Here I am.


looking back at the ranch


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.


rio grande winter




my horses


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.





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.


pole mountain


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