odd? At Ditch Camp.

Some say it sounds so romantic.

Working in the high country.  Maintaining a trans-continental water diversion ditch deep in the Weminuche Wilderness, over a mile long across the Continental Divide.  Hard work and horse power.  Just us, our family, our stock, side by side, push pull, sharing the work, the camp, the views, the silence…

And then there is the reality.  Sore muscles. Sleeping on a thin pad after a day of working to the point of shaking, unable to lift the shovel or pull the saw one more time.  Rain, cold, dirt, bugs, no relief from a camp fire due to the fire ban, and not quite enough sun in the morning to dry your jeans and work boots before dressing. Digging cat holes and squatting in frosty grass under dripping trees. Hamburger Helper and iceberg lettuce night after night because I’m too darned tired to cook and seems like we never can get enough calories in us up there.  Leading hungry horses to pasture in the cold wet morning and back to the trees at night.  Care and complaints of horses that would rather be back home on pasture, and know the way.  Picking at the hillside, cutting roots, lifting rocks and shoveling soil, leading the draft horse, saddling and unsaddling in the rain.  Pulling the cross cut saw, in out, back forth, over and over and over again in a rhythm like breathing only… harder.

And you know.  I love it.

I give you this to read for the week.  It is long.  It may take you all week, if you care to read that much.  And if I can keep myself from writing more, for my mind gets going and is hard to stop…

Day one.  Arriving at camp.

It starts with packing along the dusty road with stranger after stranger driving by looking at us getting the packs on the horses as if we were a roadside tourist attraction, there for no more than their viewing pleasure.  Some slow long enough to whip out their camera and take a quick shot.  Most drive by as if we’re one more sighting of wildlife to add to their list to tell Aunt Jo back home in another town, another county, another state, just like it was when she used to come here for her one week a year to get away…

But she’s not here, and we’re not a tourist attraction, and I’m tired of my life being on display and those that find my life a curiosity or think we built our life for them.

And tired of sucking the dust of yet another ATV driving by anonymously.

Dust follows us as we fall in line, in unspoken unison, and ride our horses across the dam of the reservoir.  Up the first section of trail we still hear the whining motors, following us like haunting nightmares.  And then it is gone, all gone, over, and we are left alone in silence in the Weminuche Wilderness.  And that, my friends, is where I want to be.

It continues with the best day ever, the best ride ever, on the most difficult horse I ever rode, ever trained, ever learned to trust in the mountains.  Yes, my Flying Crow. He rose to the occasion, hunkered down to work and got the job done, ponying two mares and half of camp, and leading the rest.  Faced his fears when I asked him to – and he has so many fears.  Elk on trail, moose at camp, and innumerable boogymen that I couldn’t see.

Which reminds me.  About chasing moose, the mother and baby.  Gunnar did that.  Again.  People tell me it’s dangerous.  I’m not saying it isn’t and I’m sure not saying it’s good.  But I always thought he could handle himself, do his job of chasing wildlife away from his horses, and return unscathed. He’s a true shepherd.  It’s his job.  He has his own boundaries.  It’s not about the hunt; it’s about getting them away from his charge. And if you see this little shepherd chasing off the big ugly moose, there is a tinge of David versus Goliath and a twisted smile, though I swear I wish he wouldn’t do it.

It ends with us there. Horses picketed or hobbled, heads down grazing.  Sun setting behind the Rio Grande Pyramid there in view before us.  Tent and tarp set.  Tools leaning up against a tree, including the cross cut saws I so carefully sharpened and oiled and prepared for the onslaught that awaits them tomorrow.

The silence settles us.

We sit under the tarp with dinner in paper plates leaving grease stains on our jeans and boxed wine in enamel mugs and we breathe.  Just breathe.  And really, that is all I hear at first.  The breath of my husband, my son, my self.  My dog there with us.  A few relaxed snorts from the nearby horses.  And life is very good.

In time, there is the scratch of my favorite pen on paper.  I actually missed the sound, the feel, the sight of my scribbled writing pouring from cold hands, light streaming from the little headlamp strapped around my wool capped head, while the rest of me stays warm in the double sleeping bag, tight against my tired husband, so close beside my son and dog.  The four of us in the so-called two-man tent, and there lies a difference between many a two men, and my family.  Here.  Now.  No place we would rather be.

Day two. The real work begins.

Twenty trees cut and cleared from across the ditch this morning.  The cross cut saw sings with joy after the hours spent sharpening and setting the height of the scrapers and taking such pride in this old tool that once came off the wall of the log cabin as no more than a nifty rustic decoration.

Only four and half more trees cleared in the afternoon, including but half of the Big One that fell since we inspected the ditch only weeks ago.

Rain begins.  Jeans soak in the moisture as we hope does the ground.  We seek shelter under needleless trees that provide little protection.  Instead we hunker down, wrapping ourselves under our raincoats, knees to chin, backs again the bare trees, and wait it out.  The rain proves more tenacious, and for this we are grateful for we know the mountain thirsts.  Yet we long then, selfishly, for a campfire which might bring us warm and dry again.  Barring that, a sunny morning and enough time before work to hang the jeans in trees and set the boots on rocks to dry before the work day begins anew tomorrow.

That evening our plans change.  A new horse to camp decides she has had enough and it’s prime time to go home.  Bob retrieves her.  Another, however, becomes upset by the matter, and runs around with the new found freedom of having lost his hobbles.  Gunnar always runs with his horses, and ran beside this one too. I swear I saw the look of joy on Gunnar’s face right before the horse turned sharp and kicked back sideways and got Gunnar hard in the head.

Day three.  Rest, recovery, and a little work.

I did not sleep much last night.  Having had nursed my son through a head injury just months before, I kept a vigil and checked on Gunnar throughout the night.  From time to time I drifted off and dreamed about packing him out of the Wilderness on horse, figuring out the logistics of which horse to ride, to carry my dog, to leave behind, what to do with camp two hours from the trail head and two hours more to the vet.  He just needs to get through the night, I kept thinking.  I don’t want to ride the steep trail blind in the darkness while holding my dear dog instead of the reins.

My dreams drifted back and forth between my one-eyed dog, a haunting of my old Zorg, the first shepherd I had who taught me one eye was plenty for keeping a good eye on me; and my mom and dad who had recently endured a car wreck.  We headed to camp before hearing the final word of their well being, and there I was, worried…

We awoke to a little sun and a lot of hope.  Gunnar’s eye was swollen shut but we were pretty sure the eye was not damaged. The bleeding in the nose continued but seemed to be draining the swelling of his horribly swollen bridge.

We cleaned the dog, the blood on our clothes, our sleeping bags, the tent, and laid everything out and in the little bit of sun to dry before the rain began again.

By late morning we put on still wet jeans and boots and return to work, hoping to get in a few hours of bucking before the rain, leaving the dog resting beneath a nearby tree, close enough to hear us sawing as he tries to watch us through his one good eye, and falls in and out of needed sleep.

Evening.  We have decided to leave tomorrow. Gunnar should be able to just make the two hour trek out to our truck and trailer, and if not, then surely we need to get him to the vet.  We have completed our saw work for now, and cleared the ditch of a total of thirty obstructing and fallen trees.  There will be more.  Plenty more.  The beetles provide us with job security.

I once heard a fat man can fall trees.  And sure enough, I’ve seen this to be true.  But a lean lady sure can buck one up clean.  Just a little something to think about…

An hour before sunset.  I leave the boys resting in the tent with the poor pup and talk a quick walk up the North Fork trail to test out my new camera (more on that at a later date) and soak in the changed view of the now brown hills in golden light.  Beetle kill.  I count fifty one trees fallen across this short section of trail and I wonder the fate of horse traffic and travel in the Wilderness.

Day four.  Heading home.

Fourth of July and we dread leaving the higher country early when what we want is to be there, not back here with the tourists and traffic and dust and noise.

But we make it home safe, set the horses free on pasture with the rest of the herd, and sneak down to the Little Cabin where we have not been able to spend time yet this year.

For the dog, we say.  So he will not be disturbed.  So he can rest and recover.  We blame it on him.  It’s easier that way.  Though I’m not sure I’ve fooled anyone.  My unsocial tendencies are well known.

And there we are at night, in the little cabin with rain falling hard on the metal roof and old warped glass windows, the wood cook stove chugging away with dinner in a steaming pot on top, where our insatiable appetites are allowed to find their fill, and warm dry thick real beds envelope us for the best night sleep it seems we’ve had in ages, Forrest in the top bunk, Bob and me in the middle, and Gunnar in his bed beneath us.

We’ll go back in a couple weeks.  Let the dog recover, the horses get their fill.  Spend our time working on some other projects around the ranch and at neighbor’s that need to be finished up first.  Then, we’ll return to our higher mountain home.  Get away; get back to our work, wilds and silence.  A strange balance.  I’ve been told it’s unreal.  But that’s not the case at all.  In fact, it is very, very real.

(a bunch of additional photos posted on Facebook)