High Mountain Musing

looking west

I stood upon the frozen creek obscured beneath a winter’s load of snow.  I could here the hushed flow far below. A whispered secret, between no one but the earth and me.  I keep the riddle to myself and laugh at her subtle humor.

The boys return from town and tell me of mud lower on the mountain, in the valley, on the pastures, dry ground along the road.  The tell me of a friend they see riding a bicycle and it is beyond my recognition here and now when our reliance on snowshoes, snowmobiles and skis remains absolute.

Somewhere there is brown, somewhere there is green. Here so far from such imaginings, the whiteness is complete.

light on the snow of the frozen reservoir

I walk in the afternoon and think of what will be.  Balanced on the snows surface with my broad plastic shoes, each step separated from the earth’s potential by this crystalline lag.

I walk the lands where brown waters will flow and iris will grow and the mountain will shiver in an ecstatic burst of new life. The earth will give birth in a passionate display to spring, to life, to color, to promise.

But for now, she continues to rest, to wait, to loiter.

a view of simpson mountain

Before me is the East Pond, a still carpet of smooth white that only my memory suggests the joyous song of the frogs.  When, pray tell, will you sing this year?  Spring will be late, but your chant will resonate when the timing is right, not by a calendar’s page but by a soft and slight sign only you will recognize.  May I be so lucky to hear you once again?  And who will hear you when I’m gone?  How odd to think no one has before, no one may again.  And how little it matters to you. 

For now I wallow in the great expanse like an infinite void allowing me to remain present, denying the impending, the inevitable. The future. What will it bring for us? The mountain holds no crystal ball but the answers are scattered deep in her woods like dried leaves of seasons past, and float easily on her running waters.

I am as ready to burst forth as the spring season, exploding with burning life. I wish to leap, trusting the net will appear. But my feet are immovable, stuck in this deep snow.  I am held motionless, in limbo, lingering in the wide white divide.

The snow, the very thing that comforts us, allows us peace and solitude, is that which threatens.  My mare must be led out in the next ten days.  I look around and wonder how.  I know not where we will be in only months time, and again I look around…

Bittersweet blessings.  That which brings me solace is at times my demise.

Just another day of life. And each experience another piece to this magnificent, intricate puzzle of which we are so fortunate to be a part.

snow and ice on a spruce between aspen

Ferdinand at the opening of Dallas Blooms at the Dallas Arboretum

So yesterday Al shares a few pictures of the opening of Dallas Blooms at the Dallas Arboretum.

Of course the first thing we notice is Ferdinand.

But then I see Color. Green grass.  And blossoms.  Spring, real spring. Sunlight so golden I can feel the warmth. I imagine the smell, not of the flowers so much as the sun on the grass, on the soil, warm dirt… Bob points to the two people sitting on the bench and we realize how odd and out of place that is in our world here and now.  You don’t just sit outside to chat, contented and easy like that.  Where’s the snow?  The snow suits?  The obvious signs of being cold?  These figures are not hunched and huddling with arms wrapped about their chest, and faces buried under helmets or wool caps. These folks look comfortable.

Texas in March.

One aspen on a snowy hillside yesterday in Colorado

Colorado in March.

Here, the snow is coming down again.  It began yesterday morning, and continues still.  In the early morning light, the half moon a defused but distinct glow behind a sheer layer of clouds, it’s looking like we got nearly another foot. Add it to the collection.  The more the merrier.

Heavy, thick wet white chunks falling from the sky.  The temperature is nearly thirty.  We are not used to warm snows. It sticks to skis and snowshoes and soaks into mittens and jeans. Great for building snowballs and snowmen.  Bob wonders if we’d have the talent to build a Ferdinand out of snow. 

As the light slowly swells this morning, I look about. Our world remains still, cold, white, colorless and muted. A pencil drawing, only shades of gray. There are no crayons, no colors, no vibrant lights.

I think of Ferdinand and remember the colors, green and growing. I, too, long to hold a fragrant blossom to my nose. I ask Bob where he’d rather be right now.  He answers without hesitation.  Here.  Where ever here may be.  He is happiest here with me and Forrest, in all this snow, two, maybe three feet surrounding us. We will not be moving to a warmer climate.

Me, I wonder for just a moment.  I could be gardening. Dirt beneath my finger nails. I could be riding.  I could be smelling rich soil and fragrant blossoms and the fresh sweat on a horses back.

And then I consider, what matters most?

I think of the comfort this snow brings us.  Time.  This lingering season.  Change is slower to come here. We have longer to hold onto the past. We bury our troubles in this heavy snow.  A blanket of white which bides us time, our opiate, allowing us to hold on to bygone days, bygone ways, a little longer.  How I long for a clear path to the future, though. Guess I better get digging, don’t you think?

I am here, and for a while, there is no place I would rather be.

While the boys still sleep in the peacefulness that comes with the silent falling snow, I slip on my heavy boots and break trail to feed the horses.

spruce trees in yesterdays snow

This recipe was originally shared by our friend Gene.  Now it has become a regular around here.  In the summer months, when we are lucky enough to have trout (note I say “have” because usually this means “given” not “caught” – remember, I’m still waiting for that day off to go fishing…) large enough to fillet rather than cook whole, this is our favorite mode of preparation.  In the winter, we’ve used this recipe for all kinds of fish, from store bought frozen tilapia, to those “imitation crab” pieces, turning the most simple into a pretty fancy feast. We serve this over a bed of rice or hot buttered noodles, and of course, fresh bread to soak up the extra sauce.

I hope you try and enjoy.

Heavenly Fish

Start by mixing up the sauce in a small bowl:

            2 tablespoons lemon juice

            ½ cup parmesan cheese

            ¼ cup melted butter

            3 tablespoons mayo

            3 tablespoons chopped green onion

            Fresh ground pepper

Then cook the fish. Place fish fillets in a buttered baking dish, about 9 x 12”.

Squeeze the juice of one lemon over fish.

Broil 4-6 minutes or until no longer transparent.

Remove from heat.

Spread sauce mixture over fish.

Broil 2-3 minutes or until golden brown.

a walk along the river

A simple walk down the river.  A little family adventure in the big back yard.

We follow the course of the river, finding bends and cliffs and secret spots, the wildness tamed beneath a winters worth of snow, a heavy load held afloat by ice still holding, promising to give way soon enough when softened by the strengthening sun.  Here within these solid walls of rock face, winter remains indifferent to the hint of spring and warmth of sun which does not easily find its way to the bottom of this canyon.

the boys walking around an open section

Inspired by a simple solitary mile trek up river earlier this week, I convinced the boys to join me on an excursion this time down river, along Rio Grande from Brewster Park back down to the Ranch.  Probably only four miles, four unchartered miles, most certainly never travelled in winter when the river is iced over and covered with more than two feet of snowpack.

Conditions were just right.  Not too fluffy, not too sticky… we are picky with our snow.  And more so with the status of the river, or rather, the solid state of the ice on top.  Another week, and her gaps may be impassible.  As it was, we were passing each other poles and pulling each other up with rope to make it around a few precarious breaks in the icy surface. 

making our way down river

From time to time, we see the water; sink holes in the snow, a shock of black in an otherwise smooth white surface. We take heed.  There is no way out of the canyon, except onward or back the way we came, should we find it too uncomfortable and change our mind.  We are not here to falter. Still and silent, we stand for a moment and listen to the whisper of the muffled flow. We hear its unmistakable song before we see it, transparent waters coursing over ancient rocks worn smooth with time, infinite stories that remind us how ephemeral we are. 

Solid as the ice may seem, distant as the waters mostly remain, we are well aware of its existence below us.  Each step is a wonder, with held breath, until we are too tired to care any longer, and step slowly through the snow, snowshoe sinking in through the powder, our movements labored, purposeful, just to be closer to home.

a quiet easy section

The secret of a remaining nest, perched on the cliff above the motionless river, a reminder of life and seasons past, and what could be again. Safe and protected, undisturbed between these almost impenetrable cliffs embracing the primordial waters flow.

almost home

And here we are, walking on frozen waters.

the final stretch

a flow of ice, secrets along the river

Where does the full moon take you
When you are willing to dream beyond the horizon
And walk for miles in darkness on crystalline powders
Alone in silence without even the wind to whisper to

Where does the river take you
When you are willing to walk her frozen waters
Unknowing uncertain of all but blackness below
Trusting of a fragile and unseen layer of ice and snow supporting you

Where does the mountain take you
Playing with your quiet yearnings
Pulling the strings stretched taught
Against your heart against your reason
And creating such music as I have never heard before

evening light through aspen

Where will you go they wonder
And they can not see beyond this horizon
Can not see the tangle of ropes that have bound us
To your dream not mine

This dream of mine came true
Can’t you see?
I already made it have it live it
I have more imaginings
Many more

And now the mountain tells me
Go
And I go
And where she leads me
Is always more beautiful than where I was before

And yet she slows me down
Reminds me to look around
And shows me what I should already know

The most beautiful day
Is always today.

spruce trees growing on rocks along the river

Karen Bailey's mountain cabin

 Today I am honored to share with you the writing and photography of Karen Bailey.  Karen is a reader, a guest, and more important to me, a friend, more like a sister. Karen and her husband Ron visited recently.  Here, she writes briefly about that time. Her perspective on the mountain I believe is one many of you may relate to, as do I.  I hope you enjoy.  Thank you, Karen, for sharing the beauty of your words, and feelings, with us.

Karen Bailey's coyote in the shadows

My heart is heavy.  I long to be back in the mountains, specifically back at Lost Trail Ranch.  Now, it only seems a dream that I was there just last week, but as life sometimes goes, an email from home beckoned us back after only a day in paradise.  Some think of paradise as a beach and ocean but not me.  The mountains have always been my paradise.  When I go to them I feel like I am returning home and when I leave them they call me back time and time again.  I yearn for them every day.  It is never easy for me to leave and go back to my “real” life and home that seems a world away.  I feel as if my heart is being torn apart—do others feel this way, too?  It leaves me wondering, “Where is home, really?”  Some say home is where the heart is but what if your heart is in two places at once?  Is home really a physical place or is it truly something we hold in our heart?

Karen Bailey's on the road to the ranch

John Muir loved the mountains, too. He said, “Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home…” and “The mountains are calling and I must go.” 

Lost Trail Ranch—I fell in love with it the first time I vacationed there in the summer of 2007 and have been “called” back every year since.  I remember driving up Forest Service Road 520 toward the ranch in awe of the amazing and indescribable beauty all around me.  Last week driving up the snow packed road was almost as if I had never been there before.  For with the snow comes a whole new world, a whole new peacefulness, a new life.  How grateful I am to have experienced this beauty if even for such a short time.  A coyote curiously watching us from the frozen reservoir and one running in front of us as if leading us to the ranch.   Moose down near the river causing the young horses to protest their presence.  Stellar Jays, Chickadees and Magpies all hoping for a scrap outside the cabin.  Endless Snow, Endless Stars, Magical Beauty.    Snowshoeing on the frozen Rio Grande in pristine wilderness seen by so few humans in the history of the world and sharing time with dear friends.

Now, here I am hundreds of miles away, listening to the sounds of my own backyard.  Cardinals, robins, titmice, chickadees, airplanes, trains…Home, yes, home IS where the heart is and I do suppose it can be in two places at once.

Karen Bailey's view back to the ranch from across the Rio Grande

Heart shaped biscuits and steaming sausage gravy

A good, hearty Sunday morning breakfast, and one of the boys’ favorites. 

I’ve been on a mission to find the best recipe for homemade biscuits.  With all this flour, I refuse to resort to buying those that come in a can, though they are cheap and easy. 

In my quest for the perfect biscuit, I am up against a few added challenges due to the altitude and my preference for making breakfast on the old wood cook stove. After many attempts, none with the results I desired (though the boys have been enjoying my various and frequent tries), I turned to a fellow “high altitude” back country baker for her favorite biscuit recipe.  The results were the best yet.  The boys found them especially tasty.  So, following is a “guest post” recipe for biscuits, thanks to Valerie, followed by my old faithful simple recipe for sausage gravy.  I hope you try and enjoy.

Biscuits and gravy with Val's biscuit recipe

Valerie’s Biscuits

In a large bowl, combine:

          2 cups flour

          4 teaspoons baking powder

          1 teaspoon salt

          2 tablespoons sugar

Cut in:

          1/2  cup Crisco

Add:

         1 large egg

         2/3 cups milk

Mix together just until blended. Do not over mix. On a heavily floured surface with well floured hands, pat out dough to about ½ – ¾ of an inch thickness.  Cut with the rim of a small canning jar (or heart shaped cookie cutter if you’re feeling so inclined), and place on a baking sheet fairly close together. Bake in a good, hot oven (if using a gas or electric oven with proper gages, preheat to 425 degrees) for 15-20 minutes.

(thank you, Val!)

yes, I'm a sucker...

Breakfast Sausage Gravy

This is good on fried eggs, hash browns, and even toast.

In a medium iron skillet, melt:

            1 tablespoon butter

Add, and cook until brown:

            1 pound bulk breakfast sausage (you can use crumbled bacon, or diced ham with good results as well)

Stir in:

          3 tablespoons flour

Slowly add, while stirring over medium/high heat:

            2 ½ cups milk

            1 chicken bouillon cube

Stir until boiling and thickened, then sprinkle liberally with:

            Fresh ground pepper

a snow drift before Simpson Mountain

Last night I considered the smell of the rose
How odd our ability to remember scent
And that with an odor a memory can ensue
Our senses overwhelmed and transported
With the simple recollection of the fragrance of a sweet flower

For but an instant, I am there

Some things will never be here

My growing hope in a  terra cotta planter above my kitchen sink
A climbing rose bush, modestly contained, small dark and glossy green leaves
A humble promise of what could be
We long for what we can not have
And a part of us must try

Scent
We have it not when
The air is frozen
And with it the sense of odor arrested
The light tells me I should find fragrance soft and subtle floating in the air
The warming of the world
Elsewhere perhaps
The white ground before me allows otherwise
I press my cheek on my horses back and there I finally smell
The sweet hearty lovely scent of earth

These are the simple things I look for
And long for as the seasons will change
Every season the same hunger for what is to follow
Uncertain, unknown, unfamiliar
Anticipation swelling like leaden clouds low over the white mountain tops
What else will change
Our lives now as frozen as the river
I imagine brown waters fiercely surging down the course through the thawing land
And believe we too will flow

dark trees in a light snow storm

outside of Cabin 2 looking up at Pole Mountain

Work on the remodel is almost complete.  This is the part of projects I most enjoy.  The finish work. Fine tuning.  The little touches. Details. Trim. Completion.  Finally we step back and say, “That looks good!” We will conclude this job, clean up, move the tools, and get going on the next project.

How quickly time passes.  I remember when it seemed to go so slow.

I step outside the cabin at the end of the work day.  The sun is low.  It is time to feed.  I will head over to the corrals to put hay and grain out for the eagerly waiting horses.  With light remaining a little longer each day, feeding time comes later as well.  The horses do not necessarily approve.  The temperature was twenty below zero this morning, and this afternoon they ran through three feet of snow, kicking up the rooster tails of soft white behind them. This does not feel like a change of season for them yet.

I look up at the mountain, Pole Mountain, our back yard, our muse.  I recognize the shadows.  These are the same shadows I see in October.  Only now the mountain is softened by white rather than the last golden glow of aspen leaves and dried grasses. I count, and yes, we are now of equal distance to the solstice, from the solstice as we are then.  The light, the shadows, the sun is our clock, our calendar.

And at times, I wonder if time passes too quickly.  Do I appreciate it all?  Or does it pass so swiftly I miss a thing or two? What a pity, when every little element matters.

and a little more snow is swallowed by the black waters of the Rio.

Today the sky was too blue.  Too much of a good thing?  Ah, all things in moderation.  Even this blue?  We make exceptions.

Robin shell blue.  At times, the color appears unreal.  If I painted it this way, would you believe it could really be so?

Robin.  Where, pray tell, did those robins go, those who lit nearby in the last passing storm? 

A nest from last year, a robin’s nest, I found fallen in the willows and filled with snow.  It was a thing of beauty, to be looked at, admired, considered.  

And it all meshes together under the bright blue sky.

The passing of time.

a nest in the snow

Horizon line in soft snow

Hope.  There is always hope. 

And it is up to you, up to me.  I can’t give it to you, and you won’t pave the way for me.  But maybe, just maybe, we can hold hands and get through it together. I remember running through the sprinkler on the slippery lawn as a child.  The spray of the water was so cold, a thing to fear and desire at the same time.  And my sister and I would hold hands and then it would be a wild adventure we would take on together, running straight at it with the comfort of each others strength beside us.

Yesterday I read, “… fate kicks you in the gut, then turns around and gives you a tummy rub. That, my friend, is life.” (J. Thorson in Horse & Rider magazine)

Unwanted tears swell in my eyes as I read this.  I think about a truth that at times I wish was not. I wonder why life can not be more like a fairy tale.  Think Cinderella; you get the tough stuff over with, and then are allowed to live happily every after.  Nope.  Not in real life. What’s with all these ups and downs?

And yet if I refuse the ups and downs, I refuse the richness and beauty of life which surrounds us, and isolate myself in protection, remaining apart, blind to the brilliance. I consider the splendor of tear descending a soft, dry cheek. The twinkle of an eye with a secret sense of humor.  The gentle curve of a smile, and the intrinsic pull this has on one’s heart.  Life is indeed lovely in all her magnificent moods.

We could play it safe and stand on the shore and watch as the tide comes and goes. Instead, I choose to dive in.  At times, this leaves me drowning.  Other times I am as free and fluid as the playful dolphin teasing the sparkling surface at sunset.  And then silently I sink into the depths and withdraw to the deep darkness like the Sperm whale.

fresh snow on Pole Mountain

After three days of snow, three feet on the ground, having been snowed in for three months, and still figuring on a couple months left to go… the hens begin to lay.  Forrest returns from his evening chores with two beautiful brown chicken eggs.

And this, my friend, is a handful of hope.

Hope.

I want life to be easy some days, and some days it is.  The next day it won’t be. Usually it’s a roller coaster, isn’t it?  At times I feel the best we can do is strap in and enjoy the ride.  (“How do you drive this thing?)

Tres is due to foal in just over a month.  Soon I will lead her off the mountain in all this snow, somehow, perhaps over the packed snowmobile track early in the morning when the snow is still hard.  It will take hours to walk out.  Perhaps all morning. Perhaps all day.  I will enjoy the time with her. I will talk to her and we will walk together, and she will be fine, comforted in my presence as she has trusted me for years. And then, I will miss her, miss her birth, but hopefully allow her a healthy foal.

Crow will suffer more than me.  Of all his mares, Tres is his favorite.  She is everyone’s favorite.  She is their leader.  And she will leave them, temporarily, for the hope of new life. 

Hope.

We do what we have to do.  We stop whining.  We start hoping.

a light load, a heavy load