Updates from the Upper Rio Grande

February 28, 2015February 28, 2015 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

Though I rarely mention our guest ranch business with my personal business, the two are of course intertwined and both a part of me. So… here’s the latest from the guest ranch side of me:

Woven into winter… dreaming of favorite places… taking you back to where you want to be…

Dear Friends of Lost Trail Ranch,

As the shrill call of the Redwing Blackbird this week heralds their return to the mountain and brings the promise of spring to our otherwise wintry landscape, we turn our attention towards the seasons upcoming. We welcome you to this beautiful new year, trusting it is a great one so far for you, and hope to have the chance to see many of you in the year ahead.

Some exciting news to share with you:

First, we’re getting a brand new web site! Same location (www.lost-trail.com) but a whole new look. After over a dozen years of toying with our home-made web site – based on the assumption that the beauty of the place is enough to capture your attention and your heart – we’re are super excited to be launching a completely new site, designed and implemented by the extraordinarily talented Kara Brittain of B4Studio (www.b4studio.com). The site is in the works, bringing a beautiful redesign and wonderful working interface, featuring personal photos, stories and a clean, clear, easy to read and navigate format. As we progress with the new site, please take a look, tell us what you think! It’s a work of art, and still in the works, so your feedback would be most appreciated.

And… your involvement!

We would love your help in this process. Please read on…

Stories! Would you be willing to share a story? Instead of the usual rave reviews and recommendations or interesting historic tid-bits from the area, what would be more fun and endearing than to read, share and exchange your personal stories of a special time or event or memory created here at Lost Trail Ranch on the website? Perhaps a tale of awakening to the blessing of an early snow or brilliant rainbow, a wild ride on ATV up to the Divide, a wonderful wildlife viewing, a bunch of song and laugher around a campfire, or the one that got away. Please write (e-mail us) and share! We’d love to read your stories… Okay, I’ll be the first… (story to follow)

Pictures! Have any special pictures you might be willing and able to share with us on the site, too? Perhaps of your favorite place, cabin or part of the cabin that means something dear to you, a quiet moment captured lounging in the sun with a good book in a quiet corner of your cozy cabin, laughing around a camp fire or chillin’ on the front deck. Perhaps of your favorite activity, be it an awesome hike, mountain bike ride or ATV adventure, your favorite fishing hole (if you don’t mind sharing your secrets), a fun day spent in Lake City or Creede, an exhilarating exploration up the mountain? We’d love to see and share your images, from family time or a romantic couple get-away or just the beauty of the cabins and surrounding mountains. When you find a few minutes, please look through some of your favorites, and send ‘em this way if you’re willing and able to share the beauty!

More exciting news: This summer will be the first season we are proudly offering Hill Top Cabin as a part of our rental fleet! Hill Top Cabin is the big, beautiful, private and pristine cabin about a quarter mile up the road from the main ranch, on top of the hill (thus the name) overlooking the ranch, the valley and the reservoir (talk about views!). This opportunity is a dream come true for many who have inquired over the years… now it’s a reality! We are pleased to announce weekly rentals offered from Sunday to Sunday (our main cabins are Saturday to Saturday), June through mid October. Please write us for more details, inquiries and/or to make reservations for the upcoming summer season.

Other news and updates of interest:

On a personal note… Bob & Gin have just returned from another season in Argentina, and are back to working on their home by the river, writing a new book, and starting an exciting new chapter of their life together. Meanwhile, on the other side of the world… or rather, the end of the world! Forrest will be wintering (our summer is his winter) at the South Pole. That’s a lot of cold, dark days while we’ll be here enjoying the comfort and beauty of the Colorado high mountain sun! Some say he was raised for such a situation, but no matter the stories we’ve told you, it really never get’s that rough here. All we know is, we’ll miss him – and hope he manages to stay as warm as one can in the eternal darkness where winter temps average -76 degrees F.

Finally, what are YOU doing this summer? Hoping you’ll be able to be here for at least a week to get your mountain fix! Interested in spending a month or more here at Lost Trail Ranch? We’re looking for a couple of good caretakers – your own private cabin in exchange for minimal daily chores, meeting and greeting, and helping out on the weekend with turnover. This is a non paid position; perfect for someone(s) looking to just getaway and enjoy the peace and privacy of the mountain and our guests for an extended period of time. Please drop us an e-mail if this sound interesting…

Hope to see y’all soon!

With warmest regards,

Lost Trail Ranch

e-mail: losttrailranch@gmail.com

address: 18100 USFS Rd 520, Creede, CO 81130

website: www.lost-trail.com

In darkness.

March 11, 2014 / Gin Getz / 6 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

In darkness.

And as quickly as

it came

it left

and I am left

to wonder, why.

In my dreams I am

underwater trying

to breathe

waking wide eyed

short of breath

and gasping and

then just like that

it is gone.

And I dance under the starry night skies once again.

On this Christmas Eve.

December 24, 2013 / Gin Getz / 12 Comments

On this Christmas Eve.

I wake this morning feeling out of sorts. It’s my first Christmas without Forrest. What’s the point of Christmas cookies without him here to eat them? (Bob would rather have pies.) My son never got a house of flashing lights, Santa, singing and Rudolf, but baking, and lots of it, I did for him.

We do our best to raise independence. Give them all we can, everything we can.

Put him down, they said,
Come on, get out, come with us, leave him, get a babysitter… he’ll be fine.
No, I said. Because I wanted to be there for him.

This is what matters most, I said. And it did. So now, what does?

The theory was to help build a solid foundation.
Upon which he would build his rocket and take off.

He’s taken off. How far away can you get? I think the South Pole is good.

Of course I am proud. And couldn’t be more pleased.
This is what we’ve been working for, what we really wanted, but still it hurts, you know? Not pain, so much as a void you don’t know how to fix and fill.

No, not sad, he reminds me (he, the wise one, of course…). Bittersweet, he’ll let me have. But not sad. “We’ve both got so much going on…” and yes, of course, he’s right. Good stuff. It’s not the time to be sad.

Well, heck, then, I say, it’s a day to get high. I’m heading to the high country. Nothing cures my blues like extreme white. Me on my snowshoes, my dog in my track. Breath deep of thin air. This is what heals me. Solitude, silence, wind, hard and harsh elements. The power of powder, intoxication of the elevation. Solace of the season.

No presents this Christmas for Bob and me. We have all we need. Instead, we’re gifting to charities. It gives us as the giver just as much pleasure, and maybe the receiver even more.

Glad to have Justin here to share the celebration, the logging, the lamb, the snowmobiles, the high country. (He might tell you otherwise after riding with Bob today.)

The tiredness of the darkest days, lullaby of deep winter, forced dormancy, how incomplete I would be without this tranquil time and muted days. Forever summer is not for me. I didn’t know how much I would miss winter until I left it. Like a lover. Left with a cold side to the bed.

And thanks to Bob, even on the coldest nights we spoon and wrap about each other and I no longer know where my limbs end and his begin and I think somewhere deep inside they really have become connected.

The enjoyment of the long, dark evenings, so much time together inside, finally catching up on reading, baking, writing to friends… thinking. Do you remember when?

Time for bed. For sweet dreams. For they shall be.
And to you all, my friends, I wish happy holidays. May they be dear, sweet and holy to you, whatever your practice, faith, believe or choice.

Of mind and mountain.

December 8, 2013December 9, 2013 / Gin Getz / 2 Comments

And then the roar
a deep guttural sound
rumbling the rocks of the frozen sides of

mountain above the river

slowly emerging
from beneath the snow
that falls in hopes of quieting

Mountain and mind
but neither will be subdued
And so I run

slow in deep snow
wild best unleashed
fiery wrath uncontained

By civilization and obligation

and so what more shall we do than let ourselves

Live
wild and naked and free
in the world we build

each for ourselves
our own heaven or hell
how loud do you beat your drum?

oh so quiet
in this little (cold) white world I live in
Now… give me a cloudy day

a sky full of passion, pain and promise
There is no depth in this dazzling blue
I stop

listen for the voice of the wilds

The trees, the wind, the river
under the early winter’s load of ice and snow
This is story I now must tell

Leaving egos and self importance and pity
Buried beneath the heavy load of ice and snow
Screaming to be heard

and the voices I will whisper
when the moon is dark
and I’m out there on a cloudless night

with no more than the trees
to shelter me
but maybe you’re there too.

The adventure of standing still.

November 23, 2013 / Gin Getz / 9 Comments

Morning, warming by the fire, with coats and hats and mittens hanging, dripping, drying. Outside, the snow continues, amasses, piles a heavy load. Just back from feeding horses. They are worked up, snorting and running about because there’s a big old bull moose out there who doesn’t get that he’s not welcome. Now safe and warm inside, I watch from the big south window at them milling around, but they’re still upset and won’t put their heads down to eat. All but Norman, who has his head down and wastes no time on such silly things that the others can take care of.

Evening, warming by the fire, with coats and hats and mittens hanging, dripping, drying. Just back in from a ski with Gunnar along the river, oddly still open and full and shiny black against the flat white landscape. Blurred lines in heavy snow. Soft silhouettes of geese, duck, hawk and eagle. Now warming my hands and pulling out dry clothes before heading back out to feed again. And still it snows.

Winter. So far, so good.

A big one rolled in and has remains with us for days. White sky, white ground, white on the horses backs, the dog’s nose, deep up to our knees. The truck is out. We are in. Here with a deep winter world.

The horses don’t particularly like it. It’s a warm wet snow which is harder on them than a cold dry one. It won’t last, but the next couple of days might be not fun. They are grouchy, short of temper, snip and snap and one another. I will not work with them now, but feed quickly, and walk away and wait for this to pass.

The adventure of standing still.

Remaining.

Time to write.

And to keep up with friends.

“A very simple life. I make it full yet not stuffed and filled, if that makes sense. Time to walk, think, write, watch the snow fall, and feel the cold outside then the warmth of the woodstove inside. We all rate success differently. I wouldn’t trade my life for anyone’s. And still a creation in progress, as you too show me, life always is, always changing.”

“I need seasons. Here, there, where ever. I need that balance of time like putting your garden to bed, letting it be, fallow and dormant, and then reawakening after a deep slumber. In summer I work. In winter, I dream. I know that’s kind of weird, and very extreme, but it works for me, and connects me more to the land.”

“Professionally, as a writer, I do not know. What is my responsibility? As writers… what matters most? A wonderful challenge presents itself. Truth or beauty? Responsibility, environmental concerns, social ethos, pathos, or simply… entertainment?”

Except for my love of my family and four leggeds, my love of the land is my greatest passion. Unlike Mr. Berry, who said, “I have never not known where I belong,” I have spent a lifetime searching. I have been on this mountain only a dozen years. I tried to leave her. I could not. Now I watch her standing strong in this volatile time when the trees are dying – not just a few, patches here and there – but mountain after mountain after mountain in these great big waves that turn blue and green into red and brown. And then I saw her burn. A hundred thousand acres up to a few miles away from my front door. Not much press. Not much people around here. Just trees. And trees don’t scream.

So… I’ll write. (No, I don’t scream much.) I’ll carry the burden of the world we love because we are here, we see, we feel, we are intimately connected with the land. And because the land can’t speak for herself. Or maybe she does. We just need to listen.

I’m no greenie, no environmentalist, in fact, I don’t want a label and don’t want to side up with anyone from behind a desk who likes to call me names. Maybe mother, wife, horsewoman, fencer, builder, baker, cook and cleaner… Mountain Mama. That’s about it.

Now it’s time this woman wrote about what she sees.

Final thought to leave you with.

On aging.

Forever looking forward.

When I was a little girl, I used to flip through the fashion magazines and say, “When I grow up, I want to look like that.” By the time I was twenty, I did.

Now at nearly fifty, I see a picture of a beautiful, classy older woman, like Doris Lessing at 90, and still I say the same.

“When I grow up…”

A quiet voice from a high, harsh mountain.

And yet today, she feels so soft.

On these trees

December 22, 2012December 22, 2012 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

The rhythm of movement. Lost in thought, and trying not to think. Just observe. The beauty and silence of the early winter on the mountain. Over cast sky and hills flattened without shadows, broken by dried bunch grass and the leafless cinquefoil poking through thin snow. Speckled hillsides where we expect by now to see smooth white. Don’t think about the continued drought. Don’t think. Just observe.
Cold hands. I struggle to press the shutter with my mittens on. As clumsy as boxer mits. Such contrast to the delicate subjects before me.

~
Dead trees. And dying ones. Sending out their last sap in a losing battle.
Beetle kill. Part of learning to see, finding the beauty in the beast. Getting used to it. Living with it. Knowing the tell-tale signs. Pin holes, loose bark, dried and heavy sap runs. This is Cutting Edge science. They look for answers. I wish they had them. I am learning to see reality. We are seeing changes yet undocumented, not yet understood. We learn to live it, not analyze it. We use our eyes, our heart. We listen to the falling needles on cold ground in spring and brush a tiny black beetle off our shirt in early summer. We walk trails silent from the layer of needles spread out before us like sand leading the way to the beach. Needles that once were shade. The view is opening.

~
It’s big, hundreds of thousands acres around me, but I am going to look close.
Some days it gets to me. Looking up at the rolling hillsides of brown blue spruce. Looking closer, say, at one pin hole or piece of slipping bark, is easier.

~
Living in a land I used to think was one of the last to be affected in this country, kind of like the late bloomer. Behind the times, if I may say. But now we find ourselves ahead of the game. Water issues. Drought. The aquifer drying up. Farmers paid not to grow. Entire forests dying. This is the forefront. There is nothing to refer to except for today.
We learn to listen with our eyes, our hearts, and let the so-called experts spit in the wind. Hopefully not too close to you or me.
I’m a dark timber kind of woman. A wood sprite of sorts who hides in the big heavy trees where my spirit is free and soars. I found my grandmother wisdom in the old growth fir, and my passionate bliss among the vanilla scented ponderosa pine. I’m not a silken bark aspen kind of lady putting out a fanfare of garish delight one season, and letting loose my leaves for half the year. That said, I have grown to love a hillside blending one into the other. That is Colorado.

~
At last count, Colorado lost 17% of our aspen. The aspen, some say, will be replaced by the conifer. They said that before the conifer began to die. Now some say the aspen will replace the conifer. I say no one knows. Such claims bring false hope. Can’t the land be beautiful for how she chooses to be? Ah… but are these changes her choice, or her reaction to our changing world?
All we can do is watch them slowly die, a quiet death, without fanfare. It doesn’t take a scientist to tell me. It only takes my eyes.
I see it. Plain as day. Plain as death.
Perhaps it is meant to be a mystery after all.
Have I lost my way again? What happened to quieting my mind and just observing?
How hard it is to just breathe.

Seeing solstice

December 21, 2012December 21, 2012 / Gin Getz / 12 Comments

Learning to see. Not just what I want to see. But what is there before me. Real and raw. And then find the beauty within, hidden as it may be at times.
Lessons learned looking through the lens.

(this inspired by the work of Harold Reinisch on his blog Okanagan Okanogan.

Light. Such a fascinating subject to focus on. I’d like to learn to capture a person’s light. Few opportunities present themselves here and now. There will be time. In the meanwhile, I turn to the mountain. Even on these days of long nights, with falling snow and white washed sky.

Learning to see. I’ve spent years here looking from afar. Now I find myself zooming in. Looking closer, deeper, slower. Does this have to do with age, patience or simply perspective?

The intimate point of view. Am I bringing you in there with me? Into the trees, a little lighter now than last year, sparser now with needles fallen from the dying spruce, and bare aspen trees tipped over and piled like match sticks in places. Seems like a new one across the trail each time we take our snowshoes through the trees. A nice place to sit and rest.

The camera – teaching me to slow down, maybe even stop, look closely, see the details. Breathe into an intimate gaze. I have seen the landscape. Know the view. Coming home from a snowshoe yesterday and my mountain, my muse, is spread out before me like a naked model, tempting, teasing, taunting. I lift my camera, held my breath and really look. I had taken the same picture before, I was sure. Probably more than once. Same snow, same light, same time of day on this very same day in December. I do not press the shutter and move on.

Learning to look close, close enough to touch, to feel, to smell and taste. To share that taste with you. Leave it sweet and bitter on your tongue.
It takes patience for me. Like being aware of my breath. A walking meditation.
Finding light on the darkest day. A metaphor for living.

After the even zero of winter’s mornings

December 18, 2012December 18, 2012 / Gin Getz / 5 Comments

the weight of cold and clothes
slows us
down, lifting
bundled legs over
snow covered rocks
advancing up the
seemingly silent stream

a white ribbon running
through a white land

from her banks
she is silent still but
up close she
continues to sing

then suddenly she is
open, loud and
rushing from
a black abyss

broken

upon her smooth
surface, or gives
way beneath footfall
leaving breathe caught
mid way and
heart pumping a little

louder

we listen to find
our way, the stronger
she sings, the thinner
the ice, the closer we are
to rushing waters
and her secrets
chanting below
each hushed step
of snowshoe on powder

untouched

but for the occasional
criss cross pattern
bank to bank
like summer’s spider webs strung
tree to tree

in warmer days as we
come to the creek
and brush silk from our
sweaty cheeks
as we find a place
to cool and escape

now no more than an easy
crossing for
coyote and shoeshoe hare and

dog that turns wild on days like this
and allows us only
brief sightings
of brown fur and

domesticity

he moves silent as
the river, stealth
through dark timber
in his own world yet
never too far from
where we are

then just as suddenly
by our side
and we slowly progress
up stream together
while the waters continue
their muffled flow down
beneath each

uncertain step

I would also like to share this. It is beautiful.

The following was written and shared by “Yourothermotherhere” as a comment. I think you will see why I felt this should be shared in a post. Thank you, for your words.

it is about you
because your eyes
belong to you
and where you stand
the view is unique
to you

but it’s also about me
because you are more
than your eyes

you are heart
and soul
and mind

that all long to connect
with others of the same
creator
creations

an infinite gallery
of beauty
seen through
eternal beings

Hush

November 30, 2012November 30, 2012 / Gin Getz / 4 Comments

Down by the
Muted river
Where hoar frost grows thick

Winter blossoms
Swelling
In frozen embrace under

Trees undressed
And you and I
In so many layers

Still cold
Though our hands touch
Through thick mittens

We pause over frozen waters
As the raven flies above
And the snow around us is

Marred by the last tracks of elk
Only there can we hear
The cry of moving waters

With depth greater than
Words we share
That shatter the silence

I read somewhere recently of the horse being the dolphin of the land
Then may I call this heavy frost the fish scales of winter

If you walked with me now along the north facing slope, perhaps you’d never notice.

The snow from a few weeks ago has held, now dry and packed, we walk on top with our boots and take twenty steps before falling in. This aged snow now turning to these fascinating crystalline fields of frost. In the trees you might think it odd that the snow is dappled with pine needles. Scattered randomly like in a childs drawing of cows in a field. Do you know what that means? The trees above are dying. Beetle kills. Needles fall like rain drops in the wind.

Perhaps we stop by a live Blue Spruce. It would be a small one. The little ones have not all been taken. At least, not yet. We notice the aroma.

Sap. Sweet life. A smell I have almost forgotten. For now it is rare.

We stop and close our eyes and soak it in, the sweet breath of the tree, inhaling to the depth of our soul. And we smile.

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