Far away from the stores... but still not far enough.

The headlines read, Storm hits East Coast, and then, Snowstorm may curb weekend sales.  This is national news. Big time. A friend writes, “Perhaps the snow will keep people home instead of out shopping for more things they do not need.”

It did not.  The storm did not amount to much for many.  The following day, the same friend writes, “We only got an inch.  I’m heading out in the car and going shopping…”

I smile. This is Christmas.  But I wonder: when and why did it become the season of shopping?  We’d rather spend our precious time (not to mention our monies) out shopping for someone, rather than spending that same time with them.  Does this, perchance, seem a bit odd?

Ok, it’s Christmas.  This is America.  We shop. We consume.  Do we stop to look around, to listen, to slow down and perhaps give the gift of time… or are we too busy shopping?

Oh, I know it does feel wonderful to give, even if what I am giving is a store bought gift.  And in a convoluted way, of course, this still represents time:  time spent working in an office to earn monies to pay for the gas to get to the store to buy the gift… It is complicated.

Perhaps I’m not patriotic enough.  It is Christmas and I have not been in a store since… since…when was the last time I was in town?  Last month some time, I suppose?

Now I can’t claim innocence here. I am as guilty as the rest for falling into the trap of the Christmas spirit fashioned by shopping. Remember, one can shop on the internet… even out here (though the packages don’t get delivered out this far in the winter!).  And I did. There will be presents under the tree, though few and practical, at least this is what I strive for.

Time.  Time spent cleaning cabins, and fixing clogged drains, and hammering nails, and hanging curtains and saddling up a string of horses early in the morning to pay for the shiny packages stacked beneath the tree.

Time.  Time that could be spent talking just a little longer at the dinner table. Baking.  Taking walks in the softly falling snow together.  Reading by the fire.  What is more important?  I have to question myself in order to remind myself.  Time for the simple things goes against what is instilled in us.

It is easier here to find alternatives to the emptiness we fill with objects, with shopping.  I have tried to find these things everywhere.  Even in New York City. I could climb to the roof top or go by the West Piers and watch the sun set. Yes, I would. It is a miracle to watch, even there.  Anywhere. In Greece, I would sleep on the beach in order to see the same sun rising over one side of the island as the full moon would set simultaneously over the other side. A minute that seemed to last for hours. Or sit in the cold sands in the desert of New Mexico and await the rising of the big moon amongst the scorpions and rattlesnakes.

I have tried to find alternatives. They are everywhere though I have often forgotten to look, or became too busy, or the view obscured by obstacles I created, and could not get myself to clear in order that I may see the view before me.

It is free. It is everywhere.  It only takes time.

Time is money, we are told over and over again.  I say it myself regularly. Time is money?  Or is money time?  Another value put on the most valuable of substances. Time.

Money. How much our lives are held by its strings playing us like puppets. If we sever the cords, we fall.  It seems we can never fully live without.

I dreamed of being a female Jeremiah Johnson and leaving it all behind…

I still dream.

Perhaps I should dream even more.

After a new coat of paint: the refinished counters and stove top

The ground is frozen. Outdoor work is reduced to chores and little more. Fencing is out.  I shall never be strong enough to drive steel or dig into the frozen earth.  Working with the horses is reluctantly limited to ground work at best.  Now they are allowed their well earned free time.

Work turns indoors. Preferably indoors with heat.  We have several projects going on at once.  I hate to be without something to do, something to keep me busy, a point and purpose to every day, this impelling desire to be productive, even if it requires creating work to allow me that satisfaction.  However, on this ranch, on any ranch, finding projects is usually never that difficult.  All one need do is look around and choose “what next?”

The remodel of Cabin #2 progressed so quickly at first.  Knocking down old walls and framing up new ones. Fun stuff.  Big hammers, lots of banging around, and visual results at the end of every day.  But now, work slows down.  Before the walls are closed in with drywall and plaster, the complicated labyrinth of electrical wires, gas pipes, and plumbing must go in. This part goes slow.  It’s complicated.  We find ourselves crawling under floorboards and between roof rafters, sorting out an intricate web of wires and pipes as we become covered with cobwebs of the past.  All for a small, compact, simple off-grid cabin here in the mountains.  I can’t imagine the complexity necessary for building elsewhere.  This is plenty for me.

Bob has great patience for such things. These things somehow drive him (drive him onward, that is, not crazy).  He has worked on remodels year after year after year, getting this guest ranch into a shape his Grandfather who built the original little old cabins would now not even recognize.  Our guests are grateful.  Now, with each cabin we consider how it would be if we lived in there… and we do our best to make each cabin as comfortable and as livable as if we did.  In several, in fact, we have.

In our cabin, all the cleaning and scrubbing would not spruce up the fact that we’ve lived in this one for seven years.  Wear and tear are inevitable.  More so with the three of us, our outdoor lifestyle and indoor baking habit, dogs, cats, birds, lots of guests coming and going… shoot, I’ve even had the horses in the house (though they were not, as you can imagine, welcome to remain inside long).

The time had come when no amount of elbow grease or cleaning products could freshen up our stove and counter tops.  The signs of the use and abuse of a country kitchen were clear, if not clean. And so I turned to a fresh coat of paint.  I started by grinding down the wood counter tops, removing the old, worn and stained finish.  Then I used matching wood fill in all the cracks that this dry air produces in wood.  The surfaces were then sanded down using finer and finer grit sandpaper, then finished with three coats of polyurethane. 

For the stove top, I started with very fine steel wool to clean the surface and to remove any chipped paint, then a couple light coats of spray-on appliance enamel.

The end result is that my kitchen once again looks good as new.  Though I imagine that won’t last too long.

In the meanwhile, I can’t help but wonder… what would a new coat of paint do for me?

The willows of Ute Creek underneath Pole Mountain and alongside the Rio Grande

I have much to be thankful for.
I have too much.
We live in a land of plenty
And still we ask for more
And complain of our neighbors
Our religions and leaders
Our neighbors’ religions and leaders
We point a finger, shift the blame
Worried only that they will take it away
With trepidations of having less
It is never quite enough
With our TVs blaring over washed out conversations
Softened by the hum of the dishwasher
As we flick on another light
Quickly flush the toilet
Grab a pop from the fridge
And run out in our SUV to the corner store
To get one more thing
To put on the table that is
Already what one would consider
Too full.

I have much to be thankful for.
My choice has been to do with less
To try to do without
No tv, power lines, dishwasher or corner store
And still I have too much, too many.
I live in a land of plenty
As the coyote works the pastures in search of one single mouse
And the black bear turns within the ground and the elk descend the mountain
Because food this time of year is far too scarce
And the Stellar Jays check their stashes in the branches hoping they will hold for winter
And the rabbit leaves his tracks from the shelter of the spruce tree
Trying to make it another day
Another winter
Another year
In the land of plenty
They are the wealth.

As the sun is certain to rise
And the moon to make her rounds
The season provides
The mountain allows
And still I ask for more

I have much to be thankful for.
I have too much.
We live in a land of plenty.

Pole Mountain in early winter snow.

At this elevation, sometimes it is all one can do to breathe.

Inhale. Exhale. There is no more you need to do. What you once gave no thought to, here you learn to consider. What you once took for granted, here you learn to be grateful for.

The air is thinner here. Your lungs crave for more but more is never there. You gasp and are left with wanting for more. There is little more to do. But breathe.

But breathe.  And still we thirst for more. Desires challenge breath. Fullness of life versus thinness of air. We work with what we have, balancing our longings with what is around us, somehow always yearning for more.

Breathe, and fill your lungs and pump your legs and run with all your might up the mountainside, you imagine the liberation from the confines of air, dreaming of an effortless release. There is a hunger for the ease of motion as we watch the hawk glide fluidly far above us there in air thinner still as we remain grounded in our labored breath.

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

Looking in the east garden, early november, late afternoon.

Outside, the garden sleeps, the raised beds silent as graves in a burial ground, lined up as straight and somber.  Hidden is a promise of life deep with each bed, a challenge here to see what we can grow in perhaps but a month of frost free weather, with the monsoons providing untamed waters to my pleas at domesticating crops in this course landscape.

But try we must. We need our hands in the earth, the cleansing of dirt, of our soul within the soil.  We need to garden.  Is it the tending, the nurturing, the care of a tame and cultivated nature so fragile and unwilling on its own?

Here I have learned to turn my focus inside at times, to satisfy my need of dirt under my fingernails.  House plants are plentiful, it’s a jungle of sorts in our cabin. A bountiful crop of Jade, Philodendron, Christmas Cacti, English Ivy, Aloe and herbs.  In the southern corner of our cabin, a tropical paradise grows.  As a reminder of my summers long ago in the Greek Islands, I once bought a bougainvillea, thought it would be lovely outside a guest cabin, draping down the log walls, showering the cabin with fuchsia blossoms, a vivid contrast to this wild landscape and a refreshing change from the geraniums and petunias I tend to choose to decorate the outside of our cabins.

On the last day of June, it froze.  A heavy frost turned the leaves a dark, liquid green.  I was certain it was all over.  It was my first or second summer here.  I didn’t know better.  I didn’t realize a frost can come about any time here.  When you least expect it. I have learned to expect it.

The guest who had been staying in that cabin was from Florida, where these plants do grow.  She laughed and told me you couldn’t kill a bougainvillea if you tried, suggested I cut it back and try again.  I did, cut it all the way to the stem, leaving a sorry basket filled with ugly grey sticks protruding.  And then a funny thing happened.  It started to grow.  Six or seven years later, it is still growing.  It remains indoors now, and I can’t say it drapes and languishes over my log walls anything like I remember these plants did in the Greek Islands over the white washed walls. But it is alive, and blesses us with bright blossoms quite regularly.  As out of place in these mountains as a tropical bird. 

Now our lettuce has sprouted, our winter crop, beginning its life in our kitchen window.  It will end its life there as well in the spring, yet provide us with fresh greens throughout the winter.  Nothing fancy, no greenhouse, no grow lights.  Just a large planter in the window.  Things will grow.  If you give them a chance, they grow.  

And things will die.  The garden outside is dormant now.  There is not life I can see.  Perhaps an earthworm buried deep beneath the frozen surface. I wonder how they survive the deep freeze.  The beds have been prepared for next year, softly tucked away for the season beneath a blanket of manure, so plentiful here, a pity my crops can not be so.

I prepare it all in anticipation of what will be, yet I wonder if there will be a next year.  I look at these beds, this garden, this soil, and wonder how long it will take to return to the earth from which it all came, to turn fallow and free and forget about my futile attempts.

And still, what can I do but try?

Looking in the yard in an early morning snow

They say a big storm is coming. We say, let it snow. We stir with anticipation and spend the day preparing, too excited to come in even after dark.  Tools, piles, stuff, junk – anything left out will be covered for the next six months. Four feet under, covered in a smooth, white all encompassing casket which encloses the mountain for miles and miles.

I am glad to have it gone, picked up, put away.  It is clean, neat, tidy.  There is a peace in that, in knowing everything is in its place. Safe for the season.  You decide what will be needed, what you can do without. Some of it I will not want to see again even in the spring.  But you better know where stuff is, and how to tuck it away.

Otherwise, it is buried alive.

Will this be it?  The big one to tuck us away for the season, to close our road and open our concealed vast white expanse of winter wonderland?

I don’t think so.  But fools we would be to be caught unprepared.  Do we challenge the mountain or ride on her waves?

The ritual of tucking away for winter, as natural as the change of seasons and as old as time. It was never more apparent than the years we had to pull the bridge before high waters would wash the timbers down river.  A ritual if any that claimed winters presence.  There from the high waters of the Pacific Northwest’s November rains, an average of 68 inches rainfall in a matter of months. Mud slides would close the road.  The bridge would block access to the cabin beyond. High waters, raging and fierce, so frightening I would not get near and hold back the dogs, did for me then what the snow does now. We would wait until the waters of the creek were touching the logs crossing the expanse.  Every year, putting off the inevitable as long as we could, then be out there scrambling in the drenched ground and soaked timbers with slick footing, grasping with wet and frozen fingers at the sodden, slippery planks.  Always just in time…

And here we await the ritual of the closing of the road, giving in to the inevitable heavy mountain snows. Leaving our trucks by the plowed section. Farewell to the easy access and a town trip, there and back, in one day. Suddenly it is easier to stay home.  Where would you rather be? 

A closed road, followed by a forced hibernation. 

You may at first look at this as unnatural.  But I believe it is not.  It is, perhaps, as natural as the rain or snow… We humans may have the extra baggage to care for, from bridges to tools and piles of, ah, junk… but is it any different than the bear or squirrel or Stellar Jay who knows food will be scarce, travel nearly impossible, and  does what it takes to prepare themselves, to tuck themselves away?

We are tucked away.  We are safe. The fire is crackling and the world outside in the first light of the day shows me nothing but white.  We await the snow and anticipate the inevitable change and allow the calm, quiet white world to become all that we see and do.

Grasses in the rocks, a reminder of our wedding bouquet

My passion is my family, my mountain, my horses.  On these “pages” I share the simple life yet magnificent world around me.  I care not to, on principle, stir the pot.  My home is a guest ranch.  There is little room here on these wide mountains for conflict. My life is about giving.  Though I suppose it is in one way or another for most of you, for anyone living and leading a complete life.

But without standing up for what we believe in, what is right, and for the truth, we risk losing our world.  All of us.  Losing what is most precious to us all.  At times, we do need to take a stand.  Even on the most seemingly simple of issues. 

And so, I share with you a letter I wrote to a publisher of a magazine I adore.  It is a horse business magazine, run by a man, with the readership primarily women.  No problem there, of course, however… over the past year there have been featured articles about “ranching women” and all of them, every last one, were quoted on how they don’t need to, want to, or simply do not cook and clean, but get out there and do the “dirty work.” 

Got me thinking, what a surprise… and so I share this letter I wrote to the editor in praise of that “ranching woman” who does the “other dirty job” – the cooking, the cleaning, caring and caretaking, whatever needs to be done and whenever to make the whole ranch work, to keep the ranch and the family together.

Thoughts?  Women and men?  Ranchers and city folks alike?

…Part of “women’s lib” or whatever it is that allows us to be a modern woman, is choice.  And the old fashioned women’s ways should not be discredited or lost. They should still be a choice, though I see fewer and fewer who choose this role for a job. It is as tough a job as they get, a necessity, a solid foundation, and like with the growing lack of respect for “cowboy ethics” in the younger generation, a lost art.

Seems like most of the interviews put down having to stay home and cook and clean and teach the kids and be the doctor and the vet and all the stuff “traditionally” assigned to women.  It’s not as glamorous as being out there swinging a rope at brandings. No, it’s a lot harder in many ways, doesn’t stop as the sun goes down, gets very little recognition, but we all know the ranch (and rancher) would fall apart without it.  I wonder if it is not more real, too.  Are not more of your readers still interested in and practicing these valuable ways, means, and practices?  And shouldn’t they still be esteemed and admired?  Or are these ways too gone with yesteryear?

Maybe I’m the only one who feels there is a great deal of respect deserving for the woman who has remained in the role of caregiver, cook, etc. – despite the lack of romantic story and pretty picture that might go along with this “job.”  In fact, my greatest role models have been women who stuck strong to their ways and were always there doing the hardest job on the ranch… caring for the men, the families, the home, the meals, the garden, the schedule, whatever needed to be done – and then a lot more.  It’s a 24-hour job with no pay, no benefits, no fancy title except perhaps Wife or Mom.  But it’s a good job, and it deserves a little more reverence, and a reminder to women that it’s a really important place on the ranch. You can always hire another good ranch hand.  You can’t hire a good wife or mom.

Some jobs, some people on the ranch, are irreplaceable.

Old and new. Forrest doing school work by the glow of the computer... and oil lamp light.

With solar electricity, cloudy weather spells low power.  We learn to do without, and appreciate what we have.  It is easy.  It is simple.  We have lived completely without for enough time to be grateful for the little we have.  We can use it wisely.

And yet, evenings following those robin blue sky days of abundant sunshine, we may flip on five lights.  All at once.  And feel we are living large.  And somehow, take a decadent sinful pleasure in that.  Why?

I read about a family surviving life back in the pioneer days, and considered the hardships, the sacrifices, the lack of luxury.  I looked around my home and my life and felt guilty. I saw unnecessary luxuries. Waste.  Fluff. They keep us removed from the land, from the core of our life.  Removed from what matters most. 

We have too much. The land fill is spilling over with plenty. And our homes? Our fridge? Our closet? Our cars? Our full schedules?

We grab onto more and more and more. We take pleasure in amassing. Perhaps a safety and security. A fear of being without. It seems no matter how much we give away, how right and generous we feel we are being by sharing, donating and getting rid of things… all we do is make room for more. 

We grasp onto labels like “natural” and “organic” and “recycled” and feel we can buy and purchase and support and spent there because they are… better.  It’s still spending.  It’s still getting too much, isn’t it? It’s still more than we really need.

We start small.  Considering what we can give up.  What we can do without.  One thing at time.  One thing that need not be replaced.  An empty space that can remain open, clear, uncluttered.  Slowly, we begin to pare down to what matters most.  And suddenly, there is room to breath.

A dog with a job to do: Alan keeps an eye on things as Bob rides the mare along with her foal

More commonly seen: Alan snoozing.

In the summer, our home is a guest ranch, with an opening of the mountain and our simple life to some of the most wonderful folks you can imagine.  Think of it – who would choose to spend a week away from the pressures of the city, the sounds of phones ringing, messages buzzing, traffic zooming by… and come here, high in the mountains, off grid and off the beaten path, far and away, to do… what, you may ask?  Perhaps nothing.  Or perhaps nothing more than stare out the big picture window at the clouds floating over the mountain tops, the hillsides turning gold, the morning frost melting off, or the evening light casting longer and longer shadows behind the horses grazing out on pasture? Perhaps alternating time with casting into the Rio or hiking the peaceful trails or joining me for a horse ride.  And then a nap.

We call it Alan Mode.

Alan Mode is the state of rest, of unwinding, of letting go, modeled after the good old dog, the master of chilling out, laying low, enjoying the simplest pleasures of companionship, purpose… and slumber.

I imagine Ron didn’t realize what he’d start when he said it, but we’ve latched on to this expression and added it to our standard of speaking:  Alan mode.  It epitomizes that zone people get into when they visit the ranch. Hey, it epitomizes what we strive for as well when our work is done.

Alan is a fine example and teacher for the art of relaxation.  Of course being deaf has its benefits.  Napping uninterrupted is one of them. 

Oh, and by the way:  after eight months, Alan has also finally mastered the use of his dog door.  See, you can teach an old dog new tricks…

A photo from earlier this summer: The Little Cabin on the bluff above the Big River

The door faces the side of the mountain where the full moon is rising in the wake of a stray cloud laced and traced with the silver and gold light from behind.

I pass back through the doorway, smaller in size than is standard today.  You can tell it is old.  They say people were shorter back in the day.  I am not tall by todays or yesterdays standards.  The doorway fits me fine. 

The cabin was built around 1940.  I am intrigued by the past, by the history of the cabin, the stories built around these old log walls.  Grateful of those from the past who provide us with what we have now, the shell around us built by my husbands grand dad, built by the hands of the family, dreams of the family, struggles of the family, then and now.

But now it is ours.  A cornerstone of the cabin we will build it to be.  A wall within a new and adequate structure, providing for me and my family tonight, or perhaps in the near future.  A new beginning from an old start.

As we build our homes, our lives, we grow up; take a bit of the past with us.  If it is strong and solid, we hold onto it, use it as the foundation upon which we build.

These walls are tired and old, in need of sanding, refinishing, blowing off of the dust of years and generations and conflicts and sorrows.  We can freshen them up, brighten the wood once again, and rechink the cracks between the logs so they are tight, safe, warm.  Tonight, I see the light of the moon shine through in places that the old chinking has cracked and fallen out from between the old logs.  A reminder that we can take from our past what we choose to hold on to, repair what we need to, and walk away from what we want to as well.  Every day is a new day.

For now, I sit in a chair by the cook stove, huddled close by the warmth while the wash water hisses on the old rusty surface.  Perhaps a few mornings of frying bacon and sausage will bring a new shiny patina to its surface.

We dream, we plan, we figure out what we can do tomorrow and for many tomorrows to come, to make it all work out.  To hold onto the bits of the past we choose to, and make the rest our own.  Perhaps because of the past, or despite the past, we slowly build our future, our lives together, our tomorrows… today.

A face only a mother could love?

The newest addition to our menagerie.

After a year and half of sitting on empty eggs, the proud parents, our couple of lovely white doves residing here in the kitchen, finally produced another baby.  Odd how unnatural it is to have offspring born as summer is coming to a close, and the rest of the mountains is starting to put on their winter coats… or think about leaving. 

Well, odd as it may be, it is cute…   I tire not of the beauty and wonder of new beings.  Softening the hard lines of living.  Reminding us of the pure simplicity in the miracle of life.

Survival, existence, a purpose to life… we put so much more on top of this mountain of ideas, when really, I suppose, it is so simple.  The drama of life taking place in the corner of my kitchen.

Keeping it small and simple: a morning in front of the camp fire at ditch camp

As Forrest’s poem yesterday reminded us, the campfire is much more than a back country staple, a part of camping and being in the back woods that is not only often necessary for survival, providing basics like comfort and cooking, but there is something much deeper there. I may not have the words to express it as well as Forrest did, but you all probably know what it feels like, what it is.  You can’t sit before a camp fire without staring in, staring beyond, going somewhere far away in mind and soul…  It happens every time.  It mesmerizes the observer more powerfully than a TV. And mind you, that’s said by me, someone who hasn’t had TV in 20-something years because of that:  I turn into a zombie before the screen.  Conversation, thought and free will are instantly zapped!

But zoning out before the fire, I allow myself.  My thoughts don’t evaporate, but rather, become enriched by the dancing of the flames…

I suppose any fire will do this.  We’ve all been known to stare mesmerized at the flames in a fire place or open wood stove.  But it’s different, it’s somehow more, when you’re out under the stars, in the cold night air, or bundled up at first light with the pot of coffee boiling away…

Of course at times, a fire can even be done without, and should be done without. We’ve camped during fire bans and in locations that fires are restricted because of over use.  Going without is easy.  We cook over a small propane stove, and turn in early.  And yet, I miss the camp fire during those times.

Camping in the Wilderness as we so often do, Leave No Trace ethics are a staple.  This is an easy theory and practice that is simply summed up by being responsible and cleaning up after yourself.  Keep things small.  Small is easier to clean up afterwards, anyway. 

There is a good amount of information on the internet and in any camping/outdoor shop on LNT ethics. I have a post on my horse blog which covers many details (please click HERE to view). But today I just wanted to reiterate the “how to” of campfire building.  My concern was raised after spending a good deal of time on our various back country trips scattering newly built fire rings, and even putting out fires that were left hot. Cleaning up for other folks so that the next people by will feel like the wilderness is really wild.

The basic how-to of responsible back country campfires is simple. If there is a designated fire ring, use it.  Otherwise, don’t build one.  Fire rings lined with big rocks are completely unnecessary.  If you do build one, clean it when you’re done by scattering the cool rocks. 

To make a fire pit, dig out the top soil, stash it under a near by tree.  We use a small camp shovel and dig a pit about 12 x 24 inches, and probably 6-8 inches deep. This is more than large enough for us to cook all our meals on, and enjoy the warmth and beauty.  We use a portable camp fire grate which we can set up over the fire on which we put our pots and pans. When you’re done with your fire and are certain the coals are dead out (you should be able to stick your hand in there – if you’re concerned, pour on more water and stir up the ashes), put the top soil back on top and naturalize the site again.  I returned to the site where we camped last year.  After 24 days of camping and cooking, the location where our fire pit was is barely visible. 

Leave No Trace is a no brainer.  A ring of rocks is a big trace.  Who needs to see it?  Any indication of the next person seeing where the last person camped is not only unnecessary, but it’s rude. By seeing the number of huge fire pits left behind, I’d guess some folks just don’t think about the impact their actions might have on the next person.  Here’s a good, but unfortunate, example.  A group spent just one week earlier this month camped at a site Bob’s family, as well as innumerable back packers, horse packers, and hunters, have camped in for nearly half a century.  In this one week, a huge fire pit was not only built, but left, hot coals and all.  This is the photo we took after already spending time scattering the big rocks they had used for decoration. 

what NOT to do for a campfire

In just one week, the land is scarred for decade… Think about it.

the Rio Grande Pyramid and La Ventana surrounded by storm clouds; the peak of the mountain is hidden.

Summer is not the time for us to take a day off. 

And yet, we do think about it…

This year we tried.  One day.  Not to relax, unwind, take it easy, recuperate.  No.

We planned to hike the Rio Grande Pyramid.

For Bob, this would be the fifth time.  For Forrest and myself, a first.

My summer adventures usual end up only where I am hired to go. There is little time and energy for otherwise.  To date, no one has asked me to guide them up the Pyramid.  Good thing.  I’m not sure I could make it!

But I do want to try.  And no better people to try with than my boys…And chances are… once you try… the next thing you know… there you are.

HOWEVER… finding, or scheduling or creating a day off isn’t so easy.  Not for us.  Not in the summer.  Not ever, I suppose, as anyone with critters to care for knows.  Last week was our last big attempt to block out a day of work and fit in a day off.  And it would have worked, the timing was great and all the details worked out… except one.  A big one.  

Mother Nature figured we didn’t need to be on her mountain peak that day, and so we went back to work… Climbing the peak only to be stuck in the storm clouds would have been rather, well, for lack of more eloquent key word here, a bummer.

Now, we may try again this year.  I don’t know how or when we can fit it in, when things will work out to have others take care of Alan, of the horses and ranch and guests and all.  It would be a great adventure, a fun (can one use that word for climbing the highest peak in our section of the San Juan Mountains? I don’t yet know…) escapade.

But in the meanwhile, I learned a new lesson.  Or better yet, re-learned an old one.  I don’t need a day off.  I don’t need to go anywhere to enjoy time off.  I just need to take the time. A little bit every day.  And allow myself that time.  That’s the hard part, isn’t it?  More like, force myself.

So, with a quiet week here at the ranch and ditch work on hold and no outfitting appointments for a few days… I forced myself.  I took time to shovel manure and clean the yard.  Yes, I like that!  It looks beautiful!  I took time to brush the horses, sit out with the foals, take a zillion photographs of the babies. I took time to ride, alone, just me and my stallion. I took time to bake, to clean my house, hang the laundry on the line in the fresh late summer air, to do things I enjoy doing in the home and ranch and mountain I love. … I can’t imagine better time off.

How special does it need to be?  As special as we make it.  Even the simplest things.  They can be the sweetest, can’t they?

Looking back at my husband and pack string as we ride up the Ute Creek Trail.

You can call me old fashioned. It won’t be the first time.  And I’m guessing many of you are, too, in many ways. Don wrote this yesterday, saying we were born 150 years too late.  At times, I sure feel that way, and indeed, I suppose at times, I am.  Other times, I find change and diversity as a beautiful and necessary part of life, without which we would be stuck in stagnant waters.

And yet… there are some things of the past I do hold on to.  Some of the old ways.  But they are not necessary old for me.  In fact, now that I think about it, they are new. Learned in my adult life.  From horses to homesteading, baking bread and milking cows. Skinning and butchering and making the most of every possible part of the animal. I didn’t learn these things as a kid. So, by preferring these things over the ready made, instant gratification and convenient packaging, I suppose I’m not really holding onto the past, but choosing the direction of my future.

What I’m getting at here is a dilemma I’ve been thinking of often lately as I ride the trails around our ranch and see the changing ways of the mountain.  It’s the dilemma of horses… and ATVs. 

Yesterday, I was taking a group of horses into this magnificent, remote, high mountain fishing lake.  On the way home, after passing (or being passed by) ATV number 25, I finally had had enough.  I bailed off the trail with my pack string and headed down an old narrow twisting game trail, just to avoid the traffic.

Yes, 25 ATVs within an 8 mile ride.  In fact, all that traffic in only 4 of those miles, as the other 4 miles was a section of trail closed to ATV traffic. Thus the rare call on and need for my horses. Someone who wanted to go where their ATV wouldn’t take them.

And how many horses and riders did I pass?  None.  Not a. Zip.  Zilch.  Not even one horse trailer up this way.  Not one visitor, tourist, guest or neighbor out riding horses.  But how many out on ATV?  Ooohhh, I can’t count.

Now mind you, I don’t mean to open a debate against ATVs.  I just want to point out that in the past few years, we’ve seen a huge drop in horse riding, coinciding with a huge increase in ATV riding.  Eight years ago, my first summer on the ranch, was a big drought year. The West was burning up.  At least this part of Colorado sure was. By the first of June, the sky was pink by noon, and ash floated around in the evenings.  Because of the increased risk of fire danger, the Forest Service closed the trails to motorized vehicles. The horses were in demand. People were willing to ride. It was the only way to get around, and folks, once on the horses, remembered it’s a pretty good way to travel.

In the seven years following, the demand for horses has dropped considerably, as the sales of ATVs has taken a big leap forward.

I ride the trail, the only horseman out there, stopping to talk to all the nice folks out enjoying the Forest on their ATV.  I stop quite often.  There are many people.  It is peak season on the trails.  They are all nice; they all happily stop to talk; they all appreciate the nature and beauty around them… especially when they stop, shut off their motors, and take a look around. 

I feel very old fashioned.  Very out numbered, out dated.  A relic of the past.  One I will fight to hold on to, to continue to be.

Off to Ditch Camp!  Talk about old fashioned…

The view up towards East and Middle Ute