wildlife

A bunch of pretty pictures and one not so happy poem

/ Gin Getz / 8 Comments

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calypso orchid

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come back weminuche

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horses on pasture

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last light on dead trees

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pussy willow 2

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pussy willow

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reservoir flats

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rio grande spring

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tresjur and indi

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view from the office

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Thoughts in spring time

And the sun shines

and warms and

tells us it’s all ok

and we smile and

Look around as aspen leaves

open and green the hillsides

that otherwise remind me

of death

And the light is high and flat

and my cheeks burn

and we say, yes, this is how

it should be, but

something deep inside

is nagging and we try

not to listen but

it won’t go

away.  And then

we have another

glass of wine and wonder

if we can wash it

away but all it does is

make it louder and then

We want the rain and

the snow and the clouds and

darkness and want to turn

within and feel instead of

see and then we know we’ll

find what we are looking

for.  Do you know? I wonder

if I ever will.

~

Holding onto the wind

/ Gin Getz / 14 Comments

 
Seeking solace in the high country. Looking for an answer. I know not who to ask. Don’t even know the question, so it seems some days.

Don’t get me started, this is a tangent that could take me far and wide, just please let me share this with you. I was given an answer I still need to understand. Maybe it will take a lifetime. I am in no rush. I will do my best to enjoy it all. The journey. Spread my wings and soar. Where the wind takes me. For she is far stronger than I am, and will blow long after I am gone.

And for no reason at all, I find myself lost. Even with the Yellow Brick Road winding before me. No matter. Somewhere within me, there is the lost child still doubting, questioning, afraid. I once read one should comfort her, but days like this, I’d rather tell her to grow up and get over it.

Tightness in my stomach, the same I remember on test day at the end of the semester, thirty, forty years ago. Come on, still?

Really, I hate that feeling. I see no good reason for it. Self induced stress. I used to think I should listen to that internal voice, inner wisdom, perhaps she is warning me, portending an unforeseen doom. Time has taught me otherwise. More often than not, it’s nothing more than my over active imagination and my under active sense of security flaring up.

Indulge in a desire for comfort, or get tough and get over it. Let’s choose the latter.

I woke early as I often do and looked briefly for a shooting star, having read the night before there may be a good show. Thirty seconds pass. Long enough. Nothing. If there was to be a “sign” it would have showed itself by now, I told myself. I’m not forcing it.

A sign. What am I expecting?

Don’t expect. You know? Just be open. And the signs arrive in a timely manner. Far better than if forced.

So there I am in the late afternoon, working on the water system for the cabins with Bob. And overhead I feel then see. A hawk.

Not just any hawk. But the one that joined us for the first time this summer and sat perched on the dividing fence or the cedar post by the barn as I fed each morning. The one that I am pretty sure reduced the Morning Dove population, not to mention helped with the onslaught of rodents that flourished in the long and mild summer.

He circles, the hawk, flying in from the south, loops around the dog and me, lands at the tip of the big spruce tree next to our cabin. Grandfather Tree, we call that one, with the tree house Forrest built when he was nine. So high I still have never been up there. I suppose that was the purpose, knowing I was afraid of heights as I’m sure he did even then.

Odd to see him now, this hawk, any hawk. All seem to have left a month ago, as the small birds were heading south and before the ground squirrels and moles had tucked themselves in for the season. What brings him back now? The ground is silent, covered in a thin blanket of white. The air too is silent, except for the group of Steller’s Jays that come begging each morning and the pair of Ravens that always stay.

I have missed the hawks, all their variety and interest and tension they circled our little bit of sky with this year, but understood their need to leave. Why return? What will he eat? I need not worry, Bob assures me, when he can fly fifty miles in a day. How easy for him to find lower elevation, open ground and a meal in a matter of hours. The whole world is not white. Just our little bit of mountain, up here at ten thousand feet. I forget sometimes.

We make eye contact. He does not move. Not for me entering the house below him to retrieve my camera, the dog barking, Bob pulling around in the truck.

I don’t notice until I look at the pictures I took. The waxing moon behind him.

I thank him. I am not sure what to believe, but I believe something, and something is better than nothing on days like this. In fact, right now I think something is… enough.

 

 

On yet another tangent, for anyone interested or curious, I’ve just updated our Lost Trail Ranch website (http://www.lost-trail.com/). Starting to take reservations for next year. Geez, time flies. It’s not even winter yet, and here I am planning next summer. I must be growing up.

 

 
Oh, and the poem below – more re-working going on here.  This one originated this time last year, away from Colorado, in the northern part of Washington State.  (Wanted to upload an audio file of the reading of the poem, but still can’t figure how.  If you can help me out, please write.)

Thoughts? Suggestions? Pointers? And yes, even criticism? (I can handle a little, but just a little…) Oh, and Harold, the spacing is starting to make more sense to me when I read it aloud… but still seems so random at times.

 

 

 

Seduction of earth and sky

 

the sky appeared
above as a
familiar lover
I have not slept
with in years but
still haunts me

in my dreams
spread out on
top of over next
to entwined with
me

I vaguely
recognized the
warmth against my
back wind like lazy
fingers through loose
hair a familiar sweet
musky breath

swelling wide
above me was
Colorado
bright and blue
clean and open
a crisp dry
chill through my
nose and throat
and lungs as we
climbed the
hillside on the
clearest day we
have witnessed

since moving here
it took me
there and I was
reminded there
was not where I wanted
to be I left
for a reason
for a hundred reasons

and still I
look back and
see an attractive
comfort and that
entices me

it is hard to
let go of
what you had
when you have
no clear
picture of what

you have
so we are
seduced by
desires of the
past holding tight to
false hopes that
we may carry
knowns and givens
with us the familiar
lover you cannot
leave because a warm
body in bed
is better than
no body at all

at least that
is what we are
often told I

challenge that
assumption easy

for me to
do as my lover
lies safe and warm
beside me
and the thick gold
band on my finger
combined with my
stubborn sense of
commitment

reminds us both we
will watch each others’
wrinkles spread like
hoar frost down
by the river bank
and still lie
next to one another
and spoon close on
cold nights many
years from now

today

we find
ourselves out
under a low grey
sky hats and
shoulders turning
white
amid the first good
snow of the season
as we walk in
the dream state
first days in a
new place seem
to necessitate

and for today

at least I
am freed of
the burden of
the seduction of

the dazzling blue

 

 

Rhythm and Voice; finding something solid in the wind

/ Gin Getz / 2 Comments

 

A seashell sliver of the new moon set low to the south, early over west side of Ute Ridge. You’d think by now I know her pattern, can predict where she will choose to settle. Yet she remains an enigma. And part of me likes it that way. I don’t want all the answers. Why can’t we appreciate mystery for no more reward than the observation of outward beauty, and the stirring of inward intrigue? Give me all the answers and maybe that is gone.

Under the sparkling throw of a deep black sky. I stand. Silent. Dog at my side. It is warmer tonight. But not too warm. The snow is becoming. Permanence of winter becomes. I say I allow it but have no choice. I accept it. It is what I want.

This morning was a “balmy” fourteen degrees Fahrenheit. Tonight I open the window after my tub so it will be cooler when we return inside and retire. We remain out there another moment. Gunnar, looking ahead into the void for something scary because that’s his job, or at least, the one he claims and works so hard to perfect. His title. Me, staring up at dizzy diamonds in coal. No title. Just one very small person in a very large universe.

The pair of owls speak. To one another. Only by chance do I hear. It matters not to them. They are there in the abyss, somewhere by the east fence line, somewhere in the deeper darkness of the tall spruce trees. Gunnar gives them a quick “woof” and senses they are no threat. He listens with me. I think they are guarding us. From what, I do not know. But their presence is somehow huge and deep like the whale in ocean and bring with them a wisdom I wish to understand.

So, Amy, you ask about rhythm, and I got it. No, not really. I’m working on it. I can’t say I get it yet. It is harder than I thought.

This part isn’t coming easy, but I like it… reading it, hearing it… sound and motion… if I can make it work. If I can write it! I share with you what Harold shared with me. Using my words, but changing their rhythm. As he mentioned, it becomes a little more “universal.” I find it a little less preachy. It is no longer my lecture, but a poem I share with you. Adds interest, motion, without (borrowing the metaphor Harold suggested) the regular footstep of horse down a trail.

Feedback would be most welcome and appreciated.

a love poem a
first for me words
we just assume and
so I tell you what
I should have
said and maybe
I will not for
I think you already
know without
saying with feeling
something in trust
completion pride and
assumptions
I am more
whole with you
I am more of
me because of
you you let it
be all me when I
need it to be which
really is far too often
I say and you say
nothing at all and let me
rattle on which I
will do no matter

today was one of those
days I’m really
up and
down I have

always thought
the curse of
the creative mind
passion puts one
out of balance
it comes in
waves swelling and
curling and pounding
and drawing back
to low tide

then again
maybe it is
just me
probably I’m sorry
poise is nothing I
have known
stability does not
come easy that is
one of the reasons
I need
you so much you
are the rock to my
rushing waters

today was a tide
drawn out day
leaving
the stench of
the barren beach
in the wake
tomorrow
I will be better
and this much I
do believe
tomorrow I will
love you still
though I may
only say so in
the darkness as
our sweat cools
and we are there
tired front by
side which is
exactly where
I want to be
more complete
because of you

funny how I am
not afraid
when I always
thought I should
be less
of me and more
of you

 

Begin again

/ Gin Getz / 11 Comments

 

 

 

And so it begins again, as it has so many times before. 

I wake long before light to heavy silence.  You can feel it.  A pressure of sorts, weighty, though not oppressive.   I know.

I feel my way to the window and there is the view as I expect it to be and as it is for nearly half my days here.

The branches of the blue spruce at the same time laden and light.  The ground below bright and glowing as snow continues to descend in darkness.

This is the time the land shines and shivers.  It is her time.  When she is allowed to be solitary.  Nothing to give or take.  Demands washed over in white.  Pure and pristine in stillness and strength.  If Artemis was a season, she would be winter here.

She is out there, singing her own song, loudly but only for herself, with no one around to listen, comment, critique.  I hear her in intimate moments as the sound of falling snow.  I try to respect her space, walk lightly upon her with downy steps, and bow my head (and roll my eyes) in apologies for the sudden barking of my dog as he finds the tracks of a coyote that recently passed our path where we walk in the twinkling crystal light of fresh falling morning snow.

 

 

 

And where am I going?

/ Gin Getz / 13 Comments

The last of running waters. They say winter will be here tonight. The water and I await… this inevitable change.

 

Leaving what I love.

Driving home.  Headlights in the snow.  Owl and elk, coyote tracks and a snowshoe hare.  Only a dusting.  Perhaps it will be gone tomorrow.

We leave town.  Down past Airport Corner.  I will see no vehicle from here on up to home.  Even Freemon’s Ranch is still and silent for the season.

As if eyes almost closed.  We squint through snow shooting towards the windshield, whipping up and over at just the last minute.  A blinding tunnel vision.

It will not last.  We know.  By the time we reach the Reservoir, the sky is an even white, like a bed sheet draped over my head, tucking me in for the season.

This year is different. Every year is.  I cling to the early winter because it is all I have now.  Mid winter will take us south.  Far south.  South of the Equator.  South America.  Where the sun will shine north of us.

I never thought we would be “Endless Summer” season travelers when Winter is what we’ve lived for.  But who can resist an adventure?  And a big one lies ahead.  I can not say no.  We will go.  Four months in Patagonia.  It is summer there.  We will leave deep winter, dressed in long johns and parkas and heavy boots and riding on the back of my husband’s snowmobile with our dog balanced between us.   Somewhere on the drive to the airport perhaps we’ll slowly strip.  Leave the layers behind.  Go lightweight. Hawaiian shirts and flip flops.  Not really my style.  I think I’ll keep the Levi’s and cowboy boots and sweat it out if need be.

I will say farewell to my mountain for winter.  Close up our home, farm out the house plants, dig my nose deep into the hair of my horses as we bring them to lower ground.  One last whiff of their sweet smell, each one of which I am so familiar I could identify him or her blindfolded by scent alone.

And the twist to this story:  it’s all for the sake of writing.  Part of becoming a writer, or rather, expanding, evolving…  A chance to complete another story.  A good one at that.  I’ll save the details for another time.

There’s more to it than that.  There always is to every tale, isn’t there?  And this one won’t end otherwise.  In this case, there is, “For the sake of adventure.”

Because life is too short for Woulda, Coulda and Shoulda.  I’d rather stick with, “Sure, I’ll give it a try.”

 

Water and light. Perhaps for the last time this season.

Where is this going?

/ Gin Getz / 3 Comments

 

 

My apologies for the incomplete post sent to subscribers on Monday.  Seems the pictures made it, the text got lost in cyber space.  I am sorry for the mess up.  Fortunately for me, I saved the text in a Word document, and was able to make the corrections.  If you have not seen the proper post, please click here.  Anyway, a good reminder to self:  Back up, back up, back up…

 

Today our country heals.  Months of negativity and division, for what?  Really, I don’t get it.  Enough!  It’s over, folks. Our country spoke.  We spoke.  Accept it.  Live with it.  Love it or leave it, but stop complaining.  I’m done with the negativity, and opinions and beliefs that are better kept private.  (What you do behind closed doors is YOUR business.  Please, can we keep it that way?  I really don’t want to know…)

Time to move on.   To good things.  If you want them better, make them better. Stop whining.  Bottom line.  Wake up, smell the coffee and see the sunshine.  Life is good.

Back to where I was before The Detour.  Today, I share with you this:

 

Where is this going?

 

We turn within.

This is the season of solitude.

Darker days.

Coldness descends.  Slowly.

The trees stripped. Exposed.  Nothing to hide.

Barren.  Gold fades to brown fades to grey.  We await what we know will come, when our world becomes swathed with white.

It is coming. Winter.  When our chilly cocoon enwraps us, cuts us off, shuts us in, draws us together, those of us that remain. We’re in this together.

Times are changing.  The weather faster than the people.  November is not what it used to be. Eleven Novembers and I’ve yet to see a storm stay, stick around, and shut us off this time of year, but the threat chased the people off long ago.  Stories of the one that gotcha.  Vehicles caught and stuck and buried and remaining until the following June.

No longer.  Seems like late autumn is becoming a lingering of summers end.  Giving us glimpses only of early winter.  Tempting, teasing, eluding.  Broken promises.

Fifty degrees at ten thousand feet mid day today.

Elk in tall timber at high noon as we ride above tree line, southern slopes completely clear of the last little storm.  They are not seeking solace from hunters, who have left long ago, but needing the shade.  Comfort in the coolness of trees.

Where is everyone, we ask each other, just the two of us, outside on another crisp and cool November morn?  Lunch on the deck, afternoons in shirt sleeves.  Sun leaving a line on exposed flesh where the leather of my worn work gloves ends.

Someone else should still be here.  We feel selfish.  Our little secret.

Too much good weather.  It’s exhausting.  Just when you thought it was due time to take it easy and work inside.  Balancing my books will be very late this year.

We take a break and drive to town.

Quiet streets and empty sidewalks.  Every face is familiar.  The few that remain, hard core, cold blooded, solitary in camaraderie.  Silent understanding.

Driving through Creede at winter’s dawn.  You know every truck and every driver.  You wave.  That is my favorite part.  No more anonymity of summer.  No strangers remain.

Front row parking outside and the only one shopping inside at Rare Things and San Juan Sports.  Room at the bar at Tommy Knockers.  Tables to choose from at Kip’s.  Time for hugs.  For catching up.  For another beer.

 

 

What brought it on…

/ Gin Getz / 34 Comments

We’re in the kitchen talking about the harder days.  Before running water, hot water heaters, finished walls and trim work.   Long before luxury items like curtains, matching plates and book shelves. Our first year here. The summer of the three of us in a one room cabin. Though we moved to a larger cabin for winter (offering room to initiate a budding new relationship), that season even the septic line froze. We hauled our water downhill on a push sled and were grateful for a nearby outhouse.

I think what scared me most was the cold.  The stories worried me, which I believe they were meant to do.  Funny if you consider that no one else had lived here before us.  So where did the stories come from?  The rumor mill, at work again? Finding factual accounts and figuring out the truth takes time.  I could not get firsthand reports.  There were none.  Only exaggerated stories and distorted memories.  No problem.  Learn to write the book yourself.  And no disappointment from expectations.

Just the same, comfort is not what attracted me then or now.  Financial security and emotional stability don’t appear to be regular parts of my life.  Though maybe by my age they should be.

I thought a lot about this last night.  I couldn’t sleep. An itching that wouldn’t let me be, trying to figure out where my life was taking me.  I guess a self induced session of self reflection brought on by another birthday.  Forty-six.  Middle aged.  Time to grow up?  I think not.

What then?

At this stage in my life, I should have some labels.  There’s comfort in that.  I lost the one of Mother when my son went off to college.  OK, then.  How about my career?  Outfitter.  No more.  Guest Ranch owner/operator.  Barely.  Ditch Digger.  Yes, but… It is somehow lacking in, well, finesse for a middle aged woman. Writer?  I’ll take it. Writer.   I use that term daringly with great expectation and demands placed upon myself.  Too often I have trouble believing that what I give is worthy.  Who doesn’t?  Anyone who contemplates the meaning of life, their point and purpose, will question their self worth.  Won’t they?  And yet, many days I feel I have nothing to give… but words.

Pardon me if that sounds too plumped with self pity. I don’t really need the violins brought in for this.  What am I trying to say then?

Something about confidence.  Or lack thereof.  I read the words of others who have found success with their writing (and yes, success is a relative term, so here I mean that which brings one a sense of purpose and by which one feels defined), and compare them those of us (yes, that would be me…) who still do not believe in ourselves, or believe we have something worthy of giving.

This does is not make me feel worse about my state of being as not-yet-successful-writer, but rather, challenges me to grow up. Oh no!  Become that person. Start being today the person you wish to be tomorrow.  For what is the difference between she and me?  It is not in the number of books she has published and I have not, though I have used that as an excuse for the past few years.  It is in the voice that speaks back when I look in the mirror.  How easy it is to forget we are in charge of that voice. I need not look ahead with down cast eyes and hushed words and whisper, “Yes, I write…”  Perhaps it is time to look straight ahead, boldly make contact with the grey eyes staring back at mine, and speak in a loud and joyous voice, “Yes!  I am a writer!  And I am honored to share my words!”

Man, that sounds good at least.

Mild retreat

/ Gin Getz / 7 Comments

 

Bring it on

Ready for winter.  The wood shed is packed full. Ten cord of beetle killed spruce, split and stacked and ready to burn.

I have confession to make.  In the form of a hydraulic wood splitter.  Gone for me are the days of wedge and maul. Cheating?  At times I think so. Power tools.  Machines. Something ten years ago I (foolishly?) would have said I never needed.  I may not need it now (at least, I certainly am not going to admit that) but I do like it.  Makes the job go faster with much less effort.  Hard to complain about that.  Though the Mountain Mama in me isn’t always so convinced.  The draw towards traditional is bent out of shape by the noise of motors, moving parts, bells and whistles. This still seems a bit wrong to me.  But my ditch digging shoulders love it, and the job is done, so what can one really complain about?

The hay shed too is filled.  Stacked with small bales piled ten high to get us through the worst of winters.  The horses have already bushed out with their longer winter coats.  The smallest of them, my little Arabian, Flying Crow, started his early this year.  I think by the end of August.  Taking no chances.  Being “hot” here only lasts so long.  And that’s not very long at all.  Cold is a far more common state of being.  He’s been here long enough to know.  By now even memories of his barn and stable in the lower ground are long gone, I’m sure.  He’s a true mountain horse now.

Next we’ll fill the pantry and freezers, though I’m guessing we won’t need three hundred pounds of flour this year.  Forrest will only be joining us for Christmas break, so the cookie jar will empty at a much slower rate, and freshly baked bread will last us an extra day or so.

Yes, I’m ready, thought nothing but sun and mild temperatures are in the forecast.

Will I complain about that?

I think not… What I will do is lace up my hikers, or saddle up my horse and enjoy…

Withdraw

/ Gin Getz / 9 Comments

 

Stripped stark

Barren trees

Allow more light to penetrate

An insatiable hunger for the withering warmth

Mid day light diffused by the soft sky overcast

It is only a matter of time before the snow settles in for the season

White world we know here for half our days

Until then longer shadows leave a vague pattern

As if something man made like an endless cattle guard

On the edge of the dying meadow

 

The thermometer has risen to twenty.  I postpone a longer walk and return quickly from feeding the horses, the dog from chasing off the magpies.  I am not yet used to the cold, too soft, still holding on tight to summer ways of forgoing long johns and tall boots. The cold has barely begun.

Horses at the water trough pawing through the ice.

The doves are down to four.  I see them now settled on the fence by the one big Blue Spruce that provides protection.  There is literally a pile of assorted small birds behind the house, all having been run into the windows.  Even the cats can’t claim responsibility.  The falcon flies by and creates another fury and another bang on the window.  A feather and dusty impression of wings remain before me.  A clear, hard wall one can barely see.  The crystals I hung in every window have not helped.

The little dark mare turns from the water and snorts. I see water dribbling from her muzzle like a silver spray of shining beads, as she stand tight , tall, alert, neck and tail high and ears forward. The language of the horse.  The moose is again in the willows.  Or at least, that is what she fears.

The wind rouses, rips up the remaining thin brown leaves of the bush.  No lurking sent is stirred.  The little mare lowers her head, relaxes her back and slowly returns to the herd.

A great horseman once told me that to learn to be a great horsewoman, all I needed to do was listen to the horse.  They have all the answers I seek, he said.  His wife reminded us both that this theory only works AFTER one has learned the language of the horse, and not all of us were “lucky” enough to be born into a world of great horsemen as our parents and peers to pass on such information.  A disadvantage on one hand. I had to learn it all from scratch.  An advantage on the other, for we learn to speak ourselves, with our own voice and manners.  After the magnitude of mistakes levels out, we are left with an understanding that is ours, between the horse and me, built from the ground up like a stone castle.  This is more solid, strong and real than if it was handed to me.  That is at least what I tell myself.  Might as well.  I cannot change how nor where I was born and raised.

Not everyone is lucky enough to be born where they belong later in life.  I say that on one hand yet I have heard to those that say there is a great burden that comes with “being born into…” Or are we the lucky who have the blank canvas before us and paint the picture as we will?

No matter. We can choose who, what and where we are.  And we can change it all too.

Can’t we?

Bird of prey

/ Gin Getz / 23 Comments

 

Wind strips away the last of the leaves and sucks the heat of the woodstove out from between cracks in the log walls before warming the room.  The wind chimes rattle ceaselessly on the back porch.  Bare branches wave wildly as if saying their final farewell.

I sit in the cabin and stare outside at the browning hillside.  Flocks of geese on the Reservoir flats joining up to prepare their journey southward as the tourists already have done.  Those of us that remain prepare for departure or hibernation.  I will do the latter.

“The feast before the famine…” Or so the saying goes. But this feast is bittersweet.

Now is the season of birds of prey.

In the sharp shadows of early morning, from the kitchen window I watch a falcon fly through the flock of mourning doves. They are slow.  He is agile.  A fascinating combination, confrontation, obvious he will be victorious, and of little surprise when after I count one less dove scratching at the seed by the hay shed.

Late afternoon looking out the same window.  High above the field the Red Tail hawk dances in the middle of a whirlwind of what appears to be golden birds, whirling, swirling, fluttering, flickering in the lowering light.  At first I think he flies among tiny birds, a flock larger than I’ve ever seen here and strain my eyes to identify.  But it is only freshly fallen leaves caught up in the twisting air, a wild dance of nature, the bird of prey participates in what seems like a joyous display of fervor and wind.

So the season blows away, leaving the last of the orange leaves to glow like rare pale sentinels in the high hills, while the rest of the mountain fades to grey, silent and peaceful as a monk under a heavy hood. At once comforted and burdened by the weight.

It is time for me to withdraw. To give in to the brown and grey and barren wind.  To write.  I begin with letters I have put off for months.

From a letter written earlier this week to a friend who probably wished he never asked:

 

This will more than likely be way too long and rambling, or way too short and say only a fraction of what I want to say.

I’ve been going through an odd adjustment with Bob working in town a few days a week, Forrest off to college and trying to figure what his future holds, and myself trying to find more of my own self through work and business or lack there of. Not a big deal, just little life changes. And too much time to think. At this stage in the game, I should be doing more than thinking. Giving more than taking. I’ll figure it out. Just an adjustment period.

Where to begin?

I’d like to begin with the financial matters we first discussed back in August, I believe it was. Crazy the power money holds over us, even when we try to live so simply. I appreciate you sharing a bit of your story. Your honesty and openness have always been refreshing, though a harsh reality at times. You are right about the burden debt holds over us. Walking away (though of course I know, walking away still brings a tangled thread dragging behind) for us is not an option at this point. We are oddly in a state of having to wait it out. Let me explain.

Our debt is created by having to fight for ownership of part of this land, the part with the cabins and business my husband built, separating him from the “Evil In-Laws,” the part of the family that fought all the rest of us for no better reason than because they could, to stir the waters, or because conflict and confrontation are a way of life for them. Fighting to own what we have worked for was worth it on principle alone, though a hard fight, and a personal struggle, as family matters, you know, often are.

Fighting for ones land does one of two things.  It can turn you off and chase you away, or draw you closer like a mother and child.  For us, it has been the latter.  Only at times I know not if I am the mother to or child of this beautiful land.  I have only learned it does not matter.  We are connected now by blood, the blood I have shed upon this land, as sweet and rich, wet and warm as my tears.

But alas, “moving on” is this odd carrot before my nose. I grab but can never reach. I know it will happen. At least, most days, I know. Other days, I wonder.

And what does “moving on” entail?  For moving on does not always mean a physical move.  What it can mean is staying right where you are… only you are changed.

Here is everything my husband ever worked for, and what I have helped build and gave all I could for the past eleven years. It is not a miserable place to be, just rather “status quo.”  I prefer change, growth, adventure. My insatiable curiosity for what lies over the next peak of the mountain drives me. I just want to live life as full as I can, in my own quiet way.

But what can I do? What skills do I have now besides running a little business, raising animals (and a child), cooking, cleaning, riding, training, gardening… nothing of value in today’s world. I am lost.

We’re not operating the guest ranch in the same capacity we were, and we’re not outfitting any more.  This is hard because I so love horses and riding and even sharing the knowledge and experiences.  And both Bob and I have considered working with horses as such an integral part of our identity. We are still relying on our horses for work at the ditch, which involves riding and packing into Wilderness, back and forth, for 20 – 30 days per summer; and using the horse for dirt work. But it’s not the same, and not quite enough for me. So I’ve been compensating by doing these big, extreme, crazy rides trying to fulfill my horse time, miles, and unsaturated soul. It’s almost addictive. How hard/far/long/challenging a ride can I do today? And then return home grateful to have survived.

Horse time is almost over here. As soon as the snow begins to fly, and the north sides of the slopes and in the trees begin to ice up, it’s over. It will be soon.

And still, fun as it is, it is not enough. One can only “play” so much, enjoy ones down time so much. That point and purpose, direction, meaning I’m longing for is still so far away.  I am no closer today than I was yesterday.  Or is this a path I cannot see, and shall I wake one day and find myself… there?

Once again, you see I have foregone short and sweet and tended towards long and drawn out.  Stay with me if you’d like.  I will be here, and I will share. Though the season of withdrawing and crawling deep inside the cave is coming.  And I intend to use that time well and wisely…