at a creek crossing

This morning I share with you two poems by two very special people.  The first was written by Arthur Washburn for Forrest; the second was written by Forrest for Art.  For those of you had the grand pleasure of knowing or even meeting Art, I think the splendid power, passion and beauty of these words will speak for themselves.  Enjoy!

To Sing A Song

for Forrest

                                    Take the whole earth into your arms

                                    the way you did when you were born.

                                    Let your love for this wondrous earth

                                    bloom from your soul, just as the sun

                                    spreads its warmth to surround this land.

                                    Play a secret game with the trees;

                                    ask the shadows to weave a cloak

                                    so that you may become disguised,

                                    to wander as a troubadour,

                                    a lyric poet appointed

                                    to sing outrageous, authentic

                                    songs to the animals and plants.

                                    Dip your cup into the fragrant

                                    spring bubbling forth from the timeless

                                    cleft in the moss-covered granite;

                                    drink a toast, as blessing to earth.

                                    Art Washburn,  January 2009

Taking Flight
By Forrest Getz

I felt, still feel,
Lucky to have known,
Been taken under wing,
Lead to aspire,
By this great old man.

His stance odd,
Hunched over as if carrying a mighty load – a burden from the years,
That always remained unnoticeable, yet still a defining aspect
To those unknowing it could be a distraction,
For him, it was mere addition of character:
As he put humbly, akin to the turtle.
But rather he was the red-tailed hawk that he too admired,
The distinguished voice echoing across the valley in the power of his words;
His great respect, dignity and passion for life,
Love for work and those who shared the same -
Giving him a far greater presence, aura
The grace of a bird in flight.

Life lived to its fullest – he was a prime example of that,
A soul free to soar, follow his dreams,
Help others, through work and word
A beloved peer in our small community of writers,
Someone I could ask for thoughts and ideas,
And be granted the same role -
encouraged to soar alongside, rather than in the shadow
Where I felt I belonged…

He moved forward with certainty and confidence,
Onto the stage I was so lucky to share,
Where his presence and words resounded;
Those were the traits I so admired – creativity, humility -
Still held as goals to someday acheive.

But life like the winds,
It ebbs and flows like the tides,
Just as it has before and always will -
But here in the moment
This loss comes like a cold knife,
Cutting through any bonds with no remorse
It is only us who feel the stab.

He was a mentor,
Poet, friend – role model;
He was the example of doing more; living a richer life,
To me, he was a carrier of ideas and principles –
Like the hawk atop the tallest tree,
keeping watch upon those of us still taking flight
And still I know that the same iridescent wings
Will carry him to even greater heights.

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

A place on the mountain called "Marv's Park"

Molly

Written and kindly shared by Marvin

My little handful of yellow fuzz became a part of my life in 1998. Pick of the litter, silly girl with a brown freckle on her left hip and should have had braces, she had crooked teeth on the bottom. My wife and kids picked her out and they must have known cause she was meant for me.

Molly and I worked hard as a coach and student, not sure who was who. We both learned from each other. We learned the dog commands and body language. Where not to leave the plastic bag from one of those oven bags that turkey is cooked in. Boy can’t believe that passed through. Going to work with out your best pal isn’t easy, so guess what, we went to work together. Again learning this important part of trust and teamwork.

Trips to the mountains and camping took on a whole new meaning, never a dull moment. Look out squirrels and birds Molly is going to find you. Poop that’s always fun to roll in and then get sick in the car or in the back of the pick up from eating something that’s dead or just not good to eat. We ran a 9 K foot race together once neither one of us trained for that day but Molly came out shining, I could hardly walk.

Hunting ducks and geese was the plan of the day come fall of the year. At six months old that girl retrieved her first duck and it didn’t change. We sneaked, crawled, ran, jumped and climbed fences. Molly had no fear of what she was asked to do, never a question of trust. That one old goose jumped up and wanted to fight and lost. Hunting geese on the river one day Molly couldn’t stop herself and ran out on the ice to an open hole in the thin ice, she went in the river currant and knew she was in trouble, turning she grabbed the ice with her paws. I prayed, put down my gun, slid on my belly and made it out to her and was able to save her from going under the ice never to be seen again.

Never will forget how she learned that when we came home from a big game hunt that there was going to be a nice fresh hunk of meat, or a look of what you forgot? Forgot how to hunt? Lost track of all the ducks we shared and all the time we came home with none. Molly was not counting and neither was I, we had each other. I think she forgot the time she tried to retrieve a porcupine, dropped it, grabbed it again, O boy that was a bad day, she was a mess, had to have her put under to get all the quills out of her mouth. Labs tend to not be very defensive but tell you what if you drove a UPS truck or the Co-op propane truck you better walk lightly. Molly had pups, three litters. She never was a mom, she was always ready to get rid of them after they were weaned.

Years pass and I guess we both got a little older together, she still-hunted and did her best every time out. At 8 years old I saw her slow and only took her out on nice days and easy hunts. As it would happen duck hunting isn’t as fun with out our partner along so I didn’t go as much cause she’d know what I was up to and hated being left at home.

Well my girl fell ill the other day, guess she was too proud to show how sick she was cause I really never saw it coming. She passed way just the next day after we thought she was getting better.

Farewell my friend and I am here to say there will be others but never one like you.

The Joy you brought to our lives in those ten or so years will never be forgotten.                                 

Rest in peace

A most sincere thank you to Marvin for sharing this with me and allowing me to share it with you.  Written from the heart, how many of us can understand?

Looking down from Marv's Park toward the Rio Grande Reservoir

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 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

The Rio Grande Pyramid, seen from tree line on Pole Mountain, on a snowshoe that brought me there yesterday.

Nature heals. Despite our efforts to contain, conquer, dominate, and take everything we can from her, she remains steadfast in her cycles, in her growth, in her death. When we allow ourselves to just be in nature without motives and goals and demands, there is a natural acceptance.  We become part of the bigger picture.  I can not imagine a better state of inner peace.

Thus when we feel inside stirred, in turmoil, anxious, what could be more soothing than being in nature?  Not sitting on your front porch and staring at it, or taking a Sunday drive and seeing it fly by your windows.  That’s not quite it, but that is a start.  Get off the porch or out of the car, and go out to the woods and walk.  Or down to the stream to fish.  Or up to the mountains alone and then sit and listen. She is never far away, but we often don’t look. I have even seen magnificent sun sets that sooth the soul while sitting on the west piers of NYC.  No one else was there to see it, or no one stopped to see.

My need for nature and solitude is strong.  When I become restless, I go out – on horseback, on snow shoe, on foot.  I do not need goals or motives.  I just go. It is not important that with each step I get closer to an objective.  It is more that with each step I am farther away. Climb yet another nameless peak in our big back yard, one where I can be absolutely certain I would not see another human being. No path, no trails, no tracks except perhaps from coyotes and rabbits. A group of chickadees excited to see me, and one single grey jay surprisingly indifferent to my presence.

I would like to share with you today a poem written by a friend, Dick Sederquist.  This poem is from a book compiled of Dick’s writings entitled “Hiking Out,” a collection of short stories and essays “from the heart, about family, friendship, adventure, hiking, travel, overcoming adversity, surviving depression, about forgiveness and moving on.” If you have a moment when you’re done reading this, please take a look at his web site at http://www.hikingout.com/ .  In the meanwhile, I hope you enjoy this, and hope you remember the healing powers of nature.

DOWNHILL

I plunge downhill  avoiding

the spruce traps that could suck you in

and discharge you next spring.

My  snowshoes are like skis.

I am floating 10 feet above where I would stand in summer.

I stop and  sink  and  sit.

Silence, my son looks back  and sits himself.

No words, none needed, I feel the chill on my legs.

I see the vast gulf below me, two hours ago I was looking up

wading up this deep hill, my face almost touching the snow

wondering if we’d find the summit.

Now we are going back down to where we started

an endless cycle of discovery.

The summit was there, it looked like the highest point,

but it was nothing compared to the up and the down

and the pause above this gulf with my son.

Written and with permission by Dick Sederquist,

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.