Turn Around

July 19, 2013 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until next week…

Sending love and light from these wet wild hills.

Gin

Into Tomorrow

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

A Celebration.

We have been blessed.

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

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

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

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

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

Know too that life is ever changing.

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

And sometimes, to change, the past must die.

Now is a time of cleansing.

Tomorrow is rebirth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you.

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

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

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

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

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

Ultimately, I must choose the greater good.

In the deepest darkness

light

A view from the charred hillside where a forest once stood

Green grass begins to grow.

Beauty everlasting

everchanging

Not what she was yesterday

now free to fly with great bright wings

into tomorrow

Finding beauty in a broken world. *

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

Smoldering

July 3, 2013 / Gin Getz / 14 Comments

Ashes to ashes.

Now they are laid to rest. We watched them die their slow death. Screaming, unheard. Which, I ask you, is a sadder time? Witnessing then the swelling fatality or now the inevitable funeral?

Grief. When shall be the time of mourning? And how shall the mountains heal?

Two days ago I find a squirrel in the toilet of one of our vacant guest cabins. Bob lifts him out by the little scruff of his soggy neck and we are pretty sure we are too late. He is barely breathing. I tap his bony back to see if he’ll cough up water. He appears lifeless in my hands, cold and wet and limp. I hold him against me, and walk out into the sun. I sit there with the little guy to my chest until he starts to shiver. I think that is a good sign. It is something. Movement. Life. After a while, he moves his front paws and blinks his eyes. I wrap him in my shirt and set him in a safe corner of the yard. We are late for lunch. Forrest will be worried. What more can I do? When we return an hour later, we expect to find him there, again cold, this time dead. Instead we find the shirt empty.

I don’t know why I tell you this, or why I did this. I do not like ground squirrels. The tourists find them cute, feed the rodents, and leave. The squirrels remain much longer, devastate my garden, the flower pots, get into the cabins and make a mess. (Ending up in toilets has happened more than once before.)

I think you should know. Or maybe, I just need to remind myself. Maybe I’m just glad to finally share some good news. That squirrel lives.

Maybe it’s just today. Moods are fluctuating like the plumes of smoke. You can’t help but feel sad and tense and although everything looks the same from here, the eerie silence reminds you it’s not, and all you can do is watch and wait.

I’m feeling sorry for myself. Silly me. How selfish. I know. I try to tell myself. Get over it. This too will pass. Think of how darned lucky I am. I know. I know. I know.

We head down the road. My first time down the mountain since Memorial Day, best I can figure. I need to get some answers. Tourists are writing with questions. Their one week a summer away from Texas vacation is at stake. I should understand how much this matters.

It feels cold, or maybe it’s just me. There’s cloud cover, real clouds and smoke, both, you can smell and feel them in the still, stuffy air. Black sticks and ashen earth. Charred hillsides play a patchwork with untouched stretches. Wafts of something smoldering.

I don’t know what to think or say and I don’t want anyone to see me cry. Not even my husband. So I turn my head, don’t think, stare blankly as we drive on. I look out like it’s just a movie, passing by. Unreal. I can remain untouched.

We approach the road block. Keeping people out, and here we have been in. I can see from the side of their truck they are from Arizona. They are big men, yet soft spoken to me. Sympathetic to the inconvenience and loss this has brought to my family, home and business. That doesn’t really matter, I want to say. How do I tell them how I feel? How sorry I am at their loss, their colleagues, their bereavement brought so close to our homes as our bravest stand beside them? Life! My God, I know that is what matters.

I say nothing. I don’t know what to say. I know I will cry. My eyes swell and each look at me with such compassion and I can’t find the words to tell them “No, I am sorry for you… I have lost nothing that really matters,” though I wish I could. I look both in their eyes. Deep. I hope they feel it and know my silence is not enough. But what is the alternative? A middle age woman breaking down before them? My husband puts the truck in gear and slowly drives on and I roll up the window instead.

There are deer sleeping at the side of the road. Fire trucks from Arizona, Utah, Wyoming, northern Colorado. Finally, a familiar face, turns and walks away when all I wanted was a smile, a nod of recognition, the understanding that we all get through this best we can. I don’t get that. I think that’s what I came for. There’s nothing else I need.

I return to the mountain and mourn not only what so many have lost, but what I am left with.

It is not over yet. The road simply smolders, the raging path already burned its greedy swath of over thirty six thousand acres to the east and south of us.

Here I can almost hear the fat lady singing.

Here there are blue skies in morning, rain clouds pass us by in afternoons, the Milky Way dancing like tempting muses overhead at night as we step outside to brush our teeth (we have no bathroom here) and the only smell of smoke comes from the chimney of the old wood cook stove.

Here where the trees are not charred, only left to stand the eerie red your eyes still read as green.

Here we are left with the silent cry of dying trees.

There, a ghostly wail in plumes of smoke.

Some days it seems all you can do is not cry, or if I could cry enough, would my tears help douse the flames. But they do not, and my heart aches for the trees and all those who have lost so much and those that are giving so much of themselves to stop this wild burning.

What have we done? What have we been waiting for? Didn’t we all know they would burn?

Is a million acres of dead standing trees enough?

Will these fires wake us up?

Don’t you remember when? When the trees were still green here and we first saw those sprawls of dying, crying trees, the old pinon, down in Carson, New Mexico. And I, like you, stood around and did nothing more than watch as the death continued to spread until now I may not see flames and smoke from my front porch, but I am still surrounded by death. Someday, dare I say it, won’t this too have to burn?

The forest around me still stands. Not live, but standing. 90% of our spruce have died and over 15% of our Aspen. This part is obvious. But stop for a moment, and look closer. The damage is much deeper. Look at your cool, shady trail that is now in the sun. That spring that used to flow is dry and the bog you just walked across is now solid ground. And the saddest but hardest to see and I bet few have noticed: the moss on once sheltered hillsides is now exposed, choked by pale green needles fallen from dying trees, flaking off rocks in large dusty chucks when the wind blows.

Haven’t you noticed the change?

All it takes is looking. Nothing fancy. No special tools or skills. Right now, I don’t care about who or why. But don’t tell me my climate is not changing. It already has. And it’s not done yet.

This here is one mad mountain mama. Does anger help? I think it’s better than acceptance, doing nothing, brushing the bad stuff under the carpet and pretending it’s all OK. It’s not OK. So… do something about it. What? What can I do?

A month ago, I wrote a friend. Another woman who writes. She is also read. She is published. Big time and the real deal. People listen to her. I do. I ask for her voice, but she tells me I have to use my own. She is already screaming. OK, I tell her. I will try. I will speak softly, though few will listen. Most won’t agree. Some will be angry, and maybe a few might even be hurt.

But this won’t be about me. This won’t be about you. Right now, for just a moment, this will be about the trees.

The trees. I’m talking about the beetle kill devastation that has hit the entire Rocky Mountain region from New Mexico to Canada. I’m talking about seeing every stand of dark timber on every mountain surrounding my home turn from green to brown. I’m talking about seeing the Weminuche Wilderness forest die. I see it from my kitchen window as I sit in the comfort of my house with a cup of coffee and wonder why. This isn’t science. This just is.

“It’s natural,” they say with a stupid smile to a room full of yes-men shaking their heads in agreement.

Remember what they told us:

It won’t go over 9,000 feet.

It won’t go over 10,500.

It won’t burn as well as a live stand.

And my favorite, when in doubt, use this one, old reliable: It’s natural.

(Excuse me for stating the obvious, but I look around and say, no, the results of these beetles getting in two breeding cycles in one extended season year after year does not seem very natural to me.)

And above all, do NOT let the elephant out of the closet. Let us not mention climate change.

Instead, let’s wait and see. Push papers, have meetings, make plans and policy, change plans and policy, keep calm, try to maintain control and cover your ass. Leave it to a scientific study. An environmental impact report. A thirty thousand acre “test zone” they are watching to see what happens with beetle kill while we’ve just watched almost a hundred thousand acres in this part of Colorado alone show us what happens. Beetle kill burns. Thanks. I didn’t know. Pardon the sarcasm. I told you I was mad.

Don’t upset the public or stir the waters. Waters that are now being used to douse the flames and maybe then will wash down charred slopes and clog our rivers, silt the creeks and what will it do to the fish?

Sit on your hands and at the end of the day watch while a million acres of trees are consumed, first to beetles…

From a letter I wrote a month ago:

“The trees are dying. Not just a few. All of them. The spruce trees. All the way up to timber line. Entire hillside, thousands of acres, dying a slow death. The beetles are small as a grain of rice. Who would have guessed something so small could do so much damage that will last for generations to come?

The forests are dying, and we’re amassing miles and miles of curing fuel for an inevitable fire. And this is Wilderness. So we’ll let it burn.

Now the Forest Service is talking about starting the fire.* They have no idea how huge this will be. They never really know but it seems to be their job to speak as if they’re certain until they are proven wrong and then change their stance. They say these things safe from behind their desk while we are here living with it, in it, crying with the loss and now scared of what will happen next.

We use this wood to cook with and heat our home. I know how well it burns. I’m not sitting around looking at facts and figures and talking big and trying to ease the troubled mind of the public. I’m here living with it and it’s sadder than you can possibly imagine to be surrounded by such death, frustrating to hear the fabrications and incompetency around us by those denying the change has anything to do with the bigger picture, and horrid to think of what is going to happen, because something is going to happen, and it’s going to be more terrible than just sitting around staring at a bunch of dead trees starting to blow over and create a lovely pile of fuel across a half a million acres that is the Weminuche Wilderness.

Of course there is much more I could say, much I could share with you to give you a wide array of facts, figures, guesses and lies concerning the causes and creation of this disaster, and more important, so much I could show you just from my kitchen window without any words at all.

Can you help be the voice that these mountains are crying for and I am not strong enough to be?

There is a story here that must be written. Will you write it?”

My voice may not be heard.

And now, am I not too late?

*For the record, the Papoose Fire was started in the Weminuche Wilderness by lightning strike.

Above the fire

June 28, 2013 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An update from the Upper Rio Grande

June 24, 2013June 24, 2013 / Gin Getz / 20 Comments

Updates from the Upper Rio Grande

I’m sorry – I’m unable to respond to everyone who has written to check in with us as in depth as I would like. I know you care. I hope this helps answer some of your questions, relieve some of your concerns.

I’m overwhelmed with the current situation and still understand everyone’s interest in what’s going on. I especially appreciate your concern, your compassion. I do not mean to be impersonal by writing one post and sharing it with you all. It is written for you. Each of you. All of you. Anyone who cares enough to ask and then to read.

I can’t tell you what’s happening. I can only tell you what I see. Here. On the mountain. My eyes. My words. From my home. Read them if you want. Don’t if you can’t. They’re not always pretty. But they will be real.

What do I see? Morning smoke rolling up from the Reservoir like a heavy fog. Afternoon plumes like mushroom clouds over Finger Mesa. This morning I see clouds. Real clouds. I see hope.

I’ve seen other things. Like a dead calf on the outside of fence line. Mother on the inside. A fence weak enough to let in a bunch of free range cows. Tight enough to keep in an abandoned horse. Things like a horse trailer half full ride right by the pasture where that horse has been left. Things like a woman more concerned with the contents of her fridge spoiling than the well being of her fellow man (and another so quick to think of us up here, and offer us those contents). Or a guy hauling out four truck loads and two trailers worth of “stuff” from his summer home (and another showing us the keys to his and the vehicles he left behind “just in case” we need them).

What matters most? Stuff? I think of people who built here, people who live here, people with no other place to go. I think of how many have their homes threatened, places they built or built onto, their livelihood threatened, their back yard and within feet from their doorstep charred. Stuff doesn’t matter. The three of us each packed a backpack with what we thought we’d really need, still hanging by the door, just in case. That was evacuation day.

The mountain has been evacuated. The fire is below us. We are still here.

If you want an update with facts and figure on the Papoose Fire, now included in the West Fork Complex, there are some good web sites. These are a few: http://www.inciweb.org/incident/3436/ ,http://www.hinsdalecountysheriff.com/Emergency_Incident_Info.php, http://www.acemergency.org/. Look at them. Don’t listen to Facebook rants and e-mail gossip, please. Or if you choose to, take it with a grain of salt. Some of it may be right. Much of it is wrong. And trust me, it will be emotional. This whole deal is. It’s frightening, humbling, sickening, sad, and confusing.

Suddenly you realize how little you are. How little control you have. This Mother Earth is far stronger than you or I will ever be. That should give you hope. No matter what we do to mess up this beautiful place, She will heal and be OK, long after we are gone. I take comfort in believing that. Everyone has their own beliefs.

Anyway, let me tell you where I’m at. Lost Trail Ranch. Our home. Our guest ranch. At least it was. I mean, it’s still here, standing, untouched and rather unaffected by the massive fires and smoke. Except we have no guests, and it may be a while before they are allowed to be here. So the “guest ranch business” currently isn’t. It’s like winter – the half the year here on the high mountain that we’re used to blocked access, closed roads, and no people around for miles. Only it’s warm. The horses are on green grass and the chickens are laying eggs. And people are supposed to be here. This is how we make our living. Or not this year. But that’s just a minor detail. Money. What matters most, you find, is your family. And we’re fine, here, together.

Yes, I’ve seen a lot from up here this week, and much of what I have seen has been glimpses into the best and worst of human nature. Once again, I’ll stick with Mother Nature.

But I’ve also seen the best of human beings. I’ve seen bravery. Kindness. Reaching out. Generosity. I’ve seen compassion. So much compassion. This makes eyes swell hot and full with tears, because this is really beautiful, and this is really what matters, and this, compassion, is what at the end of day allows us to remember everything else around us – from the minor unpleasantries of our fellow human beings to the huge, overwhelming destructive fire we watch rip up an acre of dead standing timber in a matter of minutes as we sit back against at rock and watch. And for all this we send prayers to those brave and strong, dedicated and determined enough to be out there, in there, doing what they can to help. And because of that we can still sleep at night.

And that is what you need to remember when you think about your back yard burning up, a forest once lush and green that will never be again in your lifetime or your children’s lifetime, homes and lives threatened, businesses blown away in the ashes, wildlife fleeing or worse, remaining. You do have to think about it all. The good and the bad. But make sure you end by thinking about the good. No matter how hard you have to look to find it.

There are brave people, good people, great people. I’ve seen a few. I don’t want to name names. They know who they are. I’ve got a lot of thank you letters to write when this is done.

I also must put in here a special word to our guests and to all those reading this who may be scheduled guests for other places nearby: This road is closed and the area evacuated. Today. (Who knows about tomorrow? I’m not going to try to guess.) Lost Trail Ranch is too currently closed, though we are living here, watching, waiting.

We understand how this affects your vacation plans. This is currently the case for scheduled guests for resorts in South Fork, Creede and up in these mountains. The losses are tremendous and continuing. This is a natural disaster and emergency unlike anything we have ever experienced here. We cannot predict nor assume how or when the fires will subside and the road will open. We thank you for your patience, your understanding, and so often, your kind words and your compassion.

There are no answers we can provide at this time. We ask that you please follow the links provided and other official sources to keep up to date with current conditions in the area. We are inundated with trying to communicate with county, Forest Service, guests, summer home neighbors, family and friends during this terrible time.

There is much more to say, to share, but you only have so much time to read, and I only so much time to write. So, that’s all she wrote for now. Until next time.

Sending love and light from these high wild mountains,

Gin

Detour

November 5, 2012November 5, 2012 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

Today I lighten the literary load and lower the photographic standard. I’m just going to tell you a story. Plain and simple, in words and pictures. A story about yesterday.

Going to the other side.

The other side… of the Rio Grande.

Soon of course we will be further.

The other side… of the equator.

But for now, I’m here awaiting winter.

And since it’s slow to come, we’re quick to head out and enjoy.

We saddle up, my sweetie and me.

Me on my little Arabian, Flying Crow (Fadjurz Ideal).

Bob on Crow’s first born, Tresjur of the Rio.

We start by crossing the river, our mighty Rio Grande.

After ten years of drought, this fall she runs with mild manners.

And down in the hidden crevasse below the bluff that cuts through our land,

Where sunlight is only scattered now and for the next several months,

Ice has begun forming

With strength and gusto and an unspoken belief in being undisturbed until mid May.

And here we come.

Horses with steel shoes.

Breaking through

Slipping

Splashing

Curious pawing.

Legs spread out wide under them, under us, but still above the water on the slick white fresh ice.

Thicker than we thought it would be.

This is not the river we have asked them to cross before,

Thin and liquid and loose.

Our maiden voyage to Sweetgrass Meadow on horse begins.

Working with the horses fear and trust and overcoming.

Then amused and impressed with their inquisitiveness in exploring a new trail,

A place they had never been,

No horse had been for probably fifty years or more.

A more adventurous time and place

Long ago and far away

That a few of us who still dream of finding a land untouched

Still long to be.

And then arriving where we want to be.

On the otherside.

At Sweetgrass Meadow.

Our secret oasis.

There because we found it on Google Earth and knew we could find our way.

And we did.

And the horses found the grass as sweet and pure and perfect as I knew they would.

And thus the adventure was worth it,

For us, for them.

And complete.

As we find our way home on the familiar side of the river

Where the horses know the way.

Crossing the frozen Rio Grande.

: Chosing an alternate route.

: Stopping for a picnic at the bottom of Sweetgrass Meadow.

: Me and the boys.

: Letting the horses rest.

: Enjoying the sweet grass of Sweetgrass Meadow

: Lovely little Arabian.

: On the other side.

: Gunnar von Getz.

: Crossing the Rio Grande again.

: Almost home.

: From the other side.

: Looking up the Rio Grande.

(click on any of these pictures to see a larger image, then hit the “back” arrow to return to the post)

Changing views

October 13, 2012October 13, 2012 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

Rain turns to hail turns to snow

Winter’s white line blending with brown

A slow sad march down the mountain

Covering the last of summers stories

Faded like a sepia portrait of an old cowboy

Yesterday today tomorrow

You may say bad things comes in threes

I’d rather think of body, mind and soul

Nothing is not connected

Though too often we find ourselves alone

Seemingly old words shared with a new friend:

“As I write, I am down at the Little Cabin, our one room cabin built of old round logs, set out on the bluff above the river. Big Haus, our main home for now, is being used for the last big event of the season, so we’ve chosen to hide away down here, and I love it. A small satellite dish and solar panel which charges a battery which in turn is inverted to household power allows me the use of the computer and internet, though we have the old wood cook stove giving us heat, and candles and kerosene lamps at night by which we work. There is an outhouse nearby and when the rain and hail (and soon to be snow) are not as loud on the metal roof as they are right now, I can hear the song of the Rio Grande just below us.”

Get away, far away…

I wonder at times if I am running away? Or running to something just out of reach?

A new view, looking out of these old weathered eight-pane windows. Snow beneath the beetle killed spruce trees. Rolling waves of light and dark, subtle shades and repeated variation, hillside after hillside fading from green to grey. It’s only a matter of time.

Are we better off not looking?

Yet even blindfolded, would you feel the tears of the trees dropping their needles upon you as we stumble through the last of the shade?

To Beartown and Beyond!

September 16, 2012 / Gin Getz / 12 Comments

Ditch Diaries

August 12, 2012 / Gin Getz / 7 Comments

Week 3, Day 1

Missed working here last week due to the unexpected encounter between mountain lion and horse. Left us with the feeling (the reality!) of more work to do in less time. One worries if one can do it. Will my body hold out? I know the miners and loggers and true pioneer folks did much harder for much longer. Perhaps we humans have softened. My son tells me I’m pretty tough as he rubs the muscles in my back which don’t seem to release, relax and let go. Muscle memory. I imagine soaking in a hot bath and hope my muscles will ease under the almost painful pressure of his hands.

Riding in to camp this morning. A challenge. The trailhead we use blocked with tourists in their RVs asking for directions, work men scrambling about, drilling rigs, back hoes and water trucks and I don’t know what all we had to ride through. I pretend it’s an Extreme Challenge race for my horse, Flying Crow, and he’s winning. Guides us through the worst of it. Success! I’m proud of him.

Finally. And finally, I’m proud of my training. Some days. Two steps forward, one step back. Always a process. Working with this little Arab, training him as a stallion, has been a huge lesson in patience, trust and learning to read the horse. It is working. I have never had a more difficult horse to work with. His natural balance of flight and distrust and questioning everything (“Do you really mean it?” “Do I have to go there?” “Will it bite?” and the most often he tells me with his not so subtle body language, “But why?”). I once read that Arabians are for people who really love horses, and really can ride. You have to do both to put up with these guys sometimes. It’s not easy. Not the training, not the testing of your skills, knowledge, love and patience, not the ride. And it’s not boring. Always interesting. Always a challenge. So there we go, through our Extreme Challenge. And winning ribbons. Though of course, only in my imagination, for there is no winning circle in the wilds. You just make it through or not.

We made it.

Day 2

Lunch break. Extended.

We sit in the sun by our tent watching our little herd of horses graze in the pasture below us and a formidable flock of charcoal grey clouds form above, into what appears a solid bank, rolling high and heavy over the Window and Pyramid, approaching our valley.

In minutes we are overcome, in shadow, embraced by portending doom. The storm arrives.

Now horses safe in the trees and we in our tent, we listen to the clap of thunder arrive at the same time as the lightning flashes. No time to count, “one mississippi…” Sound vibrations roll back and forth across the valley, a game of ping pong between the two mountains.

Gunnar sits at the open doorway of the tent, knowing it will pass but quite content to wait this one out as the rain on the top of the tent turns louder and the ground turns white with hail.

Time and again the tapping overhead slows and the sky lightens and we prepare to head back to work, only to be confronted with thunder so loud you jolt and clap your hands over your ears at each blinding flash of lightning. These clouds seem to be seeking a path up and over the Divide but instead roll around from side to side, circling above us, above the valley, round after round of intense storm.

Wait it out. This too shall pass, I remember the words of a dear friend quoting her mother. We will have plenty of time to complete our work.

The boys have dozed off. Even Gunnar left his post by the door and is sharing the bed with Bob. Me, I refuse to give in to heavy eyelids. I want to get back to work. But holding the pen becomes harder and harder, my written words scribbled and incomplete, and I give in to the sweetness of a brief afternoon nap.

Day 3

Night time. The Big Dipper just to the north of the Pyramid. Stars so close you feel surrounded, embraced, overwhelmed, very, very small. It all looks so big. Unanswered questions overhead. Unlimited curiosity, unlimited view, unlimited world of which we are a very small, very quiet part.

Today in the ditch. A small group of backpackers asking the way. The trail has been all but closed. Dead trees fallen. The newest findings of this changing environment. Fifty one across the trail in the first mile above where the trail crosses the ditch.

They are already tired. Yesterday, downed trees pushed them off the trail, finding their own way three and a half miles through the timber this side of the Rio Grande Pyramid. I am impressed they find their way without the trail. We see so many completely trumped when the visible trail becomes uncertain. There is comfort in the worn path. These kids relied on common sense and a sense of direction, two of the most valuable wilderness skills.

We lead them to the trail, point out the route and reassure them that if they make it through this first mile, things do get better. At least, as far as we’ve gone. They are going farther. The Continental Divide trail, they are doing, from Stony Pass to Wolf Creek. I think the highest continuous section of the Divide. And the most truly incredible, like being out there beneath the stars, looking up and out at this huge and beautiful world beyond what you’ve ever seen before.

Their journey would have taken them on a two or three hour section above treeline today. Mid day, when they would have been up and out there in the wide wild openness, another violent storm befalls the mountain. I thought of these kids, and somehow was not worried. Somehow I thought if anything, they would be so filled with wonder by the magnificence of it all, by the sheer immensity of the beauty and power of the storm and nature, and respectful of the simplicity and powerlessness of ourselves out there in it.

Day 4

Dinner bubbling on the woodstove. Here where work can be so hard even Hamburger Helper tastes great. Standing over the little stove, stirring. Keeping on my wet boots for that one last trip to bring in the horses from pasture. Wet feet. Forever cold and wet they feel here sometimes. I prefer to cook with cold wet feet then allow my feet to dry, and then have to stick them back in wet boots. How good it will feel when I’m done for the day and finally slip on warm wool socks.

Today, more felling and bucking in the rain. Oil the old cross cut saw to help it sing through the wood. Stumps left standing with the tell tale blue wood from the beetles’ deadly kiss. Curious to me the number the hikers up the mountain right now, and how few stop to ask what we’re doing. I don’t find myself that intimidating, and actually enjoy stopping to talk with the few who ask. Forrest called me Mother Bucker. Lady Logger. I like it. Sounds big and bad, but remember, I’m a forty five year old mountain mama from New York City who weighs in well under 120. With my wet boots on.

An evening walk after work across the big meadow where our horses graze, to inspect the work done on “the big ditch,” the one more often seen and found, owned and maintained by the Colorado Division of Wildlife. An organization I’m probably better off saying little about as I may not find anything nice to say.

Workers had been there for a few days this week, this year, still trying to repair damage from the year before. At this rate, from the work we saw “completed” it will only be a few more years before they send in the big crew to fix it again. A big ordeal made bigger. Trucks and trailers lined up at the trailhead and news of a formidable work force sent into the wilds, long pack strings following just to bring in their gear. This was no typical Wilderness adventure to stumble upon for those tourists trekking the Divide. Perhaps it is no wonder that the backpackers we see would rather let us be then stop for a welcome visit.

However work aside (and work here is important to us, as with all of what we do out here, from horsemanship to felling trees, we take such pride in our work and strive to improve ourselves each year), the greater upset was the way the wilds were left. Disgraceful. Wilderness Ethics were not a concern, or to be polite, perhaps just were not known. Horses tied to trees along side trails (the Continental Divide trail, no less), trash left in fire pits, sections next to the trail of grass tromped down to dirt from the large crowds, and worse yet was the hillside trashed, used as their toilet without bothering to bury.

My fury over such disregard of these beautiful wilds is washed away in the gentle storm that swept over us as we walked back across the meadow, looking ahead at where our camp is tucked into the trees, invisible to the passer by, arched overhead with a perfect subtle rainbow.

Day 5

3 pm and the storm has not passed, only varied in intensity. We are ready to return home for the weekend but the prospect of two hours horseback across the Divide in rain, hail, thunder and lightning allows us to wait it out. The storm stays longer than we would have guessed. I am anxious. Ready to move on. Stresses of home have returned. Sitting and waiting, not working, they sit there with me and hold to me like a ball and chain.

Waiting out the storm.

What have I left behind to be here? Running water (unless all these lovely little creeks can count) and internet connection. Financial burdens, personal obligations, communications, keeping abreast of the modern world when here our world is gathering firewood, cooking in the tent over the little woodstove, horses and handtools, hand steeling, double jacks, shovels and slips, wedges and the six foot crosscut saw I sharpened just the other day along a felled tree, and will have to do so again before we fell the next big tree. The beetles have provided us with an endless array of dead trees to clear from the water way.

What have I left behind?

I will return to clean jeans, a hot bath, sipping a strong cocktail, and slipping my feet into warm slippers. I will return to stresses I am able to leave behind here and now and need not think about as long as I am here.

I have here with me that which matter most. There is great peace in that realization.

We will leave when the rain lightens, the lightning storm passes. And in the meanwhile, this is a good place to be… waiting.

Listen to the wilds cry

July 29, 2012July 29, 2012 / Gin Getz / 9 Comments

Listen to the wilds cry

Confessions heard in dying trees

An intimate look at a big forest ravaged by tiny beetles

If anyone had told me ten years ago that the hills as far as I can see and beyond would be filled with such death, that I’d be surrounded by miles and miles of mountain hillsides draped with dying trees, up to the top of tree line on both sides of the Divide… I would never have believed.

I believe now. For this is what I see.

Green turned red, brown and grey.

We try to be optimistic. See the few green trees remaining. Some smaller Spruce, and of course, the Aspen. Glimmers of hope.

It’s not enough. Look at the rest. It’s dead. Dead, damn it, dead! We are living surrounded by death.

I try to find the beauty in it all, and if the light is just right, it’s there, you can see the softness in the setting sun on the dying needles. A more open view when you’re in the woods. But really, that’s it. It’s dead, death, and lots of it. It gets to you some times.

Genocide of the mountain and we sit back and say there is nothing we can do. Rape of the land I love.

It’s not that bad, you say. There’s still so much beauty, so much goodness, so much life. Oh, I know. I see it every day. I do my best to appreciate. Wildflowers, grasses seeding out, steel grey clouds, trout surfacing the river, captivating colors in the rocks, a rainbow, a sunset, the flash of the blue bird on the old cedar post. But there is also so much death. And dark clouds do get gloomy, intriguing as they may at first appear.

Cheer up, you say, it’s still so beautiful and always will be. Oh, I promise you, I know and I see, very clear and very deep. For I am here, remaining when your fairy tell ends. This is our home, our reality. So how can I turn a blind eye to this devastation?

I saw a stand of smaller trees, two, three, four inches in diameter, standing dead with tell tale signs of beetle kill. Dripping sap turned hard, pin holds and chipping bark, needles falling off like rain, teardrops of the wilds as I ride by horseback and brush too close to death. I tip my rim forward and let the needles fall onto my horse’s mane and neck. He is used to this.

This was not supposed to happen. None of this was. I remember the first such ravaged land I saw, devastated by the beetles, back fifteen years ago or so in Carson, New Mexico. Didn’t know what it was back then, as we watched the four and five hundred year old pinon trees that were here when the Spanish settled, wither away in one season.

I’ve heard all the “expert” opinions, and know it’s just a guessing game. It will only get the pinon, or perhaps the ponderosa, scotch, limber, lodge pole, fir, bristlecone, spruce… It will only kill up to eight thousand, then nine thousand, ten thousand feet…

Last year they even told us once it’s dead it might not burn as bad. Colorado learned the hard way this year. I don’t want to call it all “lies.” The intentions of the so-called know-it-alls might be good.

Face it. No one knows. I’m tired of hearing predictions that don’t pan out and ideas to fix the forest or save one single tree that just won’t work when the entire view – yes, miles and miles and miles, how many millions of trees – die before me.

Death. That’s the problem. It’s not that it is ugly per se, though most of us who live in it still have a heck of time finding true beauty in the rolling red hillsides or one individual, unique dead standing tree, just one more in a forest of so many. The problem is that the hills and mountains that once sang with life and promise now stand silent, stripped and exposed like a bleeding heart. Our trees have been raped and killed. And not just one or two or a hundred or so. But mile after mile, mountain after mountain, millions and millions and millions of trees.

Dead. Don’t tell me it’s a natural cycle and it’s all going to be OK. I’ve heard enough of that. You’ve proven you have no idea what you’re talking about, what is happening. But it’s happening. It’s happened. These trees are dead. These mountains are dying. It’s death and it’s ugly and it’s real. So stop sugar coating the view before me because I take off the green tinted glasses and I see red and brown and grey.

I’m tired of lies. Of guesses. Of ignorance for which I am guilty too. I’m tired of listening for what I want to hear, taking solace in the latest glimmers of hope like blind faith, as the plague continues to spread and we place our bets on how far it will go next year.

My child’s children will never see these mountains as tall and green and lush and majestic as I once did. But no longer do. Now I see red. I am red with anger. The mountain may silently weep. But I can rage loud as the color red.

(…to be continued)

OK, friends, readers and passer-bys, on that happy note… I’m off again this week for another round of ditch camp. See you at the end of the week.