Looking through the trees

Solitary
By Forrest Getz

Solitary, abrupt against the horizon,
My upright profile unlike the frequents here
Those who carry only the burdens of necessity.

I know I am not alone
Just am right now
Caught in a median perhaps
understanding does not always come easy.

No matter of life and death
The clouds that shadow me
Are of no importance to anyone aside;
And while they shadow this dry land
The relief of moisture eludes.

I continue on, forward
Trees break up my form
Grant company
Home – what defines?
As this is mine
I understand it partly
Yet do not the details
I have yet to find the purpose in most;
I am grateful for what has shaped me.

High Mountain Musing is changing it’s web site address from:  highmountainmuse.wordpress.com  to right here:  highmountainmuse.com. 

A bit confusing in the short run; but hopefully simpler in the long run.

The new blog address will be effective immediately.  Same author (me), same stuff – my rambles and the mountain musings – just a different web address.

One of the more complicated changes may be in leaving comments.  All previous comments to date should have transferred over onto this site, and I’ll ask that any comments in the future be submitted here, as in due time, the old site will become obsolete.

If you subscribe to the posts, comments or have the site saved in your favorites, please be sure to make the changes. 

Sorry for any inconvenience this may cause.

Please let me know if you have any difficulty connecting here, or find any problems with navigation on this new site by leaving a comment here, or e-mailing me directly at highmountainmuse@gmail.com.   I imagine there will be some things we find that need to be tweaked – and thanks to Ron (J) we can fix them…

I’m not very computer savvy, but I’ll do my best to help in any way I can.

I’m taking the weekend off (going to the BIG CITY) and won’t be posting until Monday, so I’ll look forward to hearing from you then – here at the new site!

Warmly,

Gin

a time and place of inspiration: a boy and his horse at camp in the high country

The Campfire

By Forrest Getz

The steady stream from the dwindling fire,

Weaving its way thru the sparse trees

Out to the pasture,

Slightly above the lowered heads of the grazing horses,

Engulfing the rock I sat upon earlier,

Before quietly fading into the mountain air.

Like ourselves, the stark rise,

The subtle incline,

And last the dispersion, the lingering effect,

Influence remains upon our senses,

The warmth carried from the fire, the burn of haze upon weary eyes,

Finale, the scent that only reminds

Of what was, and what continues to be.

Dropping In by Forrest Getz

No surprise, it is centered on his riding.  But look inside the words, the meaning, and yourself, and you’ll see it’s about a lot more.

Looking up river, photo by Bob

Spring Rain

By Forrest Getz 2008

The rain comes down,

An anguished beat upon the metal roof,

The sky’s tears

Soothing the parched earth.

The creek beds arteries,

The cow paths veins,

The heartbeat

Of the rain, of the life that fills the land.

The rhythm continues,

Rushing thru the ravines,

Carrying away the leaves

From the year past.

Softening the earth itself,

Replenishing life,

Carrying away the remains,

Waste, from the past drought.

The air blended with the subtle hint

Of the rain, a sweet mildew

In smell, a scent known to

Belong to this type of life.

In a place as dry as here,

The essence of the earth’s blood

Seeps into our clothing,

Into our blood – ours is dependant.

Looking back at my boys treking up and into Starvation Gulch on our journey last winter.

At the end of winter last year, the three of us made a journey I’d been dreaming of for years.  We snowshoed where no man had gone before in winter:  into and down through Starvation Gulch. Even the name brings fear and dread and promise of tall tales told of hardship and loss.  But no, for me, it is the most beautiful place in the world.  A place we go to “get away from it all” when this mountain becomes so filled with others coming here to do the same and we begin to lose ourselves and each other in it all.  A place we go to remember what matters most to us.  Each other.  And the beautiful natural wild world around us.

For years I stared up canyon at the ridge behind Starvation Gulch, many miles away from our home here, on winter snow shoes.  I would stop, lean against my poles, and gaze, wondering if I could make it. I’d plan the route, plan the journey, figure out a way to make it happen.  I just had to be there in winter, even just once, just for a day. Last year I told the boys I would.  I would go.  With or without them.  (Though of course, I wanted them to join, and honestly, have no idea how I’d have done it without them.)

And so, in the deep set snow of early spring, we snowmobiled up river, left our sleds, and headed on snow shoes out into the Wilderness on our big journey.  It was only a day, just one day, but such a special day. Odd as it sounds, a dream come true for me, and another reminder that we can do anything we want if it’s a good thing, and we’re willing to work for it… in this case, one step in the snow at a time.

This is a poem Forrest wrote after our journey. 

Starvation

by Forrest Getz

A place that could

Rob a person of sanity,

Or life.

But in the unknown lies beauty,

Beauty of ruggedness,

Of emptiness of life,

Of life.

The air filled with air alone,

No noise but the wind, mayhap a lone bird,

And the weak crunch

Of our footsteps.

We are here, now –

Nowhere else,

Struck by awe of the mountain,

Mesmerized, yet the senses keener.

Is it always so defined?

The line between living

And not?

When we look at

The bowls

The jagged peaks

And the creeks who show to the sky,

We only glimpse what is character.

But when home we are again,

And only tired,

The sense of pride

Dulls that of the mountain,

And of death.

By Forrest N. Getz

Upon this thawing land I set my feet,

My eyes rest on the horizon,

As if it held my future hidden,

I grit my gloved hand,

In thought of snow and sun.

I am here, for reason I wonder,

And, this land, we share in some way,

With the mighty Rio Grande,

With the blowing wind,

With the snow of deep and white,

With the sun blistering down,

And the mountain fostering us.

The Rio roars, but subdued,

By harsh ice and snow,

The wind plays gleefully,

Over the battling water and ice,

The sun watches like a proud father,

Those below are woven from the shadow and light,

The wind becomes jaded, and fades to naught,

All under the vigilant eye of the mountain.

My youthful body seems unaware,

Of the power of the mountain,

But I am a weak player in the plot of things,

And the mountain lets me frolic,

Like one of her children.

My ear finds the roaring Rio,

The ice and snow chill my spine,

The wind touches my cheek in a kind gesture,

As I watch the war between ice and water,

The sun warms me with radiance,

I too, am woven from shadow and sunlight,

The wind is jaded, and so am I,

And the mountain watches me home.   

This is my home, amid this weakening turmoil

I am thrown out into the plot of,

With the buried cinquefoil,

And the golden eagle above.

Forrest’s poem was first published in “A Walk Along the River, A Literary Anthology From the Upper Rio Grande” ©2006

The upper Rio Grande in autumn color.

 

Yesterday I reflected on where our water comes from.

Today, Forrest takes us to where it may go.

I hope my children, and my children’s children, are  always allowed the opportunity to appreciate how precious and beautiful our rivers are, and see first hand from where they come, and where to they go.

A Rivers Journey

by Forrest Getz

Out of the snow bank little droplets of water fall,

Entwining together, they start to flow,

Creeping, seeping, twisting their way down the mountainside,

They join the others; begin swelling in size,

A steady rush down the canyon.

As creeks join in, the river is amplified,

Roaring louder and louder,

Until – all at once – everything is calm;

A great expanse of still water – reflecting the mountains around.

A great wall, plugging the flow,

All but a place, where the water rushes thru,

And making its way again,

Building its force, as more creeks join the chorus,

The river dances its way down.

This river, the mighty Rio Grande,

Pushes down, into the San Luis valley,

Being diverted into the canals,

To raise the valleys livelihood,

But the heart of the river keeps beating.

Anglers walk the banks along,

And thru the shallows

In pursuit of the wily fish

Who thrive in the flowing lair.

Down, down into New Mexico,

Into the land of enchantment,

More of its flow enchanted away,

Into orchards with sweet, fresh fruit laden.

Cutting the south features of the Texas border,

Sharing its wealth between (Texas and Mexico),

Getting depleted — the only water in a parched land — as it moves along,

The river struggles with all it has left towards its goal:

But manmade folly has long from since

Given the Rio Grande power to flow

All but a muddy trickle -

To the Gulf of Mexico.

First Place poem

2007 River of Words Competition, Level III (Grades 7-9)

Colorado Humanities & Center for the Book

By Forrest Getz

Reflecting atop a mountain peak

My prying eyes search,

Search for life on the mountain,

Search for movement,

But of none found.

The storm of the night past

Lays heavy on the trees,

Blankets the ground,

And makes the mountain

All the more deadly.

The mountain erupts into life,

The earth seeming to give way,

A cloud upon the ground,

Trees caught in its wrath

Snap, strain, give way.

Settled, scarred is the mountain,

I stand, in shock, surveying,

The power released,

As in warning,

Now my footsteps

Are cautious, and

Filled with respect

For the raw strength of the mountain.

 This is Forrest on a ride with Bob, way high up there where my snowshoes just don’t make it in a day!

Anyway, there’s a lot more to Forrest than snowmobiling, as you can imagine, growing up in this environment.  I’m definitely the loving and doting mom and could go on and on.  But I know you don’t need to read that!  What you might enjoy reading are his poems.  So I’ve asked him to be my “Guest Blogger” from time to time and share some of his poetry with you.  As you’ll see, it’s all about the mountain, his relationship with nature, and sometimes, even a little bit about snowmobiling. I hope you enjoy.

A Winter River  

 By Forrest N. Getz

As my feet come down upon the snow and ice,

The beast roars beneath,

Holes in the ice and snow

Reveal its maw and malice,

And now, I make my way across,

Step by step,

Breath by breath,

Wait by wait.

It is odd indeed,

That we fail to notice the power beneath,

As the crisp water polishes

The rocks, undersized to large,

Rolling, flinging, pushing

The small ones rush, mill away at the big,

Hoping to dub them one of their own.

The ice is melted slowly,

Between water and snow,

Brittle places give away,

Leaving water to be seen,

Making a network of “islands”

To be woven through.

The snow is the crust,

Hiding the ice; it conceals the weak

As it concedes into the water,

Gravity takes the oppressive and propels the mixture south.

I have been granted to cross this time,

But I may not always be so lucky

I can only use my best judgment, 

I am not so Grande as it itself

The mighty Rio is impulsive – abiding by the weather

For the two are intertwined.

Endowing to us water to bathe, drink, and flourish

The Rio Grande is a double-bladed sword:

You can cut, but cut can you be also.