Waiting for the roar of spring waters

March 28, 2012 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

I hear the river only to realize it is no more than the rustle of last year’s life clinging to the trees, brown and thin and wrinkled like an old ladies flesh over bony fingers.

My Rio Grande awaits me. I hear her in the leaves, the wind, an SUV driving before daylight down the gravel and snowpack road on the hill below my apartment.

And now I am gone. Heading there. Back to her. To her wail and roar and brown fury bursting through frozen grounds.

The sound of the engine numbs me for hours today as I leave the past behind, a good past, a good winter, good people, the best friend I found since I was a child. And we drive, the same truck we’ve been driving since we met ten years ago, now towing a 24 foot trailer loaded down with horse tack smelling of the beasts I left behind, packed with snowmobiles, motorbikes and furnishings that transformed a little white walled north facing apartment into a cozy home. And three cats, one dog, and the two of us.

Loud rain on the truck, hard metal, cold pavement, wash away tears of goodbye.

If it wasn’t bittersweet, I wouldn’t be doing it right.

The forest wept a sweet farewell. The mildest winter I have had in years. Over night, it fell apart at the seams. Rain, pure and rich and heavy from the intensity of a magenta and steel grey sun rise rolling overhead so close I could almost touch it. Tenacious snow spilling white and wet from the secret sides of hidden trees on the north bank. Soft rain on hard metal roofs, tapping a familiar tune on my window sill awakens me. I am stirring back to life.

Farewell, I say, as I begin to leave. Shedding a new layer of skin. Her soft ways have pleased me but not drawn me in. Intense passions have been subdued. Somewhere through the rain streaked window in the hum and splash of traffic, I consider the tangled commitment to the land like legs of a lover beneath sweaty sheets. Passions reemerging. Perhaps with a familiar horizon.

Where I’m coming from

March 26, 2012 / Gin Getz / 3 Comments

(The following was drafted a month ago as we were considering how life was turning in such a way as to send us back to Colorado) *

Am I odd to define myself by where I find myself?

Here, now. It is soft, mild, easier. Words I don’t want to use to describe me. I sound too old.

I would rather use strong, wild, passionate, stormy, intense, maybe a little bit gritty.

But those words don’t fit here. And I see now, neither do I.

Here is “nice.” It’s comfortable. I’m used to extremes. Isn’t that why we chose the mountains? High, harsh and frigid. Obviously not. That’s why more people live here. Comfortably.

What is it about those extreme elements of the San Juan Mountains that draw me?

Here, nearly seven thousand feet lower than where I was and about as far north as you can get in the Lower 48.

Here, where the thermometer regularly read a full twenty degrees higher than I was used to all winter as I headed out bundled like a swaddled babe to brave my morning chores.

Here, where the wind sort of puffs. People don’t store spare tires on their shed roofs, hold their breath each time they drive through a snow drift hoping they’ll make it to the other side, and discuss afternoons in terms of how bad and damage done.

It snows, but one could hardly call it a storm. More like a flat white sky slowly merging with boughs on these tall trees and then descending to the monotone curves of the ground which rise a little higher every few days. It’s gradual. I’m missing drama.

Here excitement is noted by current road conditions and the futile battle to conquer the slow, steady stream of the elements. My neighbors exude a passion for plowing. No conversation is complete without discussing the finer points of snow removal techniques. Standards are based upon V-plows on pick-ups, push blades on ATVs, snow blowers, berms, banks, and the underlying assumption of a shovel standing sentinel at every front door and lurking beneath the hatchback of every Subaru. The evolved philosophy of chains, studded tires and four wheel drive.

Snow accumulates, a few inches at a time, then is worked religiously, pushed to the side in monstrous banks traced with lines of mud and spots of gravel. In the eternal freeze/thaw hell the road turns first to slush and then to a sheen of ice smooth enough to qualify as a skating rink, though not quite as fun due to the steep slope. And then as soon as one finishes sanding, a fresh layer of snow just sort of appears and consumes the sand and you start all over again. How many layers of this sand/slush/ice lasagna will reveal themselves in spring?

Even shadows are pallid and mild mannered. The sun only semi-shines. I swear. It too is soft, sweet, demure and polite. What’s with that? Give me some gusto! Burn me! Let me feel you sting my chilly cheeks and smell you on the small bits of exposed flesh when out there in the wide and wild opens mid day you heat my garments enough to peel me down to pale skin. (Forgive me for this confession, for I know it is hardly wise considering the known facts of the sun’s damaging effects on skin, and the ruthless wrinkles I’m revealing already at forty five are testament to the damage already done.)

I’m lusting for biting winds and burning sun and temperatures so low they freeze your breath before it leaves your nose. For views that continue beyond where I can see until the mountains fade into a fiery sky and if I climb of any one of those peaks tempting and teasing me to make it to the top, I can let loose my hair, lay back my head, and howl like the feral beast lying dormant within me and know no one can hear me and wonder what the heck this crazy woman is up to now and I take great comfort in that.

I want to feel alive!

And so what would you do if you were me? That’s silly to ask, for if someone asked me what I would do if I were she, chances are, the answer would be to play it safe and stay. Grow up and give up. And you’re not going to hear that from me.

* A disclaimer to all my Washington friends: I allow myself artistic liberty when it comes to writing, but the last thing I mean to do is put down your beautiful state and my awesome neighbors (trust me on this: I’d trade a few of those from Colorado for the crew I got to live near here in Washington). However, sometimes I write because it sounds good, or feels good, or I like the way the story works. Besides, writing about the better parts of winter, like skis/snowshoes with Tricia, Lynne’s Three Rivers dog training and our agility crew, open minded intelligent and stimulating conversations on one hand or Hobbit House destruction progress on the other with the best bosses we’ve had in years (the only, I confess too, as we’ve been self employed for years until now), and the best bitter ale from the Old School House Brew Pub… those things probably wouldn’t sell stories. (Or maybe, just maybe, they would…). So yes, my love for Washington, at least the Methow Valley and these people, I hope you know is sincere! Only… different…

The nitty gritty

March 23, 2012 / Gin Getz / 14 Comments

Here’s the deal. Last fall, we packed up and moved out, leaving the home and business we built, saw the son off to college, and Bob and I flew the coop together instead of wallowing in our empty nest. Took a few months away from blogging to finish a separate writing project. Then suddenly I reappear only to say, “Guess what? I’m moving again!”

Where?

Back where I came from.

I would tell you life is all about change. Perhaps it is for me. For now. Of course it won’t always be. This is my challenge. What is yours?

Friend and author, Laura Crum, reminds me, “…the still pond is not always stagnant. Sometimes it is clear as crystal and of an unimaginable depth.”

I remind her I have not been so lucky. I am no Wendell Berry who has “never not known where (he) belonged.” Some of us were not born in the place where we were meant to stay. We have our work cut out for us in a different way. Our lives are not about diving into the still quiet depths in the world around us, but in learning to find it within us while the world around us spins…

And yes, I do get dizzy and wait for this thing called life to slow down. I too shall allow deep roots to take and spread some day, though the land on which they grow will be my choice and challenge, as finding it seems to be.

There is not one right way. As I responded to Laura, “…points of view bring further wisdom if one is willing to listen (or read).”

For now, a few specifics. The nitty gritty.

First, about blogging. I am glad to be back. Back to the blog, that is. Back at the ranch, well, that remains to be seen and is still a week or so away. Though I think you can imagine how I might feel when we arrive.

I have missed this form of writing, sharing, bouncing ideas and receiving your feedback, not to mention the opportunity of keeping in touch with many of you. So, back to blogging. To bouncing ideas and pushing myself to get my work out there, even if it is rough and rustic and falling apart at the edges. At least I’m trying, writing, growing, evolving as a writer, slowly but surely. Pushing myself. I’m keen on pushing myself. For now, I’ll try to post at least three days a week (Monday, Wednesday and Friday). Check back regularly; there should be something new.

Second, where we are, where we’ve been and where we’re going. Well, this is a little more complicated. I’ll sum it up by saying we’re in northern Washington State, somewhere between the edge of the Methow Valley and the North Cascade mountains. And we’re going back to our Lost Trail Ranch in Colorado. The rest of the story will come out in due time.

And third, what the heck are we doing with our life?

I’m not so sure what our plans are for the future, though we’re not running the cabin rental business anymore and the outfitting business is changing hands. Time for us to move on with the rest of our lives and find our next calling. (No offence to y’all, but this one has been fulfilled.) Still just a whisper, but I’m thinking it will turn into a song before you know it.

Where to next?

For now, we’ll stay firmly planted with our feet in the clouds. We’re sticking to our land in Colorado, way high up in the San Juan Mountains and figure things out from there. We are oddly excited. Nervous as young lovers. Butterflies in our stomachs. I just caught Bob whistling a John Denver tune. (Don’t tell him I told you that.)

So you see, same place we were, but everything has changed. Life is like that. Guess it all comes down to how you look at things. Right now I’m looking at a still pond that is very, very deep. Only it’s not the land. It’s me. So I am learning.

Thanks for checking in. See you Monday.

On Returning.

March 22, 2012March 22, 2012 / Gin Getz / 15 Comments

Am I returning? Yes… and no. I am not going back, but moving forward to a place I once was. A place where I belong. Now.

By choice. My choice. My land.

I’m moving again.

Remember this. Moving does not necessarily mean staying long enough to get comfortable. (As if “comfortable” was what I was looking for?)

Moving does not always come with a sense of commitment set in stone. Life is more like the flow of water tumbling rocks. Still waters turn stagnant. We must move, change, evolve, bloom. Surge and swell like water and waves fed by no more than a gentle stream.

So we move. It’s what we do. Or at least what we did before and are doing again. I can’t say it’s been a conscious choice. We did not plan for a short term move and back again. But I can tell you this. We are living life full.

As I look back on my adult life (and at 45, that can read “only?” to some, and “OMG!” to others), there are the facts. Moving happens. For example, the first three years of my son’s life, as a single mom trying to make it on our own, we moved a dozen times. Say what you will, it worked. More or less. We survived, if not thrived.

Sure, I’m looking to settle down. And our ranch is (and was) the most stable sense of permanence, of home, I’ve known. Crazy when you realize all the conflict and turmoil it came with.

And here we are. Returning on one hand. Leaving on the other.

We wouldn’t be living right if leaving was easy.

Of course there’s more to say. Another day.

Thanks for being there. Wherever your “there” may be. For I am learning this. “There” does not define you. I wonder if, if anything, it holds you back rather than sets you free?