The Writing Life

Suddenly Spring.

/ Gin Getz / 8 Comments

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ltr spring

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spring leaf 2
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Suddenly it’s spring and you’re busy and no matter that the days are longer, there still aren’t enough hours in every day, or energy in the body to do all you want to, need to, should do…

Tired, a little sore, and somewhat sunburned, and yet it feels good.  Just a little longer out there, one more thing, and do you really have to go in just yet? Paper work begins to pile.. Bare hands, wool cap stuffed in the pocket of your unzipped jacket. Only to pull that cap out five minutes later as the next snowstorm blows on through. Yeah, welcome to Colorado. Chapped lips, eyes parched from the wind, mud and snow banks, and geese in potholes on pasture.  It’s Spring

Outdoors work is great, but sometimes I need to go beyond, to see and feel her in silence. Out there, alone together. Be a part of this progression of the season.

Walking with the dog for the first time on semi-solid ground out there in a passing storm miles from my house which is miles and miles from any other around here now. And suddenly the roar of what sounds like a jet engine across river. Rotten snow descends the mountain in a violent rush.
I’m glad I’m here, not there.
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avi

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brewster park
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A raw wound
You’re left bleeding
by the side of
the road that leads out of town

To a place you’ve never been
and you remember
Anything’s better
than here

an open mouth of
Fish underwater Breathing
through muddy waters Gushing
down brown slopes

Did you think
it would be harder?
Did you know maybe you are

right where you belong

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pole mountain

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spring leaf

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over the res
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Moon rises later now. I walk the dog with flashlight in blackness as clouds cover even the tiny sparkles up above that usually light our way.   With melted snow, even the ground is dark. Finding significance in the insignificance when I look up at the stars. Or is it the release of significance that brings us peace?

A pair of miller moths gently bang against my window as I sit at the table back in by the light. It’s mid April. Funny the things we are seeing.

In the early morning hours, moonlight floods the cabin. In the quiet and still, here on the sofa with the wood stove hissing and crackling behind me and the sky turning a dusty blue, I could sleep. I could close my eyes and let go and listen to the familiar sounds and be comfortable and warm and drift off. I know I should be writing…

Wake up! It’s spring. Plenty to do. Get up, get out, get to work…

The guys are still asleep. Life with family. My life is not just about me. It’s We. My decisions affect us all. And although I may not have the freedoms I once had, I have so much more. I’ll pass on what I had and am grateful for what I have.  Yes, and still want so much more. Thank god it’s only “mid life” I’m in.
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forrest 1 (2)

 

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justin 6

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forrest 3

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gunnar (2)
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Continuing work on The Art of the Portrait. Because there is beauty within every one. Looking through a focused lens helps us filter what may be otherwise blurred by our own tangled minds.

These things are not found in the fast and easy nor with instant gratification.  A metaphor for society.
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gin
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I leave you with this. The Art of the Selfie?
Go ahead. Laugh. No one should take themselves too seriously. When really, what I’m working on is the Art of the Portrait.  Since I don’t have a lot of willing victims around here, I have to run in front of my own camera from time to time. Okay, keep in mind a few things here. First, I’m almost fifty. Second, I don’t wear a stitch of make up or dye my hair. Third, I spend a lot of time outdoors… Yes, yes, I know. Excuses, excuses. But what we’re looking for the light, the composition, the essence if you will.  Capturing a mood.  Not a pretty face.
Is it self gratification or seeking understanding?  A reflection within.   A sense of who and where we are in the bigger picture.  Only more often than not, we rush it and compromise results and are too quick to move on to what’s next.  What is your place?  What is mine?  Ever changing.  How do we define our place of in between? It is our nature to need to know.
At “almost fifty” I am not the wild young woman I once was. I don’t care to go back there. It was fun, I survived, now I’m done. Yet still so far the wise old crone so quick to offer advice or silent in her seemingly eternal wisdom.

Who’s next?
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gg
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Letting loose.

/ Gin Getz / 13 Comments

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rose hips

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cinquefoil

 

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flag seeds

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A time of contradictions.  Harsh and raw. Revealing, emerging, exposing. An open wound.  Healing from the year before.

She has lost her hiding places.  And suddenly, she dances.

I wrote this describing spring.  But somehow it feels personal.  Maybe it is.  Interconnected as one becomes, our selves and our land. Changing with the seasons.

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spring aspen up lost

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spring snow 2

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One day she melts, then next she is covered again as a furious spring storm blows in, lets lose its load and leaves, only to return an hour later.

Up here, we expect it.  Heavy, wet spring snow and the choice to remain indoors comes as a relief, maybe, just for one day, part of a day, and already I’m itching to get back out there.

I see now the innocence, perhaps ignorance, of my intentions.  The intimate view of my first book, exposing an open wound. What was I thinking in sharing this?  Two more of a similar vein completed, and now I find myself bled out.  I’m starting a novel now.  Nothing about me.  I’m making the damn thing up.

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gunnar and forrest

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bob after face plant

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fg5

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forrest going into snow

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Trying to keep my head above water when some days I think it would be easier to just let go.  In my dreams I can breathe beneath the surface. 

Yesterday the mountain lets loose in a wild rage of passion and fury and brown waters, melting snow, exposed earth like pale flesh, and the first fertile signs of sprouting green.

The great big wash that is the great big melting of the mountain began gushing down pasture between the top layer of slushy pink snow and a bottom still of ice, a fine line from cutting deep trenches through our fragile sub alpine soils and stealing it down river.

Sun burn and sore muscles as you can’t call it quits when the air finally feels so good and the long days are hard to leave when the sun still shines.

Morning muses as the mountain thaws and soft pink spreads from the top down as the sun light emerges in the mornings. Geese on the reservoir flats, though there is little open ground.  The air is alive with birds and their songs as I feed the horses in the morning, and hear though never see those owls in the evening as I go out with the dog under brilliant stars and growing moon.

We press spring and push back her snows with Bob’s Cat and there we have mud and we’re not sure it is better or worse but it is spring and the change is always exciting.  Preparing to break ground.  Forgive me, Earth, for cutting into you as we do our best to live with you, lightly beside you. May we not take but give to each other in no other way than letting each other be.

Out on pasture with a couple of curry combs, one in each hand.  I’m going for quantity, not quality here.  Get off some of the dang mud.  Their winter coats are just beginning to shed.  Out in the wind, it becomes an inevitable pig-pen dust storm around each broad back blowing into my squinting eyes.

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tresjur

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tres

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lb and crew

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Releasing.

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

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ciquefoil

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cinquefoil 2

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cinquefoil 3

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Spring winds like ocean waves roar

so far we are from the open sea

releasing brown waters of wild creeks

bringing Sedona sands in sepia skies

And leaving pink snow behind

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lost trail creek

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A silent red tail over the treetops camouflaged in fat flakes of falling snow.

Had I not been looking, I would not know he was there. Back upon our mountain.  I am waiting to hear his screech, the haunting cry that carries far against still frozen cliffs held back from the sun.

Snow drips from the red roof like rain.

Increasing exposure of naked earth.  Transformation from a white and grey world to one that is shades of brown.  Then all is covered again.

We are here while the bear hibernates still and elk remain in lower ground.

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spring ground

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Stirred up in spring winds depositing pieces from some faraway land long exposed to the elements.

And the questions of what will be, will happen and what will tomorrow bring

Are answered with maybe, possibly, who knows, and we’ll see…

And what I hear in the wind is this:

What do I have to lose?

And all I can think to reply

Is a winter’s coat.

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gunnar at snowmachine point

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Birthday week winds down. All my boys, well most of them, celebrated in seven days.  Gunnar, Bob, Crow, Tresjur and finally Forrest.  Time to get back to work.

We had it all planned. Finally, fencing.  My favorite spring chore, would you believe?  Not a popular preference as seen from most fences around these parts found in various stages of disrepair.  But I love it.  How could I not?  Out there with my boys, the mountain, sun and soft spring dirt.

Only it’s not dry. It’s still frozen.  Barely warm enough to hold a fence stretcher and pliers.  And another storm blows in. So this week I don’t think we’ll be working on fences just yet.

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forrest

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Working class.  Leisure being a choice we earn, not a life we are given.  Do we define ourselves according to our work, what we do, our “job” and how many hours we work?  These are things I’m reconsidering from a set of rules I once was taught.  I don’t know the answers, though see they are starting to change.

This is no poor-me syndrome. Don’t you see how lucky we are? You and me both, my friend. We have so much.  Maybe too much.

Life is at first a gift, and then it is ours. We work for it.  And thus we can create it to be whatever we dream.

A dear friend among the leisure class writes of his life based on “ease, health, happiness, and comfort.”

Now health and happiness hold great value, but ease and comfort?  Why?

Our bounty is earned, our rewards respected, and the possibilities are endless.  We are not bound by idle time and the need to be pleased and the fear of losing comfort.

A woman once shared a story of the brass ring she missed.  I wonder – was there only one?

In my ability to quickly stir up rage within me (for better and for worse) I’d  say scrap the tears, turn around and forge a new ring.

Don’t you see these opportunities presented with every challenge?

In theory.  For I am certain I did not and do not always when I live through them, but it sure sounds good to say.

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spring snow

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The last word(s):

Much gratitude to these website than mentioned The Color of the Wild this week.  I so appreciate the support and encouragement!  Thank you:

Indies Unlimited

Bestseller Bound

 

And… I’m very excited about this… I’ll be at the Tattered Cover in Denver in June as part of their Rocky Mountain Land Series.  If you’re from or in the Denver area, please do stop in and join us.  Time, date and location to be announced shortly.

Finally, I wanted to share this link with you.  I posted it on Facebook but don’t believe I’ve put it here, and it’s worth sharing.  It’s important.  This should be required reading for anyone who cares about Colorado and our mountains:

2013 Report on the Health of Colorado’s Forests

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aspen in spring snow

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So it’s spring.

/ Gin Getz / 8 Comments

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forrest on the top of pole mountain

On the first day of Spring, Forrest atop the mountain behind our ranch, looking down our valley and beyond.

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So it’s spring.  Yes, here too.  In spite of the single digit mornings and a pasture of unbroken white.

I remember what the season should bring, could bring.  Rich soil turned up in garden beds, fresh linens from the line on our bed.  Sweet sap running in the trees. Foals romping outside my window.  I don’t have that here and now.  None of it.  Only memories. So strong I can smell the earth and the sweet sap and the new born baby’s breath.

It’s different here. Still spring, the emerging of warm earth from her frozen slumber, but here and now with a new set of definitions.  Like the sighting of the rufous sided towhee scratching at the seeds I toss out beneath our picnic table, and awaiting the song of the frogs.  Thinning snow that turns to slush in the afternoons and light so intense on the spring glazed surface even cloudy days seem blinding.

We learn to adjust.  Human beings are remarkably adaptable, no matter how stubborn we may seem. No place is perfect.  Thing about this place, with all the trials and tribulations to get here and stay here:  it’s ours. That means something to me.  More so with each passing year, growing connection, memories embedded in the soil.  A glance around and I can point to what fence we built, cabin remodeled, road or trail constructed, which mountain I climbed with which dog in what sort of weather.  A board on the old bedroom door frame records Forrest’s growth in faded pencil marks, and generations of horses – mother, daughter, grandmother – await me at feeding time.

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aspen buds

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Out on a snowshoe alone with the dog.  Gratitude.  It’s easy to find it here.   Ten things a day, a friend and I prompt each other when we find ourselves forgetting.  Yes, I do forget. The space, the light, the beauty, thin air, a mountain that looks as fancy as a wedding cake, solitude, silence but for spring winds and the opening river and birds. Yes, spring brings such song in the early mornings before the wind picks up and late in the afternoon as the shadows are tossed long and indigo upon sugary snow.

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spring leaf

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Living. Dying. This season. Every season.

I remember the dread that came with the risk of the open road bringing conflict and chaos along with cars.  Now I await the open road as the open pasture when we can begin building our place on our land that we have fought for and won.

Bob takes the Cat down there in the afternoon slush and cuts through the open white. The first step towards breaking ground.  Frost just below surface.  We are early still.

And I remember the fear that hung heavy  in the spring storms back then with each birth.  I would rather not remember.  I turn my attention to the mob of chicks scampering about in the giant dog crate between the planters of newly spread lettuce seed and the grass for the cats and dog.  Their happy chirps blending with the melody from the various birds feeding at the picnic table right outside the window.

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cinquefoil

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And now I know

the loss of none

As if I could remember

a babe crying to be nursed

And the sound of children’s laughter

The gentle nicker of the mare to foal

The song of two blue birds

on the top of a spruce tree still green

Where they first arrive here

every year.

The sap won’t run this year.

At times emptiness is a relief.

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bark

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Now I know what is beneath the slipping bark.

I take out the draw knife for the first time this season.  Peeling a small log needed for a remodel project on a neighbor’s bathroom.  With every pull of the knife, tiny white life revealed.  Ten, twenty, maybe  more.  Slicing through life.  Larva.

I know it’s crazy but still I feel sadness.  I am taking life.  Can I look at them as the enemy?  Who is to blame?  I daresay, not the beetles.

Will every log I peel for our house reveal the same?

I need a shower.  Rid myself of their remains which has stuck onto my skin, in my hair, my jeans after working out in the wind.

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leaves (2)

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Author’s  Update.

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With regards to The Color of the Wild, much thanks to all of you readers who posted reviews – what a wonderful help you have been – and for those writers who took the time to share reviews and interviews on their web sites and blogs, especially:

Amy of SoulDipper

Carrie of The Shady Tree

Ray from New Book Journal

Kat from Indies Unlimited

More big news this week is that I just got the word that a select number of Barnes and Nobles bookstores will be stocking The Color of the Wild on their shelves.  Please take a look at your local store and let me know if you see it there!

As for what’s next… Patience (I tell myself).  It’s in the works. Two so close to completion, but we’re not there yet. And I’m not ready to be there.  No, it’s not fear.  Crazy?  Maybe.

This is where my attention should be – getting the next one finished up and ready to go – and yet I find myself shunning the process, intentionally.  I’m not ready.  Isn’t that strange?  It is not lack of words, as you, dear reader, can see.  It is something else.  I need more time.  I need to find a balance between pushing myself, and holding back.  With distance comes understanding.  It’s not reading the same thing over and over.  It allows me to see it all anew.  To pick up the manuscript with a fresh perspective and a bright, eager mind.  Editing need not be a chore.  It can be a pleasure – if you love what you wrote.  And if you don’t , here’s your chance to fix it, and fall in love all over again.

I don’t know how it is for other writers, but for me, I am learning it has to do with trust in timing. Trust and timing.  And knowing when to take a break. To step back before diving in head first…  Then take a deep breath and go for it!

For now, I let it go.  Brew like the beer.  Though I’m starting to get thirsty.

Waiting for words to ripen.

It won’t be long before I open the pages up again, and maybe turn them into fine wine.

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tresjur and koty

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norman

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Revealing.

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

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leaves

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Another big moon comes

and goes as

the season of life

and death that is

spring unfolds

somewhere, maybe

here,  maybe

tomorrow today

as the cat lays in

the grass planted

last fall inside

the kitchen window

and waits.

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front lawn

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And I wait impatiently for the horses to begin shedding their shaggy coats just so I can have reason to spend more time with them as they bustle about on dry dirt and vie for the attention of my curry comb and close breath.

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tres above reservoir

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feeding time

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A mourning dove shows up early, lured by warmer air only to find no more than small patches of open ground, not ideal for a ground feeder, and the seeds I throw out daily are of no interest.

Down at one of the few open places where the Rio Grande runs clear and black like licorice beneath her otherwise still white ribbon, a pair of Mallards swims from one end of the open place to another and fly off as the dog and I cross river, me on snow shoes, he on broad feet with long fur between his pads that have only rarely touched bare earth in so many months.

Spring approaches the high country like a chrysalis revealing.

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emerging

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After weeks of crunching more numbers that I have since… ever… and straining my eyes where by my reading glasses no longer seem strong enough, I’m done playing architect, done with our house plans. We await the opening of white pasture and the cutting into ground, and in how long, too long, not soon enough, we will be in there living, breathing, walking around,, parking muddy boots by the door, sitting at the kitchen table with burning candles and full plates, watering house plants, baking bread, making love, kicking back in my claw foot tub and writing while the sun comes up in my nook.

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bayjura

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So much for the simplicity of a little log cabin.  These drawings, ten pages from the bottom of the concrete footer to the top of my writing nook, seem so complex.  Does it help or hinder to have plans drawn up by those who have built, not just those who have planned it on paper?  I do not know, but I’m ready to put down my pencil and pick up my draw knife.  I’m ready to build, to break ground and pour cement and peel and stack logs and with tired muscles and sore hands sit back at the Little Cabin and watch the new one come to life.

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rio grande

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In darkness.

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

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bristol head

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Rotten snow and dirt on the road below the ranch.  The forecast says it’s far from over.  The white expanse of pasture before me confirms. Looks like winter, feels like spring.  Chicks in a box by the wood stove in our cabin making spring sounds, and the first robin on the open hill above the Rio.

Single digits when I wake and watch the passing of a magenta sky. A pink face on an otherwise white mountain peak outside my cabin window. Chances are it will be fifty degrees warmer by mid afternoon.

The boys are still sleeping – so much for new time. Give them another day or two to adjust. Can’t get much done in the dark anyway. Time carries little meaning here.

With fat parka and heavy boots I head out to feed the horses.  They count on my coming to feed by light in the sky. I see them  lined up along the fence, ready. Calmer now in the end of winter warming air.  They lie in the deep wet snow mid day and sleep with the soothing of the sun. They are ready for solid ground and shedding. They’re ready for attention and a good trim. They’re ready to work, as I am ready to ride, and still we both must wait.

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view from ll

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I remember the frogs in March under the willow tree on Barn Hill where it only barely froze and very rarely could Forrest sled down fresh snow in the early mornings before the NorCal mildness would melt it off by noon.  I could hear them at night when I stepped out to smoke.  Living now at ten thousand feet (and I’d like to say wisdom comes with age, but there are enough young readers out there who will be quick to tell me otherwise) I haven’t smoked in years.  (Yes, that’s a good sign when you no longer know how many years without thinking long and hard.)  Now I make an effort to go out with the dog every night, crunch over the snow up the little hill behind the cabin and stand at the edge of the trees while the dog waits for me, watches over while I do what appears to be nothing at all.  I look up at the stars and listen.  So deep, still and silent here.

A land as infinite as the stars, it seems at night.

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burn

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In darkness.

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And as quickly as

it came

it left

and I am left

to wonder, why.

In my dreams I am

underwater trying

to breathe

waking wide eyed

short of breath

and gasping and

then just like that

it is gone.

And I dance under the starry night skies once again.

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spring and fall (smaller)

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leaves in black and white

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Just another day.

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

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old leaf in new snow

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Logging continues.  Now it’s the three of us and the dog.  Sure he helps.  Supervising. He lies in the deep snow of the river bed, head up, alert, and every time you look over at him, he’s looking over at you.  When that gets old, he’s off barking something we never see.  It must be working, all that howling, because nothing got us yet.

It’s forty degrees and snowing and we’re standing on top of the Rio Grande roasting hot dogs on long willow branches over the burning pile of slash.  You can hear the river louder now, a little angry and thus a little frightening.  A few places you see the black void broken through the solid white. The great unknown. You wonder how deep it is, how thick the ice upon which you stand.

More snow.  Heavy, wet snow.  Coming in waves.  Too warm even to stick to my snowshoes.

And in the middle of it all, the red-wing blackbird arrives. A week early.  Always seems like they choose stormy weather to herald their arrival,  and I feel justified in leaving out seeds each morning on the picnic table outside our kitchen window so, selfishly, I can see them.  There is comfort in attracting what little life remains on the mountain around us.

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logs

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If the silent land

Would learn to scream

Then would we finally

Listen?

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winter flag

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Field of snow.

/ Gin Getz / 6 Comments

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rose

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Haven’t paid much mind to a sports game in about twenty years.  I think after last night, it may be another twenty before I do so again. Here in Colorado, I thought it would be the thing to do. I’m sticking with snowshoes and horses.  Me, my dog, the wind and wilds.  No teams, no scores, no bets and big bummers.

I just don’t get it. We call it a sport but sit on the sofa to watch. And at the end, one team wins, one team loses.  Like politics and religion.  I’ll stay away from them all.

I send a text message to the boys in Denver. Tell them they’re better off watching the Weather Channel.  Plenty of good news there.  Another storm on the way. And another. And another.  That’s how we like it.

Why I live here.  Reason  #873. A random number.  As long as it is high, for the reasons are many.

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aspen

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Seventeen below yesterday morning.  Thirty-seven above by the afternoon.  Not a cloud in the blue bird blue sky. This morning, another storm rolls in, enwraps. Such comfort in this covering.

Winter is ours.  The sour summer squalls, and I don’t mean the weather, we’ll outlast, out live and best of all, outshine.

I’m in no rush for it to warm up, melt out.  Open ground and exposed earth are a long ways away. The grass I grow in the front window for the dog and cats gets mowed weekly with hand scissors and is presented to the horses as a treat.  We’ll be just fine.

For now, cover them with ice, silence them with snow, as we breathe alone in this still white vast peace.

This is my world.

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colors

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Simplicity in a shiver. Standing out there with your head tipped back as the snow falls on your lashes and lips and melts on your cheeks and the steam of your breath stings your nose and the dog has the right idea as he flops down and rolls.

How easy it is to forget when summer is so fleeting, the fires the drought the flood. These changing times and changing guard. Now the mountain regains control.  I can’t help but laugh as I watch them flutter away crumpled and useless as last years leaves.

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last years leaf

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And us?  We are left with the open page, pure white and fresh and free as the field of snow before me.

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gunnar in the snow

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Expose.

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

waterfall 2

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Forget the fancy fluff that poetry can bring

when all I meant to do

was show you that which lies before me

at my feet uncovered by the melting snow

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in the silence of the early morning still dark blue

red raven comes and settles upon my mind

~

I remain hidden

behind the looking glass

Talk to me I tell you

and you turn to me and stare

into your own eyes

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waterfall

… and Out.

/ Gin Getz / 11 Comments

big dead trees

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Another big one goes down.

Two more logs for a wall.

Finding the bright side does not make the dark go away.

So, you learn to see in the dark.  And laugh. We definitely manage to laugh.

It lightens our tendency of taking it all too seriously. Taking ourselves too seriously.  Yeah, lighten up.

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bob and dog and log

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From across river looking back at where we work, with the dead knocked down, burned up and dragged out, it begins to look fresh and young and alive.  Green. The blue spruce are blue.

We are not fooled. This is Round One of our work.  The smaller ones will be next. We see the signs. They already bleed.

At times I’d rather look at the surface and see only the remaining green.  Not deeper through the branches at the slipping bark, pin holes, dripping sap, and first of the yellow needles down along the base, but I am here, and I do see.

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Out of curiosity, I’ve started amassing before and after pictures. Here, before and during.  Starvation Gulch.  Twelve miles up the mountain. Maybe my favorite place in the world.  The first picture, three years ago. The second, last year.  What do you think this summer will reveal?

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starvation gulch

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starvation gulch 2

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Maybe it will stop.  Just like that.  Maybe the devastation will end at the boundaries of the Weminuche or the Upper Rio Grande or… wherever the damage has now spread to.

Maybe it won’t continue.  Maybe all the trees that still look alive will remain alive.

Maybe I’m wrong, there is no real problem,  it’s all just me and my over active imagination and my sense of drama.

Maybe the trees will all survive and beat the beetles, the drought will end, the climate will cool, and we’ll all wake up next week and the hills will be alive with deep, dark timber once again and our children and their children will run through the big beautiful old trees and celebrate… life.

But I don’t think so.

We’re not going backwards.

Even if we don’t go any further.  Look at what we lost.

Me, I’ll have a new house.  Cheap.

Cleaning up our little pin prick of a piece of land in this big wide wild expanse is all we need to build with.  What do we do about the other half million acres around us?

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cold morning

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This affects us all.  If you don’t see it, you’re denying it, or you just haven’t been down (or up) to these mountains in southern Colorado where it slaps you in the face.

I hear from readers who have survived the fires. Their scars are deep. They still cry.

I have dead trees.  I am awaiting whatever is next. Will life return quicker in an area cleared and cleansed by fire?

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starvation ridge

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Maybe that’s the big lesson in all this:  Learning to believe in, if nothing else, the Great Mystery.

The big picture.

Little things like hundreds of thousands of acres of dying trees help you open your eyes, which in turn, may help you open your heart and mind.

There’s much more to it than my trees.  This is just a little window.  I guess I’m lucky to have this chance to see.

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last night 2

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One night last week, I tried.

I tried to see the aurora borealis.  Rumor had it, and science confirmed: they were going to make a showing this far south into Colorado.

So that night around midnight I bundled up in a fat coat and mittens and chunky boots and wool hat, and headed out with the barking dog.  Bob was in town; the nearest human being was probably eighteen miles down a closed road and I’m out there running around looking like the Michelin Man in the middle of the night with my camera and it’s okay to let the dog bark all he wants for a change.  Who the hell is gonna hear?

Have at it, I say. And he does.

I’m safe.  In fact, I rarely see any wildlife any more, day or night.

I’ve got the wide angle lens on the camera, a tripod already attached, and the settings set for night photography.  I’m gonna get me some amazing pictures of the aurora borealis.

But a snowstorm blew in and stayed in and here we are three days later and only this morning did it really blow out.  No, I didn’t see the aurora borealis.  I could barely see the moon.

Now I see, it wasn’t just me.  Even if there were no clouds…. Would there have been no show?  Depends on what you were looking for.  No, I wouldn’t have seen the northern lights. But what of the light of the moon and stars across the deep winter sugar snow of the southern San Juans and the wonder of the winter sky?

Plenty of magic for me.

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When was the last time Forrest saw a star?  Forget the big events of the northern lights or even a shooting star.  Just a star, up there, twinkling.

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last night

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So, there we are.

The Great Mystery. The Big Picture.

I want to figure out why, not why me.

I am here.  I can not turn my back and close my eyes and tell you it’s all okay and pretend it is natural.

The last count I saw said our loss of trees was over ten times greater than what Mother Nature has ever done in the Lower 48. And that’s before the latest figures, which are remarkably hard to find.  Maybe it’s morbid, but I need to know. The death toll in my back yard.  Southern Colorado.  The Weminuche Wilderness. The high end edge of the Southwest and Four Corners. The beginning of the Rio Grande.

Finally, I’m getting warmer (not just me).  Getting some answers.  I’m not surprised what I’m finding.

Here’s the secret to bark beetles.

They only get the weak ones.

Weak trees.

Tell me, what does that say about the nearly half a million acres of Wilderness that spreads from my front door?

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Rather than blame the beetles, let’s start thinking about what’s making these trees so weak.

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cinquefoil in snow

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I know, I know.  I’ve spent too long on this.  Let’s move on.  Think of my poor husband.  How many hours have I spent on the web searching in vain for current facts and figures?

Take a break, he tells me.  Let’s go fell a big one.  Take out your anger by burning the slash.

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At least in the burned areas, recovery can begin. The past is gone and there is room for the future to take hold.  A clean slate.  If it does not wash away.

What will it take for the rest of the forest to recover?  Rot is not really an option. We’re high and dry here. This is not a rain forest.  This is the edge of the arid southwest.

There’s a log we sit on at camp. Rainy Day Camp, we call this place.  At the Forks of the Utes, maybe three hours in by horseback if all goes well. Bob tells us the story of how this log was already dead and down when he and his buddy Doug were camped here on a rainy family pack trip when they were maybe ten.  They hacked at that log as boys will do and finally cut it in half.  That was forty-five years ago.  The log is still very much there, and no, nothing is growing out of it yet.

Things don’t happen that fast here.

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nap time

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Can you say, “There is nothing we can do,” accept those words and walk away?

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I walk away from the work site today.  A growing pile of timber for my new home.  For a moment I look back to the other side. It’s a green hillside.  Green as I remember it, only without the big trees.

Before we finish felling the big ones, the next group of browning trees appears.

It’s the bigger picture.  We’re trying to make the most of a bad situation.

That’s great, you say, but that’s not enough.  Take my trees and build my house and pretend it is all okay and not look beyond my little bit of paradise to the big wide world beyond.

Felling our trees is not the answer, only a small solution to a bigger problem that most aren’t seeing, and those that see, deny or do nothing.  I don’t know what to do either, so I fell my trees, plan my house, stomp my feet and raise my voice. What else can I do?

It’s not about my logs on my hill for my house. It’s not even about a half million acres of dying trees, in this part of the state alone. It’s about what caused that.

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our trees

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Is she beautiful now that she is a mountain of dying trees?  Yes, she really is, she always will be. Will she be beautiful after she burns or rots or whatever will be her fate?  Yes, I believe she will be.  But can we not see beyond her surface beauty to her silent cry as tears flow like dried sap down the last of her old wise ones, and her pained wail is in the dry wind which strips her bare of needles on even her young trees?

Can we not be wise (or is it compassionate?) enough to wonder WHY and realize our answers so far are superficial, the questions deeper, the truth still out of reach, and we should be reaching if we care?

Needless to say, I’m not done. But that’s all for now.  Enough food for thought, or what ever you want to call it.  I might just call it fuel for the fire.

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