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.

Tiny white lights in the big spruce before our cabin.

I fear we are addicted to snow. Goose down as is pours from the sky.  Powder as it piles up on the mountain.  We love it.  I would guess this comes as no surprise to you.

Of course the snow has its inconveniences as well. One of them is our commute. Getting from the ranch to anywhere in winter is an ordeal.  But a minor inconvenience to me, as I’m most content staying home.  For anyone else coming and going… it is, well, an interesting challenge.

Bob was coming home last night.  Not having phone service here at the ranch, we communicate by text messages.  And not having cell phone service with witch to send or receive text messages for at perhaps 30 miles in either direction, we have come up with a system where by the person who went to town (usually not me) sends a final message at the last place the cell phone works, sending a message back home to let the home front (usually me) know they’re on their way.  That final stretch of the way home which may take less than hour in summer, takes quite a bit longer in winter.  We drive up the snow packed dirt road, pass through the locked gate about 11 miles below the ranch, drive another 5 miles,  park the pickup, transfer the groceries, mail, and other supplies (ranging from  Christmas presents to building materials) from the pickup to the tub sled, fire up the snowmobile, hook up the tub sled and securely cover the cargo, pile on a new layer of clothes and a helmet, then ride along what is known in the summer as The Reservoir Road, but in the winter is just a single track snowmobile trail on the bluff above the big frozen water.

Of course, it is usually night.  Darkness adds to the adventure, the mystery, the feeling of being out in the middle of no where… until you see “The Beacon.” You can see it over two miles away.  And why not?  The power is free thanks to our solar electric system. And there is no one within those two miles, or many miles beyond that, for that matter, to be bothered by the light. 

The Beacon, as we’ve called it for years, is a blue spruce tree outside our cabin to which we hand dug an electric line from the house, and on which we hung a few strings of little white Christmas lights.  With our limited solar electricity here, you’ll rarely see these lights on in the summer.  But in winter, ah, it is a different story.  Our power is abundant.  And free.  That sun does shine, and our system usually provides only for us!  So, I am generous with Christmas lights. And not only during Christmas, but all winter long.  I have them strung about in the house, on our tree, around the windows, over the dove cage… and outside, on the Beacon tree.

The tree has grown.  Where once I used a ladder to hang the lights, my bull (yes, a bovine bull) walked by that tree one day, wrestled with the branches for some unknown reason apparently fueled by testosterone, ripped off a bunch of branches with his big head, and tangled the lights in his horns.  Always wished those lights were shining.  If that wouldn’t have been the best photo ever…  Well, it was day light and those lights were off, but that spruce tree will never be the same.

Now the tree has grown. Minus a bare section down low where the bull pruned it. This year I hung the lights as Bob raised me in the bucket of the back hoe, far higher than the ladder could reach, and far higher than I would have liked, for that matter.

Our indoor Christmas tree, by the way, is a used, recycled fake tree. Really. Bet that’s not what you’d expect being as we’re surrounded by a forest of beautiful Blue spruce trees. We’ve never been keen on cutting down our own trees.  I’d rather plant them around us instead.  Last time we cut one down, Forrest was perhaps four years old. I explained that I was “thinning” (and I was!), but upset ensued which is really no surprise coming from a little one raised in the magic of the woods, thus that was the last time. We cut “Christmas branches” for a few years after that, which worked well enough – big boughs from giant fir trees.  And then, when my folks were tossing their “old” fake tree, we took it. Thus… a recycled, reused tree. Tacky?  Maybe.  Green?  Definitely! How “green” can you get?  Funniest part is, no one notices that it is fake.  No one.  Not until we tell, and sometimes, well, why bother? After all, it does look like a Blue Spruce… sort of… and it’s about the last thing one would expect to find up here…

Back to the drive home…

So, Bob is coming home last night.  Through text messaging, he makes arrangements with Forrest to meet at the parking area around 8 pm.  Forrest will help Bob haul in the supplies Bob brought back from town. Forrest heads out in the dark, no moon, just his headlight on the snow, around 7:30.  I get dinner cooking and keep the fire going. Around 8:30, I see the two single headlights, shining from over two miles away and approaching fast. One can travel this road much faster over the snow with snowmobile than over pot holes and ruts with a pickup. And traffic is rarely a concern.

Within minutes, I hear the roar of their motors settling right outside the kitchen door.  My boys are home. 

Bob gives me a kiss and hug, but he’s holding back.  There’s something wrong.  There’s something in there, inside his jacket.  He unzips.  Pulls it out. (Please trust me here, this is G-rated…)

A bouquet of flowers.  Tucked in his snowmobile suit to make it back with minimal damage from the frigid cold and wind and pounding that the ride home usually brings.  Instead, they arrive warm and well, if only slightly “pressed.”  

I think this is a first.  Six years of marriage.  Life is full of surprises.  Life is good…

The bouquet on the table, beside the blooming paperwhites and before the blossoms of the bougainvilla. A bountiful world we live in.

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

November sun on Pole Mountain

Yesterday, I wrote to a friend, was a “wish you were here” day.  No one was here but the three of us. We work around the ranch in shirt sleeves, break for lunch on the deck, exercise the horses on dry pasture. Suddenly the silence is broken by the rumble of an engine.  A semi truck, delivering a load of pipe.  Not very often do we get a big truck like this up here, always bringing with it a big stack full of excitement and expectation. This one came unexpected.  We were figuring a day later, were planning on escorting the driver through the snow packed sections and single lane parts of the dirt road below our ranch.  He made it on his own.  And what often is a long, relieved exhale upon arrival, this driver climbed out of his rig and said, “Wow! What a beautiful drive!”  The amazement and appreciation in his wide eyes brought smiles to our faces as we watched him look around in awe at the mighty wilds about us.

Late afternoon, stillness resumes its rightful place on the mountain.  The semi growls down the road, the noise slowly fades, we can see the big truck getting smaller and smaller until it finally turns the bend over two miles away, and silence returns.

We head down to towards the Little Cabin and plant trees. My solace and healing, our attempt to give back to the land. The starkness of the open pasture becomes a little softer.  The trees are small, young, fragile; they will not all survive; perhaps with the Aspen the roots will take hold, and new sprouts will emerge.  Perhaps one day there will be trees tall enough to walk through, to hide in, to provide comfort from the harsh winds and shade the open hillside just a little bit.

We may not remain long enough to see these trees mature.  Somehow, it does not matter. We are here now, and while we can, while we remain, we try, we strive, we find a purpose to each day and make the most with what we have, what we create, what we simply make and do.  We do not wait for tomorrow.

I remind Forrest that every day is as special as we make it.  He is there with us, shovel in hands, digging into the loosened soil, throwing dirt on the roots of these trees, and he is smiling.  I believe he is glad to be a part of this gift, regardless of whom the recipient is.  If only just the mountain, and that would be enough.

Perhaps his children, or their children after them will one day return. Or a grateful stranger will walk through these trees, then tall and mighty and proud, and wonder if they always were here. We can not help but wonder who will wander through these trees one day and be grateful, perchance smell the sweetness of the sap, languish in their autumn color, listen the magical rustle as the wind dances through the leaves.  And as long as we remain, we will try.

An anonymous gift to the mountain.  And still we know we take far more than we ever can give.

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.

Horses on pasture at camp in the early morning

Here’s where we’ve been.  Camping on the Divide in the Weminuche Wilderness, just the three of us, Alan the Shepherd, and 7 of our horses…

The horse hauling a load of big rocks to the hole in the ditch

A lot of man (and woman) power

Here’s what we’ve been doing.  Moving about 6 tons dirt, and almost as much rock… all by hand and horse power. 

How?  A lot of work. Fueled by a lot of food. Yes, we use shovels; no, we don’t use any power tools or equipment:  this is the Wilderness with a capital “W.”

We’re the official Ditch Maintenance Crew for a trans continental water diversion which brings water from a river flowing to the west side of the Divide over to east side, along a mile long ditch originally build back in the 1930’s. 

For the past two years, the job entailed raising the banks in low spots and cleaning out the deposit in the bottom; maybe a few trees being felled by the two-man cross-cut saw.  The shovels and picks and saws are our only tools, except for the magnificent draft cross horse that moves more in one go-round, with absolute ease, than would take us a half hour of back breaking work…

But this year, with fallen trees from the hillside covered with dead spruce from beetle kill, the ditch was blocked and a side of the bank blew out in a most inconvenient location.  So in a pinch, to get the water flow resumed as soon as possible, we rebuilt the ditch bank.

Forrest in the blown out section of ditch bank

The ditch running water after our work

Fancy job?  Remember from “Caddy Shack” that the world needs ditch diggers… but jokes aside, we love our work.  Talk about a good, hard, honest days work!  We earn our sleep at night…

In fact, the boys are still asleep… and I’m not quite caught up with sleep yet. But I wanted to share this with you now. More details, and more about the incredible beauty we are so lucky to live and work in up there will follow over the weekend…

On the ride home yesterday evening

I thought about sharing some of our how-to projects in hopes that we may help others in their quest to build on a budget, and truly “green” with all used, left-over or salvaged materials.

But you know what? I just don’t think there are a lot of folks out there building like we do.  I don’t believe our blue print for a finished work would work for the average person.  Perhaps I’m wrong.  Let’s see.  Here are a few examples.  Let me know if these would be of any help…

Bob finishing the chinking around the new little window

OK, so say you are renovating your old log cabin and there was a small round hole in the wall where the wood stove pipe had once fit through.  How would you get rid of or hide that hole?  You can’t splice in a chunk of log.  Especially since the original ones have been there since the late 30’s.  I think you’d notice that new part. 

Instead, we measured for an old salvaged single pane of glass, took the chain saw to the edges of the hole in the logs to square them off, and framed in a new small window.

Why not?  You’d never get tired of looking out at the view or letting the sun light pour in.  More windows are always welcome. And no more unsightly hole.

Boys in the bunks

Here’s another example.  Say you have a Little Cabin by the Big River (and yes, I know a lot of you say you’d LOVE to have such a cabin…)  and you need to build in sleeping for three people and one large dog. Space is limited.  Materials are plentiful in the various piles on the back road, but usually rather rough.

We processed a couple old rough cut 2×4’s left around from other projects and a bunch of 2×12’s salvaged from an old roof section we tore down years ago.  Took our measurements, made our cuts, and secured it all together onto the old log walls.  Gave it a test run (made it comfortably through the night) and think we’ve done pretty well with what we had.

This is not the finished product:  we’ll be building in shelves and bolt this together with some neat old hardware Bob salvaged elsewhere on the mountain. But it works for now.

It’s simple, it’s rough, but you know what?  It works. Pretty comfy; pretty cozy.  Lying there on our newly built beds, silent and peaceful and warm. No noise but the rush of the river, and the crackle of burning wood coming from the woodstove.  No power but the glow from the candle and the gas lamp.

Ah… here I go… distracted and dreaming again…

See what I mean, though?  I don’t think you’d find the need for these kinds of how-to projects on YouTube. Useful?  I don’t know. Entertaining, maybe.

In any case, our goal is to build all we need at no or minimal expense, to built with only the “stuff” (better word than “junk?”) from the piles. I’d imagine that comes as no surprise to any of you who may have been with me here for a while.

You see, giving any how-to advice for such projects is even harder than trying to share recipe with “a little bit of this and a little bit of that.”  To begin with, I don’t feel qualified to be giving advice.  Goes back to that part of feeling like though I’m 42 I still haven’t grown up yet.  

But I look around at the projects we work on,  at the way we look to tackle these projects. And although it’s not really the specific act or result that I want to share with you, it’s more like the general attitude or philosophy of how to approach any task at hand.  How to do something you’ve never done before, and really are rather unsure of how on earth you’ll ever figure this out.

I suppose it’s all just a reminder that we learn to deal with what we have, make the most of it all.  We can learn to decipher our needs and learn to fulfill them in the simplest way possible.  To remember to just start by starting.  And a reminder that we all can do well with so much less.  We can think beyond the box and find ways to creatively solve problems with what’s around us, at minimal or no expense. 

Sure this is about building and projects. But it’s about so much more too.

Sit back and read on, if you have a few minutes with me here today… I have a story to tell …A story I’ll share with you, but it also to serve as a reminder to myself about getting up and getting over it. About pulling yourself up when times are tough, and making the most of things. About knowing how strong we are, how much we can make it through, and what better people we become because of it all.

It starts with sanding.  I spent years sanding. I spent my pregnancy sanding.  That’s right.  Sanding.  I worked in the woodshop of a frame store, and I was the expert sander.  So Forrest spent his “in utero” life listing to a hand sander buzzing only inches away.  Hard work to do around a pregnant belly, but I managed to save enough during my pregnancy so that I could plan on taking a few months off after birth to just care for my baby.  And to build a house. Oh, it was a simple house. Very simple. The total cost was $1,500. But I built it myself with a little baby on my back, and we managed to live pretty comfortably in there – me, little Forrest, and a couple of big dogs.

The first home I built.

You may think it looks kind of rough, and maybe it was, but it was mine. Sure, my carpentry and construction skills have vastly improved since this first cabin I built, but hey, you have to start somewhere. Anyway, it was warm and cozy and dry. Very dry.  Once a week, I’d have to drive about 20 miles to get water to haul home in five gallon containers.  And still, I managed to have a small garden by dumping all our waste and wash water on the carefully prepared garden beds.

A woman I had met in college offered for me to come live there, to come build my own house of straw.  Seemed like a good idea at the time… I still look back on it, and hard as it was, it was a great thing. I learned an enormous amount about building, and surviving.

In the middle of construction. With baby asleep in the crib in the only shade around, and our tent "home" in the background.

I moved out there with my baby and dogs; set up a tent that we lived in for four months during the slow construction process. As many of you know, tents are not the most secure in the wind and monsoons. But it beat the other options. And when the wind wasn’t blowing, and the sun wasn’t baking it, and the temperatures weren’t too cold at night… which really, as I recall, was most of time – it was comfortable.  It was a fine little home.

Building the cabin was slow for me.  I had no idea what I was doing. None. Zip. Zilch. But I figured it couldn’t be Rocket Science.  People have been building homes for a long time and managing just fine. I could too.  All you have to do is start.

Start.  Pick yourself up each morning and just do something. One more step.  And with each step, you’ll be just a little closer to your goal.

I met a special old man there, like an apparition, one day he appeared while walking my dogs in the arroyo below the hill I was building on.  Turns out he (and his dogs) were building just a few hillside away.  Now, this man had lived.  More adventures, more sadness, more loss, and more knowledge, than I may ever have.  He would visit every day, stop by the “construction zone” and offer me tid bits of advice.  My mom had taught me well:  you don’t have to agree with everyone’s advice, but you might just want to listen.  The best advice he gave me was one day I “gave up,” with my baby fussing in one arm, the hammer idle in the other, and tears pouring down my sun burned cheeks, in complete frustration of my lack of knowledge, lack of ability, lack of progress.  He sat their calmly with his dogs madly running around, leaning back on a straw bale with yet another cigarette sending smoke signals from his dramatically waving hands, and he reminded me about the ants. One grain of sand at a time, he said. That is all they move.  But one after another after another.  And before you know, they have a whole intricate world built. And with that, the old man grabbed the heavy roll of roofing, effortless tossed it up on his shoulder, climbed the ladder, and put it on the roof for me. One grain of sand, he said. I think that’s the only physical help he ever gave me. His timing was impeccable. He proved his point, and well, and I still remember this today. When things seem hard and overwhelming, all I have to do is move one grain of sand at a time…

Anyway, I got that little cabin built before the snow settled in. I build it all without electricity, with simple hand tools that could all fit in one small tool box. The design, if we can call it that, began with a post and beam construction. I think it was 10×12 feet.  Yup, that’s it. The size of your closet probably. The walls were built of stacked straw bales on a foundation of plastic sheeting.  The doors and windows were built in with “lentil” framing. Chicken wire was “sewn” together, inside and out over the straw, with bailing wire for thread and a piece of rebar acting as a giant needle. With my hand as spreading tools and a little bucket to mix, I mudded the inside and outside over the straw and wire. Never got a floor in there.  That was way beyond my capabilities back then. The dirt stayed dry, but wasn’t much fun for a baby to crawl on.  At first, there was no room for a wood stove, so off that shed roof, I built on a 5 foot extension to the south that gave me enough room for a little pot belly stove. Burned less than ¾ of a cord of wood that winter, and it was a good, cold northern New Mexico winter. There is a lot to be said for small spaces.

No, it wasn’t ideal. Life often is not. I was not too sad to leave it when the woman who owned the land told me the next summer that she was selling. I remember once during the winter being so sick, just slumped there on the dirt floor with a raging fever, with my little baby in my arms, and really wishing someone would come find me, come help me.  I couldn’t call out, no one would hear. No way to call anyone, as the nearest phone wasn’t so near. I even tried to send “vibes,” you know, messages “out there.” No one came.  But I obviously made it, and I healed. And because of that, I sort of became less afraid of those things, and more realizing that no one was going to be there to help me sometimes, but we can do so much by ourselves. Basically, we can do almost anything, if it’s a good thing, and for a good reason. I learned we are capable of accomplishing, well, anything we want.  Just one grain of sand at a time.

Me and Forrest, made it through the winter, then moving on to our next construction site, starting to build yet another cabin...

A plastic grocery bag gets a second chance in life: covering a loaf of homemade bread.

I am a self confessed Homebody. I don’t leave the mountain very much.  In January, I took a town trip to bring Alan to the vet.  In February, I had to attend a meeting to try to deal with the dreaded in-laws (no doubt, I would have preferred to stay home!).  Earlier this month, I took a trip up to Denver to satiate my need for sisterly love.

Getting in the truck once a month is usual it for me.  That’s all I need. As you can figure, no matter what I do on the one trip a month, this can not amount to a great deal of shopping.  Truth is, I do not like to shop. I’m only in my 40’s, but already I hear myself whining, “gosh, will you look at the price of that!  I remember when it cost…”  Yes, that’s me. Already. But still, I have to feed my family, and until I can raise and grow everything, I’ll have to rely on store bought groceries.

I do not shop at the fancier stores that politely ask you at the check out, “paper or plastic?” Where I shop, they don’t give you a choice, they just start bagging. But as you can imagine, while they are bagging, I am the sort to chat away with the check out person, though not about what kind of bags I prefer.  About just stuff like the weather, traffic, the price of gas, how much those tomatoes cost…

I believe in organic produce. I find it very hard to believe that processed foods or petroleum products are good for my family. I wish there was nothing but local and fresh and chemical free. But I can not spend that price for a head of lettuce I can grown on my own for the better part of the year, or support buying a tomato in the winter which was flown in from the other side of the Equator.  I don’t know facts and figures, but I always wonder how much fuel was used flying in that organic produce vs. how much the standard commercial growers spray on their crops.  It’s a tough choice, and until we figure out a better way, there are no easy answers.  We all want to do the right thing, and we can start by thinking… but it’s hard to figure what the right thing is some times. Can’t say I want those chemicals in my child’s body, but I also would rather support my local growing economy, even thought they still rely so heavily on chemical fertilizers and sprays. What’s a woman to do?

Until we figure out the “right” answer, if there is just one, we each need to do what we believe is the best option. I’m a little embarrassed to admit this, but I confess I commit the sin of shopping at Walmarts and our simple standard local grocery store, and buying a case of canned tomatoes if they are on sale.  They’ll do.  They’ll feed us without increasing our debt too much. 

Now, again, since I do not shop very often, when I do go, I usually have a big list. I leave over a hundred bucks deeper in debt, and with a mighty full cart jam-packed with stuffed bags. Plastic bags.  That’s right:  I’ll take plastic. So, this, too, is something we need to consider.  And once again, I sure don’t have the right answer.

I’ve been into those fancier stores where people bring their own bags, usually just one or two, and throw in a few very fancy items.  Certainly, they are not shopping for a family, for a week or more, or even considering bargains, from where the food came, packaging costs, and other serious considerations. How many trips per week, let alone per month, do you “stop by” the grocery store, in your SUV? Does bringing your own bag out way the expended fuel, or justify the gourmet, imported items purchased, and it’s packaging?  I wonder… but perhaps I just think these things to make me feel better for being the cheap skate that I am, not shopping regularly, and not buying these fancy items that really do look good.

No, I’ll stick to home made.  Home grown when I can.  And simple.  But I’ll also stick to plastic bags.  Why?  Well, I use them!  I don’t buy my bread in bags.  But when I make my dough several times a week, I cover the bowl with plastic. I don’t need to buy plastic wrap, and pay for that convenience and packaging. I just use my plastic bags. Then I re-use the bag for covering the bread after it is baked, too. 

I have so many used for my plastic bags: from trash bin liners to snack pack bags; from wrap and packaging for mailing fragile items, to muddy boot covers (thanks to Scotty for teaching us this one: slip them on over your boots if you need to go in the house really quickly and don’t feel like unlacing…)

I sure find uses for all those plastic bags we bring home, and truly, I run out of them right about the time that I’m due for another trip to the grocery store.  Can I justify my “consumptive use” of plastic bags?  Can I still take plastic and be considered “green?”

I thought my life was a good example of living a simple, frugal, earth-friendly life. But the more I read, the more I am led to question that I’m not “green” enough.  I don’t buy the right “green” things.  Truth is, I don’t buy much, period.  It gets confusing trying to do the right thing, doesn’t it?  Guess it all comes down to thinking about our choices,  really think them all the way through, then make our decisions based on what each of us truly believes is the best choice.  How lucky we are to have choices.

Amassing more and more stuff.

We have more than we need.  Most of us do.  I am not proud of this and constantly look for ways to make do with less, have more to give, and still I have too much. Years ago, I moved around a lot.  With each move, I could assess all of my belongings, and keep only what I needed.  This seems harder with each move, with each year. When I was in my early twenties, I moved by Grey Hound bus to Santa Fe with a suit case.  That was enough back then.  That was twenty years ago. Next thing I knew, I had more than I could fit in the trunk of my old Dodge Dart. When I left New Mexico, I had to take the back seats out of my car to fit all my possessions, my two dogs, and my pregnant belly. I upgraded to an old Dodge van to make my move to California, and packed it full.  And then in moving to Colorado, I rented a U-Haul. Always more and more and more, even in my supposed simple ways. How much of this is necessary?  How much of what I moved did I really need?

Could I limit myself to a suitcase now? I’m afraid to think of how many suitcases I’d need to hoard all that “means so much to me,” or that ”I just can’t live without.”  And yet, in reality, what do I need? My boys, my dog, my cats, my horses. These things don’t fit in a suitcase, I know. 

I try to justify my abundance knowing that I have less than many in our Western world. No TV, no clothes dryer, no dish washer, no telephone, no hair dryer… But I look around my home and know there is still too much. In the past I have lived quite comfortably without electricity, running water, hot water heater, a gas oven, two sets of plates,  and matching chairs… now look at all this.

There is a part of me that would like to simplify it all back down to one suitcase again.  I’d like to keep the boys, dog, cats, and horses… but “stuff” need not be more than a suitcase full.

What really matters?  I wonder what I’d take…

An aspen grove in fall color

The wind followed us home last night, blowing a fury around the mountain.  Several times last night I awoke with a start to check on the Old Grandfather Tree.  This one, too, is leaning and on it’s way out.  With a clear path in which to fall, we are letting him live out his life to the fullest, and enjoying having the tree there next to us for as long as possible.

Today, the wind has calmed, and the gentle snow softly tickles the branches of Grandfather Tree, and all others throughout the mountain.

And so, my thoughts turn toward the trees… the trees that provided for us to build our home, warm our cabin, fuel our cook stove, give us material for our fence, shade us from the sun, protect us from the wind… these are the trees from our land.  How much I have to be grateful for, not the least of which is admiration of their beauty, now stark and grey and softly dusted with white in the pencil drawn landscape of this winter storm.

One of the requirements of the old homesteaders to prove intention of remaining and caring for the land was to plant trees. Those who live along the river bottoms and find shade under the still thriving giant trees planted a hundred years ago or more, or who wander in the fields and pick the old fruit from the still producing old hardwood tree, or are lucky enough to move to a place loved and cared for enough where a full orchard or windbreak or woodlot has been planted and tended, we are reminded of the importance of trees, and the integral part of trees in the life of the homestead.

There are long since many a homesteads that have been abandoned, the dwelling and outbuildings returned to the ground, skeletal remains of the yards and corrals barely visible, but the trees still remain. Here in Colorado and New Mexico, we have the shade of the big old Cottonwood along the side the creeks and rivers to tell us stories of folks who had once called this place home. In California, I remember apple trees, twisted and gnarly but still producing, in odd far off locations, yet when we look closer, we find evidence of the home that once was there.

For each and all we are thankful for those who came before us, those who had the foresight to share their labors, to care enough about the land, to care enough about the future. And from these lessons, we remember our current obligations.  The trees we plant now are not only for us, for our children, and our children’s children, but for any who come after us.  What a beautiful gift to pass on.  Selfless and thoughtful, full of promise and provision.

The life and death of trees in the forest

For the first 12 or 13 years of Forrest’s life, we planted a tree for his birthday.  No other presents for him from me but a tree. For the first few years of his life, we moved around quite often.  Are there now trees bearing and sharing fruit across this country, in remote little mountain yards, because of this? We can surely hope. In planting the Birthday Tree, we not only enjoyed the dirty/muddy/grubby/fun ritual, but enjoyed knowing we were giving a gift to those who would come after us, and it was not for us to pick and choose, but to share, to give, indiscriminately.

Some may have grown, some may have died, such is the life of a tree.  We can try, we can care and give it the best start, but we can not control nor predict its path in life.

But we do have to try, I remind Forrest.  We do have to plant those trees.  We do have to share our labors with those who will come after us as we have been so blessed to enjoy the shade, the fruit, the beauty, the wood because of those who came before us.

In our constant efforts to improve and care for the land of our guest ranch property, we have planted many a tree, transplanted all we could “relocate” from places we had to put in roads or buildings. Not all have survived, but for those that have taken, we are so pleased to know we gave a second life for a tree otherwise doomed. I tried planting fruit trees, many types, many years.  At nearly 10,000 feet elevation, and with an average of 30 days frost free each summer, I have not been as successful. Lilacs and choke cherry have survived though not prospered. And asparagus, which although not a tree, takes just as long to bear fruit as such and live just as long.  They have done quite well, and I am honored to pass on this gift just as I once received the bounty of others past labor.

So when we look to planning the work to be done at the Little Cabin by the Big River, we start with the trees.  We must. They will take far longer to grow up than the cabin, the barn, the fencing, the corrals.  Why would we wait? Although the earth is still very much tucked in under its blanket of snow, we have placed our order with the USDA Forest Service for our first planting of our native Aspen, Blue Spruce and Engelman Spruce.  We will plant in the spring when the land thaws.  This, we feel, is the first step – for the land, for our home, for new life.

The view of the Rio Grande at Brewster Park, a quick snow shoe from the ranch along the headwaters of the big river.

There are some things we take for granted.  Often times, the most simple.  Or rather, those things that appear so simple. Like flicking a switch to turn on a light.  Turning a faucet to have warm water rush out.  Walking into the kitchen and opening the fridge and knowing the ice cream will be frozen.  We can assume the street will be lit long after most folks are fast asleep.  We can assume in front of most every house is a green lawn; in every home a TV; and at the corner of every other intersection a convenient store. Sure seems like it.  We accept these simple truths and don’t question how or why. 

It appears so simple, yet it’s so complex.  Our lives have been simplified by these complex systems.  In a way… but I wonder… is this simplicity or blindness? Of course it is impractical for all city and town dwellers to concern themselves with the supplied water and electrical systems.  But awareness of these systems might not be a bad idea. With knowledge and understanding, there may follow more care and responsibility.

Living off grid, we know, we care and have to take responsibility. If we do not walk up the mountainside with our shovel after a rain to keep the creek flowing, we will not have water in our pipes.  If we do not keep that extra light turned off in the evening of a cloudy day, our power will not make it through the night.  If we don’t throw another log on the fire, the house gets cold. Very simple, I know. But we know.  We know where our power comes from (if you have an other few minutes, please see the post Power from the Sun). We know where our water comes from. And if we run out of either power or water, we have no one to blame but ourselves, and can call no one for that quick fix. We grab the shovel, and off we go.

From outside our cabin we can look up at our mountain and see the snow banks and know how much water we’ll have this summer. Or watch the snow bank disappear, and wonder if the water will make it to August when our late summer rains should come. We can see the shortage of water beginning, and can take responsibility for our use by reducing our consumption rather than get caught in the shower when the pipes run dry. We consider our water six months in advance.  If it’s been a “good” snowy year, we figure our water will be adequate through the summer.  If not, we are responsible for our own changes.

We watch the mountain and are constantly reminded from where our water flows. The reminder to conserve water and live responsibly is right in front of us.

A snowmobiler resting on the windblown top of Stony Pass, looking back at the mountains and drainage where the Rio Grande begins.

The Rio Grande begins here, several miles above our ranch. I wonder for how many this mighty river provides water, directly or through recharge? There isn’t much between us and the mountain that provides the first trickle which grows into the Big River.  During the summer, there may be several fishermen and a bunch of four-wheelers.  But during the winter, no one, just miles of icy river, still running beneath the snow, cutting its way ever through these white winter mountains which contain it, feed it.

A snowmobile jumps from the snowbank at top of Stony Pass, the first trickle of the Rio Grande begins right here.

This is where it all begins. A snow bank. How many tourists stop to play here in July as they pass by in their Jeeps bouncing up the road over the top of Stony Pass? Do they realize this is the very snow bank from which the Big River begins?  If they all just took a moment to consider.

This is where the river begins. Then look down river and wonder where it all will go…

In our attempts at simple living, being frugal, and being responsible for our environment we do our best to “build green.” By that I mean, we consider what can we do so that we don’t have to buy anything.  At the end of the day, that’s still the “greenest” option, isn’t it? Homesteaders and folks who live or have lived far off the beaten path are good at living this way. We learn it by necessity, and then creatively grow in our talents to make do.

Rather than run out to the Home Depot or Walmarts when we need furnishings, we enjoy seeing if we can build it ourselves.  And rather than buying materials to build with, we turn to our beloved Junk Piles: our piles of recycled materials, scraps of building materials, and materials stock piled from bargains picked up at farm auctions.  Quite amazing what we can find in those piles…

At times, the junk piles look chaotic, and our projects overwhelming.  But we manage to make order of things, and without discussing it, we tend to follow this three step program:

1.  what do we need?

2.  what do we have on hand?  Check those junk piles.  Take stock. 

3.  what can be built to satisfy our needs with what we have on hand?

Seems to work for us pretty well.  I suppose you have to throw into that mix a fourth point:  what can you do?  We are not advanced carpenters.  Our work is what you might call “rustic.”  Between Bob’s ability to sculpt quite finely with the chainsaw, and my wielding a mean hand with the electric grinder, together we can turn a pile of junk into some pretty neat things.  We also have no shop. We do our work outside in the snow, mud, wind, and sun.  We rely on saw-horses and insulated work boots.

After the basic floor plan of our cabin was completed, we found ourselves turning our attention and skills to the interior. We had been making do with a little old table that had been moved around from cabin to cabin, and kitchen cabinets that had been handed down from other guest cabin remodels.  Come to think of it, we were keeping our pots and pans and plates in wooden crates stacked sideways.  I remember doing that with plastic milk crates when I was college age. Part of our growing up and leaving our bachelor/bachelorette days behind us was to accept this as “home” and start to plan for things like furniture, shelving, cabinets, and a kitchen table. 

From building the cabin, we had gotten quite handy at chain sawing logs, grinding and shaping them, so we figured we could do that on a smaller scale and build the furnishing we needed. Between the remnants of logs left over from the cabin building, and refurbishing wood from old walls or previous uses, we had plenty of material to work with.

So, with what materials were left over from buildings, our minds did churn. 

the kitchen table

First, I needed a kitchen table large enough so that there was always room for one more.  Big and thick and rustic and friendly.  I got it. The top was made from two huge slabs of pine wood (found at an old farm auction) bolted together, and mounted on four logs used for legs.  Bob and his dad put the table together, and I worked the grinder on the top and then finished it with a polyurethane (we did buy that).

Then, I needed some cabinets in the kitchen.  On the right in the below photo is my “pastry counter.”  I bake a lot, almost daily, so we mounted the old stainless steel counter top with below cabinets (this Bob had found at a hospital’s going out of business sale) at a lower height which is perfect for kneading dough.  Then we used scrap oak for the shelving, recycled tongue-and-grove wood that had been in the old walls of the remodeled cabin for the backing, and of course, more logs to bring it all together.

the pantry and the pastry counter

On the left in the photo is our pantry.  Again, it is built with scrap oak for shelving, re-used tongue and groove walls for the siding, and the logs holding it all together. The door we built with more of the tongue and groove recycled wall, and the cross braces are the same material with the tongue or groove cut off to serve as a regular one-by. Most of the hardware we use is salvaged from previous projects and uses.  Sometimes just a quick blast with the matt black spray paint makes it good as new again.

Right now, I have a new list of little projects.  For one, I would like a little bench to go in front of our sofa so that when the three of us squish into the love seat to keep warm on nights we sit by the fire to have dinner, we have a place to rest our plates and tea cups, or at least our tired feet.  However, this project will have to wait another month.  For now, most of our junk piles are still in hibernation beneath a couple of feet of snow.

The coyote fence in front of our cabin.

Living and working on a ranch as we do now and have for years elsewhere as well, fencing is a regular part of our job and our life.  It would be hard to have livestock if you didn’t enjoy most of the jobs associated with ownership.  I may not love each and every aspect (for example, mucking manure), but if I couldn’t manage the less pleasant ones and enjoy the majority, I’d be in the wrong business. Fencing is one of those decent jobs. Although I can’t say I would want to work on fencing all day, every day (there are just too many other things to do), we do find ourselves occupied by fencing projects for about a month out of every year. It is good work, and we’re lucky to enjoy being out there together getting it done.

And so, each year, around the same time in Spring on the first warm days of the season when the snow has finally melted off, and the air is fresh, and the mountain is still sleepy, just rubbing it’s eyes in awakening for the season, you’ll find us out there either digging post holes, pounding posts, stretching wire, welding metal pipe, or nailing up boards…

Having lived in New Mexico for years, I enjoyed the crafty fencing that was often referred to as “coyote fencing.”  Obviously originally designed to keep the coyotes out of the yard and away from livestock, these fences were built with whatever material was close by and on hand – thin branches or saplings, attached onto a cross brace or braces, held up by solid, secure posts.

We do not have coyote “problems” (it’s the fox that gets a couple chickens every Spring, climbing right over the coyote fence!) but we do have terrible winds that come from the west, and without the patience to wait for a row of trees to grow and serve our needs during winter and early spring especially, we were quite keen on the idea of a windbreak fence.

The fence supplies “came” to us one fall.  Really!  Early in September, when the leaves were still on the trees, before they had even started to turn, we were hit with a big, wet, heavy snow – nearly a foot if my memory isn’t too far off, as it was many years ago now. The mountain was caught unprepared. The Aspen, it seemed all of them, bent over from the weight of the snow, creating graceful arches, bowing so low their tops were touching the ground.

Aspen arching under the weight of the heavy snow.

The majority of the Aspen did not bounce back. The weight of the snow was too great.  At best, the tops snapped off.  At worst, then entire tree fell over. The mountain became littered with Aspen branches and broken trees, and the forest looked so odd with entire stands of Aspen appearing as if their tops were all intentionally lopped off at a similar height.

The road became impassible. Road crew is not so quick to come help us out up here. And although the mountain was still quite crowded with tourists and hunters, we knew it would at best be days before the county or Forest Service sent someone up with a chain saw.  But living in the mountains, you don’t tend to sit around and call for or wait around for help.  More often than not, you get together with Neighbors and get done whatever needs to be done.

The hunters and campers were the first to get out there and start clearing the road. I imagine they were feeling rather trapped! As for us, wanting to help out in part, we hooked up the little flat bed trailer, and inched our way along the road behind our ranch, with a couple of chainsaws buzzing non-stop, and a couple other folks clearing the Aspen from the road and onto the trailer.  At the end of the day, we found ourselves with all this scrap Aspen branch wood – far too small to be worthy for fire wood, and far too much fuel to just dump along side the road.  But a use for it did not occur to us until the following spring, after staring at that massive pile of wood all winter… we would turn it into a fence.

Early in the season, we set about to build us a coyote fence around our “yard.” Bob used a backhoe to set heavy cedar posts spaced about 10 feet apart.  The cedar posts, of course, Bob had got used from a farm auction years earlier. And yes, they had been stored in one of those beloved junk piles!

Then we attached on the horizontal rough-cut oak 1-by cull boards – spaced at about 2 and 3 ½  feet in height, running between the cedar posts.  The oak came from the same junk pile.

Onto the oak slats, we attached the Aspen branches.  We tried several methods, but found the best way was to wire them on – using, of course, used baling wired saved from the bales of hay we had fed to the horses the previous winter.

At first we hand cut each branch to the right height before wiring it onto the oak.  But what we found worked best was after each section that I wired on, I would call Bob over with the chain saw, and he’d zip the tops off, 25 or 30 at a time, in a perfect height to create the arched look.

The coyote fence in winter after a good storm.

Every year, we walk the fence line, straighten up a few branches, and tighten a few wires.  Last year, the fence was then five years old, I had to replace perhaps three or four branches (the Aspen shrink when they dry in time, and horses love to chew on them).  That’s it, and not bad required annual maintenance for a fence that has protected us from the winds and drifting snow, contained many a mare and newborn foals when I like to keep them close by, provided our chickens with a safe environment to free range, and much to our surprise, been admired and photographed by many – it’s a nice looking fence!

It still hasn’t made my in-laws good neighbors, though.