Somewhere out there in this big bright beautiful world.

September 23, 2025 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

Here’s a little side note to share with you.

This past week, I had to fit a quick trip to Denver in between finishing windows, walls and doors. And since I never did get a truck (remember, I got the horse instead), and the bus route I used to take is no longer, I flew.

No matter how it happens – by foot or horse, truck, boat or plane – I’m one of those that loves travel. There is something about stepping outside my box. Like throwing the curtains of your mind open wide. And in that place of being challenged beyond your comfort zone, in that state of vulnerability – expectations, demands and judgments disappear and you see the world for what it is. Like the opening of this season, travel encourages us to let go of our armor, have the courage to step out vulnerable and exposed, and see the world for how it really is. Mostly, I’d say, it’s beautiful.

And the best of that beauty is usually found in chance encounters, in meeting folks and hearing stories. Everyone has a story. Ask. And listen. That’s where the magic is.

Short as this overnight trip was, it was no different. And the magic started before I even got to the plane.

As Bob was driving me down the mountain, we stopped to let the pup out for a quick break. Where we chose to pull over, two guys were pulled off in the shade with touring bicycles. Now, I got a soft spot for people out there on long rides, be it horse or pedal bike or motor bike. So before we loaded the pup back up and headed on our merry way, I searched around the truck and found a couple healthy snack bars – the only snacks we had in the truck. I brought them over to the guys. Felt kind of like handing out goodies at Halloween. Told them I wish it was something more sticky and gooey. But the young men received the gifts with great appreciation none the less.

And of course, though I was already running late for my plane, I couldn’t help myself. I got to asking question. Talk about opening up a can of worms. Though this wasn’t wiggly and creepy crawly – this can was jam packed with goodness.

Turns out these two guys were from Finland.

Long way from home, I said. How did you end up in La Garita?

Long story short, they explained: they got here via Alaska. And they got a long ways yet to go. They’re riding all the way down to the tip of South America. And if you have any doubt these guys will do it, they told me about an adventure they already completed: riding their bikes from Finland to Singapore. Seriously? Seriously! Wow!!!!

Two beautiful friends, Valterri and Alvari, of “Curious Pedals,” out there living life full, rich and wild… Daring to dream and having the courage to create their dreams come true. OMG I was so impressed! These guys were so inspirational. So open and grateful and positive.

We briefly shared stories and compared notes after I mentioned about how I had my own little adventure – going horseback from California to Colorado, alone. Nothing quite like the adventure these guys had, but we shared some similar feelings of time on the road.

The biggest thing we were all amazed to have found out there was something I told you about many times before. It was the greatest lesson of my whole trip. It wasn’t “where” but “who.” And “who” was everyone – strangers you meet, people who stop to talk, folks who share their camp site, their home, the guest room or kids room or just their front yard. People who smile and wave and roll down the window and cheer you on. People who share their table, their meals, their snack bars.

The kindness of strangers. Something very near and dear to my heart that I learned during that Long Quiet Ride two summers ago. Valterri and Alvari said it’s been the same for them. The unexpected beauty they have come to expect: people are good.

So here’s something really cool that I think is really important to share, now more than ever.

We briefly talked about the anger and hatred that you read about all the time in the press that’s supposedly all over this country. Interesting to note: they hadn’t felt it, seen it, experienced it. Neither did I. Instead, we both talked about the kindness we encountered. The openness. The generosity. The warmth. The goodness.

Sure some of us may have hard shells. Tough to crack.

But we’re not as different as some may (want us to) think.

Inside, we’re all the same.

People.

Good people.

Human beings.

Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Don’t drink the kool-aid. Hatred does not rule. Hatred does not win. Hatred does not help.

And goodness does prevail.

Believe in goodness. Believe that most people are good. Be good in kind.

If you don’t believe me after a life changing adventure that spanned over a hundred days and 1500 miles, that crazy solo ride that would never have worked had it not been for good people I met along the way, then please believe these two young men, who have totaled well over a year on the saddle, and over 10,000 miles out there in places I don’t even know where to find on a map… That’s a helluva test of humanity. And guess what? People passed the test. They ran into bad dogs, wolves, and stuff like that. But no bad people.

Have faith in humanity. Please. We’re all in this together.

If you don’t believe us, get out there and take a wild ride yourself. It doesn’t have to be a long ride. It can just be around the block or around the world or wherever your can make it happen. Be open. Be curious. Drop judgments and pretentions and defenses and fears and just be open to who and what’s out there.

I don’t know how to explain it but it’s like, you gotta put yourself out there. Be vulnerable. Trust. Try. Have faith. Believe. In people.

Try it. Please. Try to believe in our common humanity and the goodness that resides within us all. If you dare do that, and I hope and pray you will or maybe already have, please let me know how it goes. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed in the beauty that really is out there, and inside most every one.

Anyway, please find Valterri and Alvari, of “Curious Pedals,” on their website, follow them on Instagram , and watch their documentary which Bob and I did last night, and it was incredible, just wishing it was longer than one hour as there was so much: CuriousPedals documentary on YouTube

Finally… I’d like to share something that they had posted, regarding six lessons they had learned from “life on the saddle” that I fully whole heartedly agree with, having tried “life IN the saddle:”

Cherish the bad days, for they will teach you the most.
Don’t hope for things to happen — make them happen.
Focus on the process, not the outcome.
Always challenge yourself.
Stay physically active.
Put 100 per cent into what you are doing now and it will open doors for you in future.

They concluded: we could all do with “less planning, more living”.

And I’d like to add one more that I think they would agree with:

Believe in goodness. Most people are good.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

How we live now.

July 14, 2025July 14, 2025 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Years back, Bob and I read a book by Dave Ramsey about financial security. It was interesting but not real relevant as I’m firmly planted against living beyond our means. That means, debt is a four letter word for me. (Well I guess it really is four letters, isn’t it?) I don’t like loans. In fact, I don’t even like bank accounts. I’m an odd egg for sure.

Our biggest takeaway from that book was a phrase we embraced then and continue to live by:

“Live like no one else now so you can live like no one else later.“

The premise being, if you don’t have money, don’t spend it. Live simply. Be thrifty. Do without. Save up rather than go into debt. Don’t be buying what you can’t afford. Frugal choices pay off in the long run.

It’s worked for us. We’ll drive a 25 year old truck rather than some “economical” new car that costs more than we make in a year, live off what we grow and pass on Trader Joes… but own the land on which we live.

Even if it doesn’t have a house?

I’m not saying it’s the best way, the right way, or the ideal way for everyone. But it’s worked for us. More or less.

(this is a sneak peak video into our little camper)

It took us a lot of years (like, um, around 50 and 60 respectfully) before we had the courage, grit and gusto (let alone the financial capability) to leave the old family ranch behind and break out on our own.

Finally.

Ours. All ours.

And now…

Here we are.

Still living like no one I know.

For better or for worse. Just how it is.

Go ahead. Laugh at how we live. We do too. It’s a little nuts. But we love it.

You can say it: We are living Red White and Blue. Red neck. White trash. Blue collar. And proud.

We live in a 14 foot camper circa 1964 with a nearby outhouse, no indoor plumbing, hauling drinking water from town and pumping wash water from the creek. We do our laundry by hand in an old churn style wash tub and hang it out to dry on a line strung along the horse fence. All in all, you learn to wash little things like socks and underwear, but realize there’s not much sense in washing the jeans when they’re just going to get dirty again. So, you don’t.

When you’re living at camp, cleanliness kinda goes by the wayside. Yes, I like a tidy home, but you can’t be real picky out here. There’s dirt. Lots of it. And mice, spiders, bats and flies and stuff that take some getting used to. I’m use to it.

Washing isn’t top priority. You save your fork after every meal and though I wash my hands and face in a bucket morning and night, I’ve cleaned my hair only three times since leaving California well over a month ago.

It’s a dirty life, but I love it. Sure, I look forward to keeping a clean house someday. Like when I have a house. But in the meanwhile, I love where we’re at and how we are living and that makes all the dirt and dust and grease and grime okay.

It helps too to have a very patient, loving, and a little bit blind partner living the life along with you.

(yes, that’s hail. and yes, it’s still freezing regularly in the morning, in case you were afraid to ask.)

As for progress and updates and the latest news from up on this high, wild land, well, our son was as usual a huge help getting our floor joists lined out (Thank you, Forrest!!!!!) and Bob and I got the plywood down (see the celebration dance below).

Now it’s time to start going up!

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin

And then we are there.

June 6, 2025 / 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

A Long Quiet Ride

May 6, 2023February 8, 2024 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Tomorrow, I am leaving.

I am not sure how often/when I’ll be able to check in or post updates, but I truly look forward to touching base and sharing when and as I can.

And though I have not figured out how to connect these things, between Facebook, Instagram (ALongQuietRide) and my travel blog (ALongQuietRide.com), I’ll try to keep in touch along the way.

With much gratitude for all those who have connected with me and welcomed me into or back to the somewhat frightening and overwhelming world of social media, and have helped me prepare for this journey.

Sending blessings to loved ones and land while I am gone, especially my beloved husband who I will hold in my heart as I try to find my way for just this while without him.

#alongquietride #spiritualjourney #horseadventure #wildride

Here I am.

February 2, 2015February 2, 2015 / Gin Getz / 15 Comments

You ask me… How was Argentina?

I answer… Intense.

One word. That’s all you want to hear. You don’t want to hear my stories. At least, I never think you do.

My stories are not comfortable. I’m out there. I try to touch down from time to time, but landing isn’t always easy. It’s neither pretty nor graceful. More often than not, I crash. But then I’m grounded. Flat out. I’m here. I’m home.

Anyway, I’m quiet. Not much of a story teller. I’m a writer. Maybe you’ll read my words; maybe you won’t. I will still write.

“TELL ME WHAT YOU PLAN TO DO WITH YOUR ONE WILD AND PRECIOUS LIFE” Mary Oliver

Intense. Yes.

I don’t know what else to say. I think it takes distancing – reflection from a safe place – introspection – to fully grasp what you just went through. Get back in your comfort zone and see how far out of it you really were.

Good, you say. Glad you’re home. Seems the thing to say.

Enough of that. Let’s move on. You pull out your phone and show me a picture of another dead elk. Looks like the one you killed last year, but you tell me this one is different. You tell me the story. I try to listen. I try to care. I think about the dead elk. I think about how proud you are of one more death. I’m just back from delivering life.

Maybe these aren’t my people.

But this is my land. My frozen river. My white mountain. And my roots have tangled me tightly to life. Life here, there, where the wind blows wild.

I am not today what I was yesterday. I don’t want to be.

Don’t we all evolve? Some days it feels as the mountain erodes: slow and steady with every drop of rain, cutting, shaping, smoothing.

I am sculpted with every falling tear.

Wet and warm and crystalline. The clear blood of woman’s passionate life and the silent river from which stories are born.

Back.

And somehow it feels a little backwards. Maybe upside down.

Back to a community where I do not belong. I’ve learned to accept I’ll never be accepted. I can accept that.

Some days it feels lonely, but I’m not really alone. I have my own people, my own place. My tribe. Some closer. Some farther. My heart and soul spread wide. At least, I take comfort in trying to believe that.

And yet the trees embrace me. Cold silent silhouettes, standing like bones but still oozing energy of the untamed, pure and raw and unrefined.

In and among their ancient souls and wild ways and fallen needles, I find my place. I remember why I am here. I am home.

Stay tuned, subscribe or check back in soon. I will tell you about where I was.

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.

Confessions of a mountain mama

December 29, 2012December 30, 2012 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

So yes, travel… But first, life. The big picture.

Don’t forget what matters most, and what I’m all about. I’m not asking you, though if you know, please tell me. I just have to remind myself. Or trying to figure it out in the first place. Because this travel thing sure takes a lot of work, and time, and money, and we’re not even there yet. Remember, we scratch out a living providing vacations. We don’t take them. So what am I doing? Questioning myself.

Lessons learning, and will be learned on staying grounded. On one hand, I leave my world for a new one. On the other, I carefully pack parts of my world to bring with me. For example, obviously I care not to leave my relationship with my son behind. This is the hardest part – the sheer distance that will separate us. Or my business. Odd to consider I will begin taking reservations for this little bit of paradise from another one over six thousand miles away. I embrace my responsibilities, and have no intention (quite the contrary!) of tossing them to the side as I leap onto a limb. My shoulders are strong and I intend to carry these with me. Otherwise, I would not go. I’m really not interested in such frivolity. Leaving it all behind was fun when I was young. I had nothing else I cared about. Now I love what I have. But still want to experience more. Thus, the added weight, but added fullness of life and character. Embrace it all.

All these darned details of getting there from here (did I mention: with an eighty pound dog?). Complicated by a different country, a different hemisphere, a different language, trying communications, emotions and relationships. Going where you’ve never been before. Minor details. Get over it. None of that matters, just makes things hard, and I never said easy was good. What I’m going for remains the same.

And still it’s all just a small part of the big picture for me. For you, dear reader, might I guess, the more interesting part? The rest might seem like boring details in comparison. They are not for me. Helping my son with course load and career choice decision, setting up a reservation system and advertising for next summer’s bookings, juggling numbers and balancing the books (this never really happens but I go through the motions every year), arrangements for critter care and shutting down our guest ranch for almost four months… Do you really want to read about these things? (The few of our faithful cabin renters who read the part about cabin bookings are smiling wide and shaking their head saying, “Yes!”)

Do you know that feeling of arriving at a place you have never been to before? You know that dream state you find yourself in at first, so odd and a little eerie, of not being sure if you’re really there, or just watching life pass by like a movie until you finally find yourself in there and participating and then it slowly soaks in that it’s real? Nothing (except perhaps, hands-on positive parenting) brings you more face to face with your inner self.

Did you ever think what you were all about? Really, take a minute and think about it. Maybe write it down so it’s clear. Or tell someone. Then it’s somehow more real. You shared it. Tell me, if you’d like. I’m glad to listen. It’s interesting what you learn.

Me, first and foremost, I’m a mother. Nothing has created me more. I am a wife. I’m one part of a team of three, my boys and me. (And dang, we are one helluva great team, if I do say so myself.) I’m a dog mama, a horse mama, and the mama of whatever other animals I’m blessed enough to have and care for. I’m about nature, solitude, creativity and passion. I’m not always stable, a little too sensitive and filled with compassion. I strive for grace, and have so much to learn.

And what about artist, writer? The encore career. Or some may note, back to where I was going before. After the mothering and housewife part of the job has, well… I can’t say I’ve retired, but that part has turned into more of a hobby, shall we say. We’re three equals now. There is less for me to do. Now there is room for more. More of another side of me.

Somehow this matters. Defining yourself from the start. For travel will change you. Not tourism, but travel. Going to be, not just to see.

My fingers hover above the keyboard but make no contact. Slowly they settle, but no letter is pressed. I am waiting. Waiting for a way to explain all this and nothing reasonable is coming. Maybe this isn’t the time. Make the time.

Writing. Sharing. We all have gifts. I believe this is mine. I’m too shy to give of myself when we’re together. Some of you have seen that, or figured that out. This is my thing. Sharing stories. Maybe just images. Images painted in words. Bringing you out there with me. Or inside, deep within.

This makes no sense, I know. This is no explanation for where I am going. Though maybe it is. In a round-about way. I’m not big on straight lines.

I need to go outside. Everything makes more sense out there. The crisp morning air. Breathe… Yes! It’s six below zero (-21C) without a cloud in the sky and the new sun that just peaked the back side of Finger Mesa to the east has stretched long blue shadows across a rolling, waved hill like a frozen sea of pale golden snow, broken only by a meandering line of tall trees that define the river’s winding path, and then ending abruptly at the jagged wall of black timber on the other side.

After what seems like five minutes of pulling on, piling, layering and zipping up, I’m out there with the dog running way ahead, clearing my path from unforeseen dangers. And my big fat boots, loud. Each step crunching in the dried, sugary snow. White noise if ever I heard one! Music to my otherwise wildly racing mind. Relax now, there is nothing to think about except the next noisy step and grasping the next deep breath of this frigid morning air.

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