High Mountain Musing

a patchwork quilt of clouds to the west

We remain frozen, the mountain and I
She softens ever so slightly
One can not resist the sun
I smell the moist bark on the spruce where the snow has melted away

Flowing waters stir me
Running waters awaken me

It is time for me to sign off for a while here, my friends.
Though I imagine what matters more to you is the mountain,
What matters most to me is my boys, our life, our future, our dreams.
I have some work to do there, of little interest to you, and yet it means the world to me.
We have a brave new life to step out into, together. We have built the door, now I suppose we must build the road before us. Or at least the net before we leap.

And so I take a brief leave of absence and will use this time to prepare our future and complete the past – which includes finishing up the book now in the final proofing stages.

I will share with you again shortly, and I look forward to that day. Perhaps when something changes – the weather, our plans, our future, me. I find it too difficult right now to remain positive and inspiring for you. What I feel is scared for me. You are not here for the darkness, but rather the light. And I am not here to whine.

I will resume in brighter days. I will return when the waters awaken me.

Namaste.

cabin 7 on another snowy day

Soft and heavy and full the snow falls once again, settling over the mountain like a fresh sheet from the line.  A spring snow, calming in her languid easy beauty. Temperatures hover just above freezing.  On the horses shedding hair, snow melts instantly, leaving dark patches of brown like big blankets dripping over their steaming backs.

The season lingers.  Here, winter comes, settles in, and takes her time to depart.  This is her mountain. This is her season. She does not let it go readily. The summer she endures, a brief fleeting glimpse only slightly longer than the brilliant display she shows off in spring and autumn.  But winter, winter she allows to come and settle in and stay a while.  It is what makes the mountain, the river. It endures. It is the season she wed; the rest are passing fancies.  

Pole Mountain behind cabins in snow

Winter.  Springsummerfall. The mountain balances the cycle. Springsummerfall. Fleeting seasons. We enjoy them for their dazzling parade then close our eyes and turn within and become a part of the vast white world all around. It is in winter we breathe. 

Cold, stark, somehow distant.  I believe this is the true nature of the mountain. The rest is a brief show on stage.

new door

The door hung yesterday is somehow symbolic.  A door to the once open bathroom. Hanging there, suspended, able to open and close, even before walls that will close off the room even further are built. A door, not so much to leave the past behind but to open up a path to the future, allowing us to step into a new world, tomorrow.

Last night I lay back in the tub with the door propped open by my old worn cowboy boot. In the quiet glow of the candles, I observed where the walls will be, all around me, closing me in.  My last soak in the openness.  The walls will go up today.  This is said not with fear of change, for change is both exciting and inevitable, but in observation only, trying to appreciate each day for the newness it brings. I wish to miss nothing.

Bob's winter cargo van as he arrived home from a trip to town

On a lighter note, Bob hauled home the carpet for the bedroom in the remodel cabin.  Remember, this was going to wait for the road to open, trucks to drive in, so far away still is seems… I guess he could not wait.  Thought you too might get a chuckle out of how he brought it home… As usual, it worked.  We should have the installation compete today, so will share pictures shortly.  But I wonder, do you think he’ll do the same for the big window we’re waiting on?  He has been known to do such things…

Bobbie Biscuits

Last week, our friend Bobbie passed on her recipe for successful fluffy, flaky, high rise biscuits.  We tried them right away (a great accompaniment to fried chicken) and had really good results.  They doubled in height when baking, had a lovely soft texture, and a nice, mild flavor.  High and mighty!  The odd ingredient here is the cream of tartar, which I have never used in making biscuits before.  Did not affect the taste in any negative way, but something sure worked well for getting these to rise.  (Val & Beka – if you give this recipe a try up here this summer, let me know how they work for you.)

I hope you try and enjoy.

Have a good weekend, friends.  Sure is nice having computers change the clocks for us automatically.  And yes, sure enough, it’s snowing here again…

Bobbie Biscuits

In a large bowl, combine:

            2 cups white flour

            1 cup whole wheat flour

            4 ½ teaspoons baking powder

            2 tablespoons sugar

            ½ teaspoon salt

            ¾ teaspoon cream of tartar

Cut in:

            ¾ cup butter or margarine

Then fold in:

            1 egg, beaten

            1 cup milk

Stir together gently until just combined, keeping mixing to a minimum.  With lots of flour on your hands and on the counter, knead together very lightly, and then pat down to a thickness of 1 inch.  Cut biscuits (I use the rim of a pint canning jar) and place on doubled baking sheet.  Bake at 450 degrees for 12 – 14 minutes.

Above the ranch looking down at the reservoir

Ten below zero and the whiteness remains unchanging. The signs I saw what seem so long ago of the assurance of spring now give the impression of such insignificance.  The birds, feeding on fields of snow.  The swollen tips of the willows and glossy new branch ends on the Aspen. The increased intensity of light, almost blinding on the settled snow.

Funny how we worry ourselves that it will be so different this year.  It will be later, earlier, bigger, lesser… than what, I wonder?  For I say this too. Later that our calendars read or our minds demand?  Does nature fail to meet our expectations or are we too thrilled in seeking the variety? And then we watch and it all work out in due time, and usually, the correct time.  It is not ours to choose.  It is not ours to control.

Let it go.  It will come.  And probably, right on time.

It is not so much the end of winter that I long for, but for the something new that promises to be here soon.  Excitement, anticipation. The transformation of life, our lives. Building, swelling within me as within the river still remaining covert beneath the ice and snow.  Listen to the flow now.  Is it intensifying, or is the protective layer of snow and ice thinning so that we can hear what is below better now?

Us, we can transform, and we do.  Daily we make progress, are one step closer to our future.  Where will that future lead us?  So many uncertainties, and still so much we can do.

The remodel of cabin #2

We complete the remodel of Cabin #2, with the exception of some final details, including the bedroom carpet and the new window, which for some reason which I imagine will not surprise you, we have decided to wait to bring in when we can drive our truck, not haul the 9 foot long piece of glass behind our snowmobiles. And decorations.  Nesting.  I can not help myself and enjoy setting up each cabin as its own perfect little home.

Construction is cleaned up. Tools are packed up and moved on.  Where to? Onto the next…

And now we make changes to our cabin to retrofit it as a rental guest cabin.

The first thing to be changed is the upstairs bathroom.  What I loved most about it – the openness, free of walls, I could soak in the tub and still chat with my boys downstairs in the kitchen – we figured this would not go over too well with a group of guys here for the fishing.  Walls and doors might be preferred.  And with our hammers, nails and saws, most anything is possible.  This one will be simple.

a before picture: our upstairs bathroom

In the back of our minds already is the project we will work on when this one is complete.  Finally, the start of the remodel of the Little Cabin.  After all, we do need a home…

Be not afraid of growing slowly, be afraid only of standing still.

Chinese Proverb

looking west

I stood upon the frozen creek obscured beneath a winter’s load of snow.  I could hear 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