Slow Living

And then we are there.

/ Gin Getz / 4 Comments

On the road with the rooster crowing at every truck stop and sleeping beside the horses at night.

The sound of the familiar, the feel of home. It’s not our first time on the road.

With a load containing chickens, horses, hay and hoses, tools, bicycles, the quad, a dozen pots filled with tomatoes, peppers, lettuce and kale, and the last of the lumber we milled – this is our most eclectic load yet. Our rig could be a site riding across Highway 50. Only there, we fit right in.

Two years ago, when I set out across this West with my horses on a Long Quiet Ride, what I wanted most was to fall in love with life again. I did. And in the process, I fell in love with this country, more than ever before. Being on the road again brings that feeling back again. Love for my country. Love for the ever changing beauty of the land, and of the people I get to meet. Love for the man beside me.

Funny it takes driving a little bit back east from California to breathe in the essence of what I expect the West to be. Maybe because the first place out West that called me was Santa Fe. Thus the smell of sage brush, salt flats and juniper berries, pinon smoke and a film of fine dust open my heart with a wakening surge of spaciousness that few times and places before allowed me to feel.

Wide open spaces, wild horses, a seemingly endless horizon that our rig chases through dusty air with not a tree in sight. Big trucks, fine thin dirt coating every single thing you touch, and dust devils out in the open brush, turkey vultures effortless soaring, and some indescribable feeling of freedom found under these uncontained wild skies.

Out there in the middle of this big open sky and seemingly endless air of spaciousness, it feels like your heart and mind, your spirit and soul, are all ripped open boundless as well.

 I wish to live with a heart wide open where wild horses can roam free.

And then we are there.

Another hail storm passes through and I’m holed up in here writing to you inside what will be home for this season – a 14 foot camper circa 1964 with a pan on the little bit of floor between me and the pup, catching water that drips from the skylight, and a little counter cluttered with stuff that hasn’t yet found a place to reside for the season in the already stuffed shelves. There’s a small bed we can spoon sleep in (sometimes with the puppy as well), and a little table that will serve as kitchen, drafting table and writing desk for the season. As for plumbing, there’s a nearby outhouse, and when we finishing unpacking the trailer, a little wooden shed in which we can bath out of the cold which this place just is. As for electricity, we invested in a small portable solar system just big enough to (hopefully) keep our power tools in power, our devices operational, and provide the occational, luxurious StarLink connection.  The nearest cell phone service is down the dirt road a good fifteen miles or so, but that’s nothing new for us.

Yesterday ended with store bought cheesecake (nothing like the kind Lisa makes back in CA) shared in that little bed while over Bob’s shoulder I watched a band of cow elk meandering along our path. This morning started with two big bull moose crossing pasture so close I thought it was my horses. It also began with ice in the dog water bowl and a heavy frost across our land. If you don’t think I’m regretting leaving that heavy chore coat back in California… I should have known better, but it’s hard to think of frost and freezing and chill when you’re sweating in shorts and flip flops. 

Warm coats and blankets and a sense of patience and humor and we’ll get us through this season well.

Before we begin building, there’s the all essential setting up camp, our living situation, ensuring a safe and warm place for the dog, horses and chickens and us. No bragging rights here; it’s boring but necessary and stuff we forget how long it takes. But you can’t get to work without having your make shift home life function. So you gotta get camp set up and situated with things like unpacking the trailer, building shelves, clearing a work space, gathering fire wood, putting up corral panels, setting up water systems, a place to bathe (we still haven’t done that, so if you’re thinking of visiting, you may want to wait). Stuff like that. Not the exciting stuff to share, and certainly doesn’t feel like “progress” but it’s all part of the process.

Part of the process of arriving, too, is connecting slowly with the land around you. Where to look for the elk and moose. What wild flowers here are beginning their bloom. Who are the nearest neighbors and what blessings of connection do they share. What’s the best way to dip water from the creek for our camp. And of course, setting up camp.

These things take time. Now I’m kicking myself for taking more time getting the garden in and our caretaker set up back in California than anticipating what we would need here. But that’s part of the process too, part of the journey, figuring it out as we go along. And knowing we’ll be just fine.

The chickens settled right in to their new digs, They’re out there scratching in some newly leveled dirt, and didn’t miss a day laying eggs even on the road. It takes us longer, but we’ll get there too. Not laying eggs, of course, but we too will be scratching around in the dirt for sure.

Adjusting. Like a snake shedding her skin. Leaving a land already sizzling in heat waves and where fire danger is the hot topic around town. Returning to the high, wild, rough and rugged… and yes, just about always cold. Trading in those flip flops and shorty-shorts for wool socks, down vest and mittens. Yes, even in June.

Even in the trailer, my hands are cold and it’s a little hard to type. Oh, those poor tomato and pepper plants. They survived the trip. We’ll see how well they fare now living in Colorado’s high, wild country. For now, until we build a make shift greenhouse (one more project on the list), we’re putting them back in the trailer at night and covering them with cozy row cover, which comes in handy outside during the hail storms too.

Of course it’s rough to begin with. We’re used to that. Sort of. Funny we kinda forget just how hard some days can be.

You know how it is – we look back and remember the good stuff, allowing memories to be colored rose. It east to just reminisce on the laughter, the adventures, the stories, the love.  And good, because there is always a lot of that too.

This time twenty something years ago, our first season together,  in the one room cabin, the two of us and a nine year old boy, three cats, three dogs, and as usual, an outhouse near by.

That summer and for years afterward, living and working together, in tiny cabins, tents and construction zones, has been the norm for our home life. And often on the trail, guiding trips in the high country where we’d sleep under a tarp because tents were luxuries reserved for our guests.

When one house was done, before we even got a chance to settle in and unpack, we’d be back at it again.

This is the guy I married and the life I chose. The rough and rugged, high and wild, simple living is all good with me. The moving around, well, not so much. We’re both thinking that choosing to settle down might not be a bad idea after all. Mind you, the gypsy life is not what we wanted. It’s just that finding the place to remain forever never came to be. Life happened. Shit happened. And we moved on.

Will we have to again?

For now, all I know is, here we go again, said with both a bit of a heavy sigh and a little laugh upon my smiling lips.

We got this.

I hope.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

Loud motor; quiet voice.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Covered in sawdust and gear grease and dressed in baggy shorts not long enough to hide skinny white legs sticking out below, scraped up knees and all. Skin like rawhide and at times, admittedly, a personality to match.

This is no hot date.

These are two videos I took yesterday of us at the mill for anyone curious what our hot times look – and sound – like. In this case, loud. Yes, we wear ear protection. Bob is already hearing impaired. I can’t afford to be too.

My cinematography sucks, but that’s not what it’s about. It’s just an attempt to show you how it works.

There’s a sign I found a few years back that I just had to have and hung at the entrance to our ranch.

“Beware of the wife,” it reads, and if you know, you know it’s no joke. Depending on what mood I’m in, how tired I am, how late it is, and how late you are.

Still, I’ve been told more than once,”She cleans up well.” I think that was a compliment. I think?

In any case, this week found us dirtier than usual, arguing out of short tempters and frustration, not with one another but from working with rotten wood, in the heat and wondering why we’re doing this – and how the hell are we going to make it work. And of course, taking it out on each other. That’s the downside of partnership, of working with the one you love. They get the brunt of it, whatever “it” may be. We both are guilty of this. And working alongside one another as we’ve done for over twenty years, when the going gets rough, you can’t just walk away.

I wouldn’t want to if I could.

The comfort in commitment. The joy in being able to make each other smirk and smile, laugh and long, even during a downright dirty day. That’s good stuff.

Comfort in commitment… above and beyond love, and that’s the absolute essence. There’s commitment to habit and routine as well.

This is mine.

Early morning.

The alarm rouses me before the roosters. Right now that’s just past five. Slowly outside shapes emerge in shades of gray. Colors are slow to awaken. It’s a while still before sun graces the top of the farthest hill I can see from this little land tucked in as womb along the untamed river.

Now is the quiet time after frogs have settled and before robins wake. Even the dogs still sleep. The only sound is the river, humming as a steady wind. It is a time of tranquility, as if life on hold, the pause between the inhale and the exhale. It is a time to get in yoga and meditation practice, sharing the mat with two dogs and two cats. It is a time to softly putter about the cabin, often lit only by the setting moon or a single flickering flame. Time to get the wood stove going and the kettle on, coffee ready before Bob wakes, then time to write (often by candle light) before heading out to care for chickens and horses and walk the dogs.

Comfort comes in the familiar, in sounds like rain on the metal roof when I’m still in bed and the ticking of the cast iron woodstove contracting, a signal for me to put another log on the fire.

I like routine. It’s a safe place. In a world filled with chaos and conflict and unknowns, this is my solid ground, my foundation, a cradle that gives me some sense of stillness and calm. A time to be and breathe before the dirt and grease, sawdust and sweat, grit and grind.

The quiet before the noise.

(If you saw that video of the mill, you know what I’m talking about.)

Late afternoon.

Taking a break, laying back on lush grass, together with a couple of dogs.

Long golden shadows. Big cumulus clouds like plumes of smoke growing and gathering. The air is perfumed with blossoms of wild madrone and apple. Oak leaves suddenly full and waving in the wind as abundant undergrowth comes to life. The first of the turtles and gopher snakes cross the dirt road. Wild geese have come to rest among chickens and horses on pasture of the greenest grass I’ve ever seen. The puppy plays with the big old dog (funny because the big old one was the young one just a few years ago), and mama hen pecks in the grass with her five little chicks around her.

Sawdust and the sound of the mill feel far away. This feels like a dream. A dream I didn’t know was in me.

Get real. It’s unreal.

Who’s to say what’s real?

Living in a place which most days feel pretty dreamy, we’re often told this isn’t real.

Okay then, what is?

“It’s not the real world,” they may say of this kind of life, this place, how folks like us chose to live.

I get it. Growing up in the suburbs just outside “the” city, I didn’t know a life like this was possible, didn’t know this world existed.

“Grow up and get a real job,” you’re taught.

“Wake up and get real,” people tell you.

“C’mon… get over it… join the real world,” is what you hear.

Took growing up for me to figure out what “real” really was.

Am I living a dream? I dunno. Pinch me. I’m awake. Seems pretty real to me. And at the same time, sure enough, this is a dream come true.

Guess you gotta start by having dreams. Boy, did (and do) I.

I dream. Then get to work. Hard work. Willing to live with dirt and bugs, blood and bruises, and regular cold and wind; live in cars and tents, mud shacks and mobile homes in someone else’s back yard; live without indoor plumbing, central heating and heaven forbid, luxuries like hair dryers, coffee makers and cell phone service. “Live like no one else now so you can live like no one else later,” we once read. I am willing to try.

That’s what dreaming has meant for me. That was the price I paid. And I wouldn’t change a thing.

Everyone’s got their own price, their own path, their own definition of what “living a dream” might be. I don’t know what that means for you. I just hope you’re living it too.

If not, there’s still time.

Who says you’re too old (or young or poor or whatever the excuse)?

I don’t ever want to stop growing up. And I don’t ever want to be stuck being grown up, either.

Growing up doesn’t mean to me now what it meant when I was young. Maybe because now I’m easily as old as what I thought grown ups were supposed to be, but I sure don’t feel like them. Then I thought grown up meant boring and stuffy and sensible shoes, clean jeans and finger nails and well groomed hair, sitting at a desk all day and raking leaves on weekends; cocktails promptly at five o’clock and nothing much gets done after that. No thanks. That’s not for me.

As a kid, too, I remember thinking that being grown up was some required state of feeling like you know it all, losing that sense of curiosity, wonder, and awe. I haven’t felt that, and hope I never do because the moment we feel we know it all, have all the answers and/or have the right to speak our truth as if it were “the” truth, we start closing. We stop seeing. Stop hearing. We lose our sense of wonder and we turn into old farts. Not the most eloquent choice of words, but you get the point.

What makes life living more than curiosity, wonder and awe?

And of course, love.

That’s the magic of life. The hot and spicy. The zip and zesty. The fascination and enchantment that makes life worth living.

That childlike sense of openness.

The beginners mind.

Finding magic every day.

Making magic, too.

The ability to laugh at dumb jokes. And laugh at yourself.

The reminder to smile warmly at strangers, and enjoy watching kids and puppies play.

The nudging to just let it go when you’re cut off at the end of a passing lane or that parking spot you were vying for is taken before you can back in.

It’s taking time to smell the roses, watching baby geese take their maiden voyage, laying back in the grass or against the front steps with your eyes closed and listening to crickets on a still summer eve.

It’s listening to the same old stories from an old man or same old jokes from your partner, and still chuckling every time.

It’s having your breath taken away as a pair of red tail hawk do their courtship dance overhead or watching thunderheads build for the first time this year gracing us with an unexpected blast of thunder so sudden the puppy barks.

It’s accepting that you’ll never know it all, control it all, or do it all, but having fun trying, maybe failing, and trying again.

If missing out on any of that is what growing up means, I’m glad it didn’t happen to me.

Growing up is a work of art, fluid and ever changing, like an endless emerging of butterfly wings.

It’s not a place we get to – you know, as in “being there.” Rather, it’s an evolution that lasts as long as we are blessed to live our one wild life.

Now it’s the end of the week. We’ve kissed and made up. And washed up. Even got a little rain to keep down the dust and water the garden without moving a hose.

Now we’re back out there, getting ready to stack the next load of boards and beams for Bob to take to Colorado. All the bells and whistle and gears and grease are doing what they’re supposed to do. The broken rototiller remains broken but we borrowed the neighbor’s working one. (Thank you, George.) The garden shines and grows, somehow joyously. And looks like we finally figured out a floor plan we can build in one season with the material we’ve been working to amass.

Keep on keeping on.

It’s what we do. Would I want it any other way?

I choose to keep living the life we live and love doing what we’re doing, with wonder and awe, feeling fulfilled and full of joy by doing what we do, together.

All of it. The ups and downs and ins and outs and round and rounds and all.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

On Seeing.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

Seeing clearly.

Finally, sunshine. Things should dry out just in time for Bob’s return so we can get back at it. Milling the next load of boards and beams. We guessed the last load to be at eight thousand pounds, but when he drove onto the scales, it was over ten. Probably twenty more to go. Houses are heavy.

So about that sunshine…

The land, the animals, the garden and me… all seem to be emanating this collective exhale. (I think I hear you too.) Yes, this generous rain is something to be grateful for. But feeling the sun on our faces and watching puddles dry out and finally taking blankets off the horses?

Yes. (said slowly with a soothing exhale)

With Bob on the road heading home (yes, this is still home), I’ve been grateful for the break in the rain to get caught up in the garden, knowing that side of work gets back burner on milling days.

Funny how easy it is to lose yourself in there. Not because it’s wild and lush and abundant with colors and fragrance on overdrive as it tends to get late summer. In fact, early spring is neat and tidy and orderly with seedlings and transplants all lined up like little soldiers. Yet when I’m working in there, time stands still – freezes – or disappears.

After this spell (or was it a season?) of drenched and heavy, today the air feels fresh and light. Maybe even a little sparkling, filled with the intoxicating honey fragrance of madrone beginning to bloom. Suddenly trillium grace the hill below the barn, and in the shadows of tall timber, fairy slippers shyly rouse.

Wild beast within

no longer

licks her wounds.

Now she runs her tongue

along unmarred wet wings,

drying them before

she flies.

You know how clear the air is after a good rain? It’s as if the sky is cleaned, as is every branch, stone and blade of grass.

“Like looking at life with the eyes of a babe, where everything is fresh and clear and bright.” That’s what a friend of Bob told him when he was going in to have a cataract removed last month. Can’t say I remember what things looked like when I was a baby, but I get what he was saying. I see it…

And that’s what I’m seeing today.

A lot.

And everything I look at seems especially crisp and clear and vibrant.

I didn’t get my eyes fixed, but I did get this.

A new lens. A new-to-me camera lens for my old faithful SLR camera. (Thanks, Dad!) I hadn’t used the big boy for a couple years. First of all because the old lens crapped out and lenses aren’t cheap but I am. Second, because two years ago this month, I got my first phone. Yes, my first one. On principle, I wanted to refrain forever, but I didn’t want to take the big beast around my neck on my Long Quiet Ride. Though it had made many miles around my neck in the saddle over the years, the elements and endurance of that trip was more than the camera – or my neck – would likely have weathered.

Above and beyond being a handy pocket size camera, the phone ended up providing me with countless other tools, from voice recorder to map apps and occasionally (in fact, rarely!) cell phone service. Though I learned to take pictures with the phone (still seems strange to call it that), it never felt the same for me as the real deal. A real camera.

It’s going to take me a while to get in the groove, but I’m going to have fun getting there.

Getting behind the big lens again was oddly awkward at first. It’s heavy. Cumbersome. A big deal compared to that little flat thing that slides into the pocket of my work pants.

Yet something about having the weight of the camera in my hands, taking the time to actually stop, peering through the lens, focusing, holding my breath and click… yes, this feels good.

I’m seeing again. Really seeing. Deeply. Closely. Intimately.

And what I see is beautiful.

For me, there’s something so mindless about taking photos with a “phone.” And when you’ve got a lot else going on, mindless is okay. But the big boy, the real camera, is kind of mindful. You are present. Focusing on what’s before you. It slows you down. Slows your movement, your attention, your breathing, maybe even your heart rate. I swear it even slows your monkey mind.

Behind the big lens, you become more keenly aware of your environment. You look around more. Searching for subjects. Moving closer. Bending low. Leaning in.

Depending on the subject, you alternate between honing your attention (say, the variegated greens of the trillium leaf) to widening your gaze (noticing our little bit of paradise along the river below the long ridge of South Fork Mountain).

Move in, shift your weight, look closer still, then hold your breath, pause, press… and exhale.

Seeing.
Same thing everyday.

Look around.

Same place. Same view. Same meadow and garden and mountain.

Ah, but look closer.

Can’t you see those ever changing subtleties: sharp shadows that dull as summer forges forward, swelling tips of expansive oaks as leaves tease to open, a sensuous curve of a distant hill swathed in evening light. Electric green grass after a rain. Light. Seasons. Birds. Motion. Clouds. Colors. Always something different, new, unexpected. Or just what you were looking for. Dynamic. In flux.

The challenge of finding beauty right here, right now. In everything. Every day. And in everyone. Finding connection. The good stuff. Let the bad shit go. Really. Why do we focus on that stuff? That’s not what I’m taking pictures of.

What is the good stuff?

When I look closely, it’s all good. Or maybe it just is. No judgment. Just seeing. Challenging myself to find inherent beauty in whatever is before me. Last years rotted leaves. A morel poking through crushed needles. Shooting star blossoms leaning heavy in the rain. A fallen branch covered with old mans beard. A scattering of iridescent feathers from a dead blue jay. The tiny globe of a universe within every iris if you look someone deeply in their eyes.

I think of the phrase (and book title) coined by the remarkable writer, Terry Tempest Williams: “Finding Beauty in a Broken World”

I don’t think our world is broken. Just a little cracked.

Ever seen Raku pottery with its cracked glaze finish? Or what about Kintsugi, the Japanese art form of repairing broken pottery with gold? It’s more than making shattered dishes whole again. It’s making them exquisite.

It’s about finding beauty not in spite of but because of those flaws.

It’s all about the beauty in being at least a little broken. Imperfection.

Why do we still believe in the perfection myth? Perfection of person, place, relationships, self, what we’re seeing, feeling, the natural world. Most of it is beautiful. None of it is perfect. Unless we embrace the perfection of imperfections.

Looking through the lens reminds me to see. All of it. Flaws. Defects. Scars. Fractures and faults.

Looking for beauty helps heal the cracks. Holds the scattered pieces together. Heals the broken parts.

This camera encourages me to look closely. That’s where beauty resides. In all those crazy wild wonderful imperfections.

So I look.

And I see it’s been there all along.

The gradual unfurling of damp wings has only begun.

Wet and shiny in diffused morning light

no different than that of the nearly

twenty thousand mornings before this one

and yet so different than even yesterday.

Until next time.

With love, always love,

Gin

On plans and places.

/ Gin Getz / Leave a comment

(looking back at the healthy forest surrounding our little bit of paradise – that little clearing in the center – here in the far north of California)

~

Contemplating slow living and the complexities of the simple life.

So much of that is based on making the most of what you have, and doing it yourself.

As in, if you want lumber for building…

You fall trees, skid them, clean the slash, load logs on the mill, saw them to size, stack them.

And then in this case… haul them from here to there.

California to Colorado.

Simple living, sounding somewhat complicated.

I’ll explain.

This is my first attempt at sharing a video on this blog. I want to show you what milling is like. However, it’s hard to hold a device in one hand AND crank the mill with the other. So I may have some figuring out to do. In the meanwhile, go ahead and say it: Cinematography is not my strong point.

Bob did a lot better. This is the video he took after I whined about how bad mine was.

~

So about the mill.

It’s slow, old, free and ours.

It was left behind at another “high and wild” property we once owned, just for a little while. Another fixer upper. That place was a little TOO high. At an elevation of 11,400 feet, turned out to be too much even for Bob and me. We got headaches, bloody noses, had trouble sleeping, got battered by the elements… but we did fix the place up nicely and flipped it.

And, bonus: we got this mill out of the deal.

Yeah, I know, it’s old. Go ahead and say it (Bob does all the time): too old! It’s crazy slow. You gotta crank the wheel for several minutes just to raise or lower the carriage that holds the blade, then crank some more to move the carriage as the blade inches it way through the wood. Crank again to raise it, crank it back to the beginning, then lather, rinse, repeat. It’s a lot of cranking and a helluva a test of patience. Apparently I have a lot, because even as the one doing all that cranking, every time Bob shows me pictures or starts talking about a new mill, I’m quick to shut him down.

“This is what we have,” I remind him (and myself). And though it’s slow, check it out: it works. We’ve used more modern mills. You know, those fancy ones with bells and whistles, flashing lights, keyboards, electronics or at least hydraulics that cost about as much as a mortgage. This one is gear and chain and crank drive, do your own measuring and your own math, and it was free. Simple. Slow living, slow milling, see what I mean?

Slow as it is, I love it. Yes, I love milling. I love the smell of the wood, and working out in the elements (most times). I love watching dead trees turn into valuable lumber. And I love working with my husband, which after twenty something years building together has brought us to that place of operating in relative wordlessness and this flow that feels almost like a dance. We know what needs to be done, move in unison, use hand signals, nods and knowing glances (and probably a few grunts) to converse. Slow and steady, it works for us.

Despite clothes, hair, and all parts of exposed (and somehow even covered) skin getting enrobed in sawdust every afternoon, the pride in making our own lumber from our own trees is a thrill for me. Maybe I’m an odd sort, but I’m in the right place.

And slow as the mill and the process is, it does work. Beautifully. We milled all the dimensional lumber for that “high and wild” remodel with this mill. There, a buddy milled all the logs for an entire cabin from the beetle kill trees on that land. When we moved from Colorado to California, we brought the mill with us and processed all the lumber for this remodel we’re living in now (you can see some of it HERE.). And maybe when we’re done milling here this spring, chances are we’ll move it back.

Here and now, because of that mill and the beetle killed timber on this land, the majority of materials for our upcoming build are free. (Oh and a big shout out of thanks to my sis and her man for the incredible windows we scored as they replaced theirs!) Beat that. Makes slow somehow okay that way.

The process starts with Bob doing most of the work you forget needs to be done before you even get to mill: falling trees, delimbing and clearing slash, skidding logs, loading them onto the mill. Then I get to do my magic.

I’m the (not necessarily) smooth operator of this old roaring beast, which entails a lot of cranking as I said: cranking her up and down and back and forth, moving the blade through the log with each pass. Sloooooowly. Like everything about this process. Yet… beautifully! At least it’s beautiful to me.

We’ve used it so long, done it so much, by now it’s muscle memory for me. I’m so used to the sound and feel I can do it with my eyes closed. And often I have to. Because when the wind blows my way, which often times it does, so does the sawdust.

And after almost every pass, there’s the joint effort of rolling the log on the mill, which involves a bunch of prying with peaveys and few grunts and groans, then carrying each board off to be sorted and stacked.

Board by board, beam by beam, slowly we’re amassing what we need to build a new home.

It’s exciting. Rewarding in so many ways. Not the least of which is that in the process of taking down trees to mill, we’re cleaning up our land. See, a lot of the doug fir is dying. Beetle kill. Not even close to devastating and depressing as it was back fifteen years or so ago in southern Colorado when we witnessed the demise of 90% of the blue spruce trees there. Year after year, mile after mile, mountain after mountain, a giant wave, gradual and all consuming, turned the hills from green to gray. All those trees, killed by a tiny beetle no bigger than a grain of rice.

Pine beetles, bark beetles, call them what you will. They’re in California too. Only here in Trinity County, at least on our land and the hills surrounding us here, it doesn’t feel devastating. It isn’t. See, here, when one tree dies, another spreads it wings and seems to take flight in the newfound open space. So as some of our doug fir die, the black oak, white oak, live oak, oregon ash, alder, dogwood and madrone already in place, open with the added air space and water that the crowding conifers otherwise devour. It feels somehow natural, normal, beautiful to witness this change over the past nearly six years we’ve been here, as parts of the land unfurls like a giant exhale, revealing the sky and a sense of spaciousness, and we watch as part of our land shifts from a conifer forest to a healthy oak grove. The diversity of species here is remarkable. You barely notice the loss of evergreens were it not for the low stumps left behind.

Thanks to these beetles, we have plenty of trees to build with.

Damn. After the devastation our Colorado mountains endured due to those little buggers, I never, ever thought I say something nice about them.

And so it goes: if you want lumber, fall trees, clear slash, etc. and then… haul to Colorado.

So about that part about hauling to Colorado…

Really?

Yes, really.

See, even after milling off the rotted two to three inches that many of these big trees often have around their girth, what we’re left with is a lot of lumber. Good lumber. Really good, and better than what we’d mill in Colorado. These dead doug fir have heavier, heartier wood than beetle kill blue spruce. Wood strong enough for framing, thick enough to stack for walls, and dense enough to hold heat inside the cabin they’ll one day be.

That’s what this work is all about now. Like mining for gold. Getting down to the good stuff. And this wood is good.

And here’s the thing. Time is of the essence. Sure it would be great to take our time and log and skid and peel and notch and slowly stack logs from our Colorado land where this house will be. And for our next project, that’s what we plan to do. (Yes, knowing us…)

But for now, for starters, for just getting a cabin built, quick and simple and safe and sound, lets be real. We won’t have that time this year. The only chance we have of getting this project done and having a roof over our head and solid structure to winter in (which in the high wild mountains of Colorado is a serious thing) is to do it this way – mill the lumber now, while we can, before the crunch of summer building begins. Or spend a lot of money we don’t have and hire some crew to do it all, wham bam.

Tempting as that sounds some times, that is not what we’ll do.

Slow and steady, we’ll get it done, by making the most of what we have. A lot of beetle killed trees and one old mill. And we’ll work around what we don’t have: time! Building a house from the ground up in the short season between the ground thawing (May) and the ground freezing again (October) – and building something solid and secure enough to winter in – is already a daunting project for a couple that some say have a few too many years behind them to be taking such a project on. Oh yeah, and in addition to the cabin… there’s getting the solar, septic, greenhouse, horse shelter, chicken coop and wood shed (full) done during that time frame as well.

Geez, when I think of all that, I wonder how the hell we’re going to get it done. I probably shouldn’t be sharing our plans as it’s not going to help with our mounting stress.

Just get to work and get it done and stop whining.

And all the while, try to have fun, find the magic and joy and awe all around, be good to each other, each and every day, no matter how slow it goes.

And really, that’s what we do.

So that was the part about “plans.” Haven’t even started sharing the part about “place.”

Guess I’ll save those deep thoughts for another day.

~

Until then.

With love, always love,

Gin

Hear. Now.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

Last night just past midnight I woke expecting the full moon to guide my way through the otherwise dark cabin. It did not. The lunar eclipse! Amazing how magical these things are, and note to self to never stop finding magic well taken.

Stumbling over sleeping dogs, I stepped out onto the front porch. There was a cold, light rain, somewhat soft and it felt good against my bare feet and naked skin. I wanted to see if I could see the eclipse. Hard to see what’s dark, and even harder when it’s hidden behind clouds.

I returned to the warm bed in awe none the less, for the reminder of the magic this little event stirred in me.

Later I woke again and listened. The gentle patter of rain on metal roof turned silent. I know what this means. More magic. The rain had turned to snow.

Right now I’m sitting here writing to you by candle light inside while the snow continues out there. Yes, I could flick a switch. We have solar power (though it’s true, not an abundance, and certainly not in this weather). But the simple life comforts me. The peace of stillness and silence soothes me. It’s easy to find here. And sometimes easy is good: a lot less wires and bells and whistles and high tech stuff that’s inevitably going to break down. Yet at times, it’s harder, too. If we want food (and of course we do), we grow it, at least the majority of it. If we want heat, buck and split wood, stoke a fire. If we want shelter, build it. If we want light, we strike a match and light a candle or oil lamp.

Yes, this “simple life” is work, and a lot of it, but it’s a direct life. If we want something, we work for it. Want a home, build it. Food, plant it and tend to it for hours each to day to allow it grow with abundance. Want water, bury lines from the spring to the house. Rather than working for money to pay for these things, we work for them directly. See? Simple. And yet those of us that live this way so often hear, “What do you all day? Don’t you get bored?” Smile sweetly, say nothing. It’s one of those things. If you know, you know.

It’s getting light out now, though the snow is coming down harder than ever. Time for me to bundle up and head out to do chores. Feed the chickens that lay the eggs. Let out the horses that make manure that enable the garden to grow… that sort of thing. Simple, yes?

But before I go out, I just wanted to say this. Since I started writing here again, the words have been flooding. I’m drowning in incomplete ideas. This, today, will be no different.

See, what I wanted to share was about belonging. How maybe it’s more about care, connection and contribution – what we do for others – that defines the place where we belong. At least that’s my latest idea to mull over. And I wanted to share about courage – the courage it takes as a writer (as any artist) to open your soul and pour, then put it out there for the world to see (alas, mine is but a little world). And I wanted to write about passion for place, the intimate connection between person and place, comparing land to lover.

But I’m not going to write any of that today. I’m going to go out in the snow with my dogs and take care of what needs to be done to make this simple life worth living.

~

I wrote this yesterday. Maybe it’s still relevant. Maybe it’s old news. But to prove my point to myself, this thing about care, commitment and contribution… things that really matters, that I’m trying to work out, trying to write about, but I haven’t figured out “how” just yet, I’m going to muster up the courage to share this (and hope I don’t wince at my foolishness afterwards).

Rain. Snow. A little sun.

Today in the far north of California it’s a southern Colorado spring day. A little bit of everything. Wait five minutes, and it will change.

Hats on and off, zippers up and down.

Speeding up the season.

Slowing down progress.

When what we need to be doing is falling trees and milling timber, we’re inside keeping the wood cook stove going to keep the cabin warm. Go ahead and bake another loaf of bread and more cookies we don’t really need ’cause when what we need we can’t have, might as well make the most of where you are and what you got. Right now, that means time inside to chill, and a wood cook stove that’s hot.

Truth is, it’s been a good excuse to stay indoor and to work on plans. Floor plans. Spread across the kitchen table like breadcrumbs and a splash of black coffee. It’s all part of the process. Last time we built from scratch involved submitting fourteen pages of detailed plans, hand drawn on graph paper yet still technical and precise, for a log cabin inspected and built to code. That’s a big deal for us hillbilly cowboy sorts than didn’t go to school for this stuff, just figured it out as we went along. This time ’round, hopefully a clear idea of what we’re building should suffice.

With drawing close to complete, it’s time to get back out there and at it. Falling, hauling, milling, stacking…

We are ready. The weather? Not so much..

No matter the weather, spring comes. In spite of fresh snow on the hills behind us, the almond blossoms open and peach trees are close behind. A few brave asparagus have burst through moist ground, and last season’s kale is going to seed.

The first bed of spring crops is in, new kale, spinach, broccoli and chard, carefully tucked under row covers to protect the small plants from the still cold elements – and the dogs.

With a break in the rain, we go to the garden. Milling can wait. Growing our food cannot.

The dogs lay in freshly turned soil. My husband lays on the grass. Me, I lean into the shovel, and smile.

Meanwhile and always, water flows.

Here, now, as before and will be, a river calls us to sit beside and listen.

Listen.

A shrill whistle cuts through the air.

The call is simple. Familiar. Stirring me someplace deep within.

Emanating from branches of dark timber, the song of the Redwing, piercing through the dun of hard rain on metal roof and an ever swelling river.

Listen.

Hear.

Here.

Now.

You cannot outrun the past. The past is the path that led you to where you are today.

Yet in moving, you leave where you were behind. In a way, you leave a piece of who you were behind as well. A part of you left in the soil you fed with countless wheelbarrow loads of manure gathered each day from the horses. A part in the fruit trees that may feed only bear and deer when we are gone. A part in the people.

That can be the hardest thing to leave.

And in that void between what you have left behind and what you are crafting anew, you become the blank slate. The clay upon the potters’ wheel. You are both the clay and the hands that shape it.

We are not moving back nor backwards. We are moving forward towards a place that feels familiar with the clear crisp air and intense light and breathtaking endless horizons. A place where we’ll recognize the flash of mountain bluebirds and the bloom of showy cinquefoil. the fragrance of fallen aspen leaves and the soothing balm of winter snow. We’ll leave parts of that past behind. Time has healed trauma. Stories carry weight only if force fed as a mother still fattening a grown child. There are better things to nurture now.

Now is the time for re-writing. Not based upon where you are, but who you are.

The answers are not found out there. They are found in here. Within.

Where I should have looked all along.