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.

Turn Around

July 19, 2013 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Finally the sound of children laughing. Families out playing. I didn’t forget. This is good stuff.

Life as normal. You might say. Though maybe not. Back on track? Or is that backwards? Maybe I’m ready to jump tracks. Again.

The road is open, guests are here, leisure people in the distance sitting around with cocktails and chatter, the miller moths have hatched, this is the worst season for horse and deer flies we remember, and afternoon thunderstorms drive us and the flies to shelter. We’re finally heading off to work at the ditch, the horses are fit and shiny, the grass is green, the road is muddy, and a fire in the woodstove feels pretty good right about now.

The forest fires are out, fire ban lifted, the crews have packed up and left, the rains are plentiful.

These are the cold hard facts. Pretty nice, I’d say. Now it’s only rumors still spreading like wildfire. Get over it and don’t drink the KoolAid. No need to preach doomsday here. Nor do I want to hear blind optimism and see shallow smiles. Get real. Look around. This one’s over. What’s next? In the meanwhile, get to work and stay out of trouble. Best advice I can turn to. That’s all I need to do right now.

We’re off to the ditch. Nothing like good hard work to cure the blues. This is about as good and hard as it gets.

The book on Ginny and the time in Argentina, by the way, was completed two days ago. I love deadlines. There will be some revisions, modifications, refinements. Hopefully not too much. I want it real, raw, and most of all, a fun read and an inspiring story. I think that’s what we’ve got here.

Now it’s back to the Ditch Diaries. What are we into now, Year Seven?

Until next week…

Sending love and light from these wet wild hills.

Gin

Into Tomorrow

July 9, 2013July 9, 2013 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

A Celebration.

We have been blessed.

We have been untouched by smoke and fire, and now there is rain. Sweet, sweet rain. The smoke and plume that passed through lower ground is being replaced by afternoon sprinkles. The sky clears. The earth heals.

Our wonderful county, our beloved country, all those who worked so hard and risked their lives, we thank you. You have been amazing. Over a hundred thousand acres, and not one house or cabin lost. We are so proud of you, so proud to be here.

We at Lost Trail Ranch have remained untouched by these frightening fires. The only scars we see are in the silence of this time when there should be children running in the damp grass, laughter in the woods, singing up the trails, and tight lines along the river.

In this silence, we are reminded of why we are here, these cabins built, Bob’s major renovations, Gin’s meticulous cleaning. This is not for us. This is for you.

We await your return to your little bit of paradise. Come share in the celebration of life.

Know too that life is ever changing.

What we knew yesterday is no longer. Today is something new.

And sometimes, to change, the past must die.

Now is a time of cleansing.

Tomorrow is rebirth.

I stand in the middle of time and worlds and shed tears for what I knew and have shivers of anticipation for what I will see tomorrow. And no time, I see, is more rich than here and now.

I mourn for the mountain I already saw die, and now see strength in this purging, beauty in knowing what will come. The great mystery. Do more than open my eyes to watch. Be alive within it. Be a part of the rebirth as we are a part of the death

These words I write to Ginny and she tells me I should share: “I feel the mountain, and feel the burning is cleansing, she rids herself of the century of suppression (the Forest Service policy for over 90 years of putting out wildfires) and the beetles which have taken advantage of the situation and have ravaged. That for me was harder. That is when the trees died. This is in a way a release. Caused by the skies. She heals herself. All we need to do is get out of Her way.”

What do we do now? Where do we go from here? What have we learned, and how will we handle the rest of the trees that will burn?

And then what, we are wise to ask? Because there will be more. And I’m not going to forget. Brush it all under the carpet and call it quits and just be glad it wasn’t my part of the mountain that burned, because next time if could be.

I want to be positive, encouraging, build back my business that continue to be closed, but I also need to realistic. Responsible. And what matters more? The income I have lost and continued to lose? Or the mountain, mine, yours, the one that will be here for my grand children and their children that I hope will be here long after you and I are gone. That is our job. Mine and yours.

We are lucky to not have to rebuild. We do not even have to clean up. We just swallow the loss and deal with the debt, open our doors when the road opens and hope people come, carefully. That part is actually easy.

What about the rest? Our neighbors down mountain with a charred back yard. The river, the fish, down river for how many miles. The rest of these trees dead standing. The long term effects, including, as one friend brings up, the impact on our air. What could be more basic?

At times I’d like to turn a blind eye. Out of sight, out of mind. Wouldn’t that be easy. Today we’re fine. Who cares about tomorrow?

Only I can’t. Never could. And I don’t plan on starting now.

It has been an interesting few weeks. Holding out, holding up. Remaining in the evacuation zone. Trying to go on with life, maintain your balance, but life is turned upside down and staying upright isn’t so easy.

We stayed here because this is our home, and they knew that, and I shall always thank them for letting us remain. Understanding. We fought to be here before. We can fight for it again.

What would it have cost us if we left? We are already losing too much. But its money, only money. Look what we do have, what matters most. Home. Each other. That’s the biggie. No money in the world could buy me better.

Day before yesterday, the boys head to town for the first time since well before the closed road. I’m about out of wine, the silly little loaner hens haven’t been keeping up, and those darned squirrels are eating more of my lettuce, chard and kale than I can grow.

Our world is slowly opening. A summer homer is hanging out somewhere up here and the cowboys are hard at work gathering cows that have been scattered for miles with open fences and closed roads.

We’ve managed just fine. And not alone. The community, though far away, at times seem close. Among the many thank yous that I would like to say: Greg for his compassion (not to mention hard work), Eryn for her generosity, Sammy and Clint for their offers to help (and believe me, you both were part of the plan if push came to shove), Camille & Melvin, Betty & Jack – for helping feed us, and the Swansons for being the neighbors if you could choose you would choose, and lucky us, we can. The county, our commissioners and sheriff’s department and firefighters and EMTs. The brave and skilled crews that came from far away. All of you who have written, shared your stories, reached out, touched in words and yes, that does mean a lot to me. Karen… for more than I can put in a post… And my boys. Always my boys. Because sappy as this sounds, they are the sunshine in the smokiest of days.

To all those family and friends that have cared, shared, reached out, expressed, thought about the future more than just holding onto the past.

Thank you.

We will get through this. You know it. We will look back and say, “Remember that year with the terrible fire?” Only I know it’s not over. Maybe now, for this year, this time. But not in the big pictured, the long run.

Sherie writes, “…Make your witnessing loud & vocal… Draw the line on the map… Do it, Gin, use your ammo.”

Wise and challenging words. Thank you. This is what I need. To see the big picture. When it’s too easy to focus on me, mine, here, now, and a little business in a big forest.

I’m between a rock and a hard place. Support and encourage my business, or work for the mountain, the trees, the birds and fish and flowers, moss and air.

I feel I must. I am obliged. How can I say I care so much but be willing to do nothing? As I would fight for the life of my child, so I feel I must for the mountains, the Earth.

Ultimately, I must choose the greater good.

In the deepest darkness

light

A view from the charred hillside where a forest once stood

Green grass begins to grow.

Beauty everlasting

everchanging

Not what she was yesterday

now free to fly with great bright wings

into tomorrow

Finding beauty in a broken world. *

*From the book of that title by Terry Tempest Williams.

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.

Above the fire

June 28, 2013 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

On the spine of the sleeping beast. She begins to roar.

From here I do not see the charred hillsides, once lush stands of spruce trees now no more than smoldering black sticks. But remember this: it has been a while since they were lush, has it not? They have been standing dead for years. We knew one day they would have to burn, what else could be their fate, and we chose to see the pretty things instead, the open view, the filtered sunlight, the silent trails lined with once live needles.

From here I do not see the balls of fire consuming those trees, swirling dragons of angry smoke into the grey and orange sky, unless I climb the hill and look over. It’s not easy. This is big country. Climbing that hill takes all afternoon. I should be doing something else, more productive, not thinking about this which I can’t get off my mind.

This is not the place for facts and figures. I can only tell you what I see, and that’s not much. The tops of clouds, changing color, shifting directions, watching the wind. This is a personal account.

There is an eerie silence when and where there should be old men fishing and young children laughing.

I’m trying to be quiet. Not to raise concerns. Stay out the way, out of trouble, a few less to worry about. We’ve heard a lot of, “if anyone could make it up there and get out if need be, you three would be the ones.” And still I know people worry. I’m sorry.

We are here. We are fine. For now. What more can I say? We were caught unprepared and look how prepared we are. This is our home and where we belong.

We are not leaving. Not yet. We’ve got the horse trailer packed with a change of clothes, sleeping bags and coffee in case we find ourselves living in there, and have been checking the horses’ shoes. Maybe we will have to leave some day. Driving down the road would be an easy option. Heading horseback up and over is another. We’ll manage if we have to. Only, I don’t want to.

Where will go? The three of us, our dog, two cats, eight horses, ten hens and a rooster. More untrained volunteers there to help? I know that isn’t really help. We’d be in the way.

Take a vacation? Oh, come on. We’re losing a minimum of what, $3000/week at this rate. I wake in the morning with a sick stomach and it only barely goes away during the day and how can it when all around us are the smoke and clouds that allude to the truth I am trying to escape. And cannot.

Some mornings you wake and you wonder if it’s a dream. A bad dream. But one you’ll finally wake up from and everything will be ok again. There will be guests arriving and we’ll be packing for the ditch, and the sky would be blue, air clear, and the trees would still be green.

What are we doing now? We moved down to the Little Cabin by the river, a one room log structure we dragged here over the snow by snowcat. An outhouse, a storage building that was an old portable sheep herders camp now with the axels removed, a lot of candles and one little solar panel – not for a light, but for a satellite dish for internet. We were planning on renting out the big house, remember, the one with indoor plumbing, private bedrooms and even a kitchen sink, to guests for the season. Only there are no guests, but that’s no reason for us to return. We’re not the sort to give up.

So I keep on writing, completing the manuscript, the boys trudge to work at the neighbor’s, and we wait until evening when we can look through the red tint of wine at the sickly yellow sky as it fades to black and then step out to see a few stars, maybe just one or two, maybe the whole Big Dipper, depending on the direction of the wind and which way the smoke has settled, and we see nothing else and take comfort in that void, and try to forget that just on the other side of that ridge, the trees are still burning.

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

Leave of absence

June 6, 2013 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Taking a break from the blog for the next month in order to complete the manuscript based upon my time in Argentina and the story of Virginia Neary Carrithers. Please keep in touch, check back in, and I shall look forward to resuming posts as soon as I have this project completed.

Sending love and light from these wild mountains.

A bunch of pretty pictures and one not so happy poem

May 29, 2013June 24, 2013 / Gin Getz / 8 Comments

Thoughts in spring time

And the sun shines

and warms and

tells us it’s all ok

and we smile and

Look around as aspen leaves

open and green the hillsides

that otherwise remind me

of death

And the light is high and flat

and my cheeks burn

and we say, yes, this is how

it should be, but

something deep inside

is nagging and we try

not to listen but

it won’t go

away. And then

we have another

glass of wine and wonder

if we can wash it

away but all it does is

make it louder and then

We want the rain and

the snow and the clouds and

darkness and want to turn

within and feel instead of

see and then we know we’ll

find what we are looking

for. Do you know? I wonder

if I ever will.

Colorado

May 13, 2013May 14, 2013 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

You wake to the smell of the familiar lover you find yourself next to in the blinding sun of early morning spreading across the pillows like spilled milk and you wonder how on earth you got your self in this position again.

Place in parts. The individual intimate parts of the land you know. Some say “like the back of my hand” but I liken it more to knowing the back of your lover’s hand. Or back of his neck, the soft spot under his arm, the muscles, the moles, the curls of hair and prick of untrimmed toe nails. Knowing the land as you know the lover, a shared intimacy that comes with time and touch and silence and lying down together waiting for something or nothing to happen. And is it these private insights that change your relationship from lust to love. From sightseeing, to being at home. From being an observer, to being a part, blending, belonging.

At first it is the big picture that pleases the eye, draws you in as the sultry dancer seduces with waving silks and swaying hips, and you stand there mesmerized but too afraid to touch. Time passes. You begin to see closer. Flaws, imperfections, rolls and wrinkles. Beauty when the veils are dropped and the land remains raw and real and exposed as the leafless trees of early spring and attraction is not as bright but must be felt perhaps more than seen. This has happened here. I wonder if it will happen there.

Another beautiful day in paradise. Another beautiful place. From one to another. Here, there, No, it is not all the same.

Paradise lost and found. There if you’re looking but if you look too hard, say, for something specific, the big picture or the sudden change or the answer to all your problems, you may only find disappointment. Who knows what you’ll find?

A river of tears

cutting

through a crying land

I had forgotten the tremendous loss of life that spreads around me here, a skeleton’s cold embrace, and am told to see only the green but half my world is turning brown. And sadness, loss, despair are no less part of life. The part we too often feel or are told “it is best” to brush under the carpet. Until we begin to see the carpet bulge. The hillsides turning brown. Dare we lift and look in earnest or do we prefer to wear those blinders and see only what we want to, what we are told to see?

Every day this week rain, hail, snow and sun. A year in a day. Every day. Here is Colorado. Where we’ve had snow every month but July, and even then have dodged snow banks or crossed drifts lingering from the season before while horseback in the high country. The world above tree line where air is as thin as skimmed milk and the sun as intense as wild fire.

Colorado.

Where our pasture is shared with an equal number of working horses and wild elk and they graze comfortably together.

Where moose droppings are left outside the outhouse.

Where warmth is rare. Mid day for maybe a month and still those nights will bring a chill.

This morning the smell of damp earth. Familiar earth. Earth on which I have birthed and buried, laughed and cried. Land on which I’ve built a home, raised a child, fallen in love, and seen seasons come and go and familiar faces do the same and where I’ve felt unwelcome in my own home for far too long and stories swell like stormy waters I never meant to navigate and I am still just looking for a place to belong.

Seeing signs. I suppose we see what we want to see. Sometimes we look for confirmations. At least I do. I take a pen and little notebook in my jacket pocket every day when I hike or ride. You never know when inspiration strikes, and I’ve found it’s quite likely when out clearing my mind. I’m hiking along the trail across river where the snow banks still remain hidden from the sun. I’ve gone far enough for today. I’m supposed to meet the boys back at the bridge for a mate. I’m already late. You know how it is once you get going. Sometimes you go too far. At least, that’s known to happen to me. So, I’m maybe a third of the way back, back tracking. Inspiration strikes. I reach for my pen and find only a new hole in my old pocket. Damn it, that pen could be anywhere. Think about it. It could be back up the trail, or anywhere between here and home. I take maybe a half dozen steps and there, no more than ten feet from where I noticed it missing, is my pen in the middle of the trail, waiting for me to write the words I did not want to forget.

Another sign. I tell myself what I have so many times before. Leap and the net appears. Only this time it is scary. I guess it usually is, but more often than not we can only see the situation directly before us and forget about the challenges we tackled six months ago, the last time we leaped. Anyway, this time it involves my career. Writing, representation, selling myself, or not, and I hate this part and had been hoping it was taken care of at least for now, only I sort of knew that wasn’t really the case because I was going against my personal beliefs by working with someone I didn’t like working with because I was pretty sure he didn’t like working with me. My ego is too fragile for that.

Stay safe and don’t risk change and remain exactly where you are even though you know where you are is not where you belong. Or… leap.

Well, what do you think I did? I wrote my agent and told him it was time to change. So once again I tell myself, leap and the net will appear. Only instead, on this afternoon’s hike, I’m thinking about this, a little bit scared and a lot bummed out, and a feather appears in the middle of the trail where I happen to be walking. And not just any feather, but a hawk feather. And I’m guessing “my” hawk who came back to visit us so late in the season last year after the ground had been covered with white and the other such birds had long since left.

This was the sign I needed.

Leap, and maybe the answer will be even better than falling into a net. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll spread your wings and learn to fly.

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.

Gin Getz

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

photography

Digging up dirt

Turn Around

Into Tomorrow

Smoldering

Above the fire

An update from the Upper Rio Grande

Leave of absence

A bunch of pretty pictures and one not so happy poem

Colorado

Back in Bigness

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