a walk along the river

A simple walk down the river.  A little family adventure in the big back yard.

We follow the course of the river, finding bends and cliffs and secret spots, the wildness tamed beneath a winters worth of snow, a heavy load held afloat by ice still holding, promising to give way soon enough when softened by the strengthening sun.  Here within these solid walls of rock face, winter remains indifferent to the hint of spring and warmth of sun which does not easily find its way to the bottom of this canyon.

the boys walking around an open section

Inspired by a simple solitary mile trek up river earlier this week, I convinced the boys to join me on an excursion this time down river, along Rio Grande from Brewster Park back down to the Ranch.  Probably only four miles, four unchartered miles, most certainly never travelled in winter when the river is iced over and covered with more than two feet of snowpack.

Conditions were just right.  Not too fluffy, not too sticky… we are picky with our snow.  And more so with the status of the river, or rather, the solid state of the ice on top.  Another week, and her gaps may be impassible.  As it was, we were passing each other poles and pulling each other up with rope to make it around a few precarious breaks in the icy surface. 

making our way down river

From time to time, we see the water; sink holes in the snow, a shock of black in an otherwise smooth white surface. We take heed.  There is no way out of the canyon, except onward or back the way we came, should we find it too uncomfortable and change our mind.  We are not here to falter. Still and silent, we stand for a moment and listen to the whisper of the muffled flow. We hear its unmistakable song before we see it, transparent waters coursing over ancient rocks worn smooth with time, infinite stories that remind us how ephemeral we are. 

Solid as the ice may seem, distant as the waters mostly remain, we are well aware of its existence below us.  Each step is a wonder, with held breath, until we are too tired to care any longer, and step slowly through the snow, snowshoe sinking in through the powder, our movements labored, purposeful, just to be closer to home.

a quiet easy section

The secret of a remaining nest, perched on the cliff above the motionless river, a reminder of life and seasons past, and what could be again. Safe and protected, undisturbed between these almost impenetrable cliffs embracing the primordial waters flow.

almost home

And here we are, walking on frozen waters.

the final stretch

The ptarmigan (photo by Bob)

I have been watching the tracks, oddly narrow winding trails imprinted in the snow, patterns as random as a coyote’s across an open field; these now scattered about the base of the willows alongside the frozen river.

No matter how I have looked, they have remained obscure. I have continued to search but can not see white on white.  There is little life here in the winter.  We seek out what we can, some natural attraction to know we are not alone. 

They are at home here in the snow as are we. More a part of the landscape than we will ever be. We share the solitude. We become fleeting glances of passing wings, then allow the landscape to return undisturbed leaving only impermanent paths in the snow that will fade away as the next storm blows over.

Yesterday we came close to one another, I in their space or they in mine?  We allow for the passing of the other and continue on our way.  But not without their obvious unease, and my admiration of their natural beauty.

Ptarmigan in flight

Like a sudden gust of wind, they scattered before me in so many numbers as I unknowingly approached too close, a burst of white wing, feather and snow alike, a flash of snow in flight.  They settled again, then walked, scurried along the snow like a tiny boat in water, and buried themselves into the snow for an effective camouflage.  Only the black of their eyes and beak could be seen.  They belong here, a barely apparent part of the land, part of the snow, part of the air when they take flight, a scattering of white feathers in a sky which seems too blue.

Soft and white, perfect as the downy snowy hillside on which they seek temporary refuge.  They disperse but do not go far.  I wish to take chase, a bird dog’s passionate pursuit, if only to steal another glimpse, an inner desire to seek out the elusive. I allow them their retreat, turn my focus, and continue to walk the fair trail through the willows alone.

A ptarmigan deep in the snow

The Rio Grande Pyramid from Pole Mountain

In winter, our world is austere. The mountains’ silent breath barely stirs the naked branches.  The hillsides are unadorned.  The exposed flats are vast and somber.

There are some who are frightened by the silence.  The stillness overwhelms. There is unease in the endless open air. The lack of stimulation, sound, movement, life and lights is not enough.

I find comfort in the quiet calm, in the cold white clear before me. There is consolation in this soft and subdued world. I find my solace in the high country.

Allowed to be alone, allowed to be wild, I am free from social confines and judgments and the language of people I rarely understand. Words do not roll from my tongue; only spin webs within my mind. I am tangled in descriptions of the beauty before me.

Up here, I am allowed to bloom when the earth is dormant. You come, you take what you want, you leave. We are left to hear only the subtle hum of the river beneath the heavy snow, and the pulsing of our blood through our sturdy veins long after you are gone.

I lie back in the snow and know no greater comfort, burying myself for but a moment in the endless, noiseless, soothing white world around me, leaving but an imprint of a snow angel, only to be covered again after the next passing storm.

I do not want more.

Below the ranch looking up

another frozen creek bed

We await snow.

Our white world continues, vast and endless as it appears at times looking out at the great expanse of snow contained within the distant walls of the black mountains.  There seem to be no limits to winter when one is in the midst of it all.  I take comfort in knowing the boundaries are far away.  I can see farther than I can walk in a day.  Change too is far enough away.

Mild as it is, winter remains. I find a certain solace in the season.

Now the snow has lost its freshness, its life, its sparkle. Every track that was set since the last storm remains.  Snowshoe hare, rabbit, squirrel, elk, moose and man.  The hillsides appear littered with markings of our comings and goings.  It has been over a month since our last good snow.  The snow is old and tired. The snow has lost all substance, and turns to a coarse sugar and falls apart beneath each step.  It is dry, parched and granular like desert sands.  I reach down and scoop up a handful, put it in my mouth.  It melts, allowing me a suggestion of relief from thirst.  Only a trace of moisture remains. 

The ice continues to build.  It is an odd winter.  We have not seen the ice form as it does this year. We are fascinated to watch the build up each day, eerie silvery blue formations that glow in the sunlight, an opaque mass of hard surface and soft flowing lines. From where does this water emanate when the mountain appears at rest in her deep freeze of the season? 

And what will happen in spring?  What impact will these heavy flows of ice have when the top of the mountain begins to melt and sends down her mighty brown torrents? Will the creeks be forced to change their course or will the ice give way?

We notice the slightest of changes. And the mountain always alters herself ever so slightly.  Nothing remains the same, if one takes the time to see. Often no more than subtle variations in radiance as the mountain plays with light and shadows in the long low luminosity of winter.  Other times, dramatic fluctuations as clouds sweep across the horizon, dancing wild and grey, and tease of the promise of a storm.

Today, an allusion of snow in the air. The sky is still and heavy, pallid as the fields of snow.  It is difficult to discern between land and sky, all is white and cold and still, unmoving and silent.  There is no wind.  The trees remain oddly, uncomfortably motionless. I wait for something to move, but all remains the same. The sun is unseen behind the heavy shroud.  Do these clouds perchance promise snow? Will they bring the well needed moisture here, here where the river begins?

At the table over lunch, we discuss what will happen in summer should the snows not come this winter. Surely they will come.

Rain refreshes the river, a temporary quenching of thirst, but it is the snow that feeds.  The nourishment of the river, the nourishment of the lands, for miles and miles below, as far as the Rio Grande may flow.  As far as we allow the river now to go, with our rights and claims and growing needs and diversions, taking the water from its natural course.  How have we affected these waters already, and what more are we willing to do before the river runs with no more than the tears we cry?

Though on a snowshoe yesterday, it may not look like spring...

Go ahead and laugh, but I feel it.  It is there, as soft as a whisper.  As subtle as the sound of the river running beneath the ice and snow. It is there, a promise, silent and discrete, in the velvety afternoon air, the warm winds that blow from such a distance to the west, in the heavy loads letting loose and sliding from the roofs, in the icicles dripping and developing longer every afternoon. The delicate grey branches of the aspen trees are sending out their glossy red shoots of new growth. Buds on the tips of the willows have begun to swell. The seeds are secretly planted.  The belly begins to swell. She but alludes to the raw umber beneath the endless cloak of white.  Undetected to the average observer who sees only snow and ice, the breath of the mountain is deep and husky and sings of a change towards spring.  

I am not fooled. I am certain winter is not through.  She rests. The mountain allows herself a deep breath, a heavy sign, and prepares to resume her course of seasons. A January thaw.  We have one every year.  And every year I feel the same. Triggered by some instinctual urging, I begin to look for new life, notice the slightest changes, feel the new minutes of day light, revel in each tiny transformation.  The patterns I should know by now, and still I question myself, my knowledge, my ability to predict or guess the mountain.  When I assume unpredictability, she is steady and sure.  When I think I finally know her, she changes her song quick as a whistle.

Despite my uncontrollable inner longings, I am not ready for spring.  I cling desperately to this winter as a frightened babe to her mother.  I need it to last, just a little longer.  So many projects, so many things I wish to accomplish, so many plans left incomplete. Still. Winter is my time to do, and I am not done.  I ask her to take her time, make each day last, as each one will, just another minute longer. 

Hanging like a drop of water on the tip of an icicle.  Will it freeze and become of the icicle, elongating this slender dagger?  Or fall, leaving no more than a dark stain on the wooden deck awaiting evaporation in the afternoon sun?

...yet willow buds begin to swell

Tracks and trails - here alongside, and on, the Rio Grande.

Alone, I wander up the trail, a path of sorts no more than a game route, steep and vague and secret, complete with logs to jump and branches to duck under. During the summer, I ride my horses here, in warmer days, days now so far away.  Then, as now, I know I will pass no one.  In the summer, of course, such solitude is not easy to come by.  Such solitude is cherished, soothing; it consoles the soul then as it does now.

Now my snowshoes fall lightly along the trail of tracks I have set before, following my own footsteps, silently tracing a course I know so well, an intimate path, a thread to follow securely in the disorder of the mountain. My breath is louder than the sound of the steps. I breathe with the mountain, the air, the snow.  I touch with my poles the different layers of storms, a powdery soft layer on top, then a slight change of texture and a bit of resistance and I feel the snow of the earlier storm.  The mountain reveals her past in subtle layers.

Up the aspen hillside I slowly wind, taking coverage in the silvery smooth bark and branches, grateful for the lack of leaves which allow the sunlight to filter through onto my back, now so warm as I work through the bare trees. I stop to rest.  I startle a solitary red tail hawk who spies me only a moment before I spy him.  He flies low through the trees, silent except for the brush of his wings on the aspen, an odd sound I would have missed has I not been still and listening. 

Out in the open, at last to the top of the hill, I rest again. The elk have been bedded down here, leaving in their wake large pits in the snow, sunken down to the pressed brown grasses, cradles where they have spent the morning resting after a feed, no longer seeking the shelter of the black timber to avoid the heat, avoid the humans. The hill above their beds is marked with tracks of their earlier meandering and pawing at the tall grasses beneath the snow.  It will not always be so easy.  The elk know.  Every day they are a little lower down the mountain, heading towards lower ground.

Crossing the wide open meadow is a challenge today.  Three moose used my packed trail yesterday.  Why they must follow my tracks, a mindless following perhaps as paths laid out before us can be. They with their long strides and wide foot prints punching deep into the snow with each step of their spindly legs.  I struggle to smooth out the bumpy trail they have left behind with each step of my lowly snow shoes.  It is not easy, my footing is unsteady. 

In such stillness, one notices the slightest of movements, of changes.  A coyote walks with ease in the snow on a hillside about ¼ mile away.  He sees me too.  He stops, and sits and watches me. Yes, he is sitting. I imagine he is amused to see me struggle so in the snow. I am reminded to laugh at myself. I learn it is easier for me to set a new track in the fresh snow to the side of the trail upon which the moose have travelled

I return to the trees, to another obscure trail down the mountain, making my way back to the ranch.  It is travelled by many now, more so than in summer when perhaps it is but me and my horse taking this route.  Now I see signs of the coyote, lynx, snowshoe hare, rabbit, squirrel, elk, moose, all following or crossing the same path, the same trail.  We keep our distance from one another.  There is plenty of room.  We need not crowd, need not invade the solitary nature essential for survive up here.

I consider the difference between observing nature in the wild – and observing wildlife in the backyard. Because we have infringed. Encroached. Sprawled.

Trespasser, they call me, these wild beasts in a wild land where they belong, and I am in their world.  They slip into the shadows of the trees, and wait but a moment while I pass.  The world is theirs again.

On the way back down Finger Mesa looking ahead towards our Pole Mountain

A celebratory day, an excuse or perhaps a reminder to take time for what matters most.  Each other, and the mountain.  We must leave Alan behind today. We are incomplete hiking without him.  Throughout the day, I hear the jingle of the metal tag on his collar, but he is not here.  He is home. It is leaving him that is most difficult.  The excitement he tries to show us when he senses we are going for a walk, is frisky, perhaps trying to tell us he is younger than we remember.  He is old. That does not seem like a good reason to leave him behind. But we remember carrying him off the mountain the last time we allowed him to follow.  And carrying him in the saddle, which was only a slightly easier option with a big dog.  It is hard on him, hard on us.  We all feel somehow less than whole as we separate.

We head up the mountain, seeing occasional tracks in the powdery dirt, and the patches of snow scattered along the trail before us.  Footprints are few.  Few have ascended the mountain, man or beast, in the past month or so. Rabbits, coyotes, squirrels.  Mountain lion.  The large cat was there just shortly before us. The tracks have not blown over where the impression was left behind in the soft soil.  Around most of the snow banks, we notice how he skirts to the side.  Like a house cat, perhaps, he does not like to get his feet wet.  The large cats are rarely seen up here, and this one too remains elusive.  It is better, I remind myself as I lead the way, to be following his tracks than having his tracks follow us.  He is moving fast and far today, we suppose, crossing this last range to find himself down in lower country. Down where he may find an easier meal.  How long, we wonder, will he be able to go without, when we find it hard not to grab a snack every hour or two as we hike, despite knowing the huge feast is waiting for us when we descend?  For the lion, he knows how to go without. He does not complain.  He survives.  And strives.

The deer left the mountain well over a month ago.  The elk shortly thereafter.  Only at the top of the mountain in the deeper snow do we see the occasional elk track.  A cow and calf here.  A single bull there.  The tracks cross the snow, often taking the same trail we are following, one worm and used by many for years, more often the wild ones taking the easier route than us domesticated ones seeking a challenge. The elk of the tracks we see now, they too are finding their way down and off the mountain.  It is no place to spend the winter, but perhaps for us with our warm cabin and plenty of fire wood… and flour.

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

Another storm rolling up to the Divide on Weminuche Pass

I stop on the trail for a brief moment, sit silent on my horse and listen. His head turns to the south.  I follow the direction of his alerted ears and see the elk crossing a clearing on the slope. We watch for a minute or two as the bull paces along the shale incline, as his powerful voice travels down in our direction.  A challenge or an invitation.  We shrug off his confrontation, return our attention to the trail ahead, and continue on our way.

The thunder crackles behind us, in the direction from which we rode, rolling off the mountain in an elongated rumble and roar. I take comfort in the chance that the clouds will not travel as fast as we, my horse and I.

He is anxious to return home and offers to run in an extended trot down the twisting mountain trail.  I trust him.  I allow him.  With loose rein we cover distance in double time, both horse and rider alert and focused ahead, vigilant for rocks, downed timber, mud holes and game on the route ahead, seeking the soonest view of what might be around the next bend.

At the creek he slows, like a child at a traffic light looking both ways before a street crossing, cautiously approaching the water.  He steps in, lets out a heavy sigh, lowers his head, and savors a long, slow drink.  I look up creek at the cold, fresh stream crashing over the rocks worn smooth by the force of spring run off many months ago, for so many years before us. The voice of the waters silent all else for the brief moment we stand there to rest.

And then we continue, the sound of the horse’s lungs blowing in short, powerful bursts with each vigorous step forward, the pounding on the muddy trail, sure footing despite the spray of mud or deep imprint each time the heavy hoof touches down.

We hear what we choose to, and here there is little sound to perceive but the stark echo of man and beast and nature, wind and water, wild storms and wildlife. If I yell out, will no one here?  There is no one to hear my voice, only for me to hear the voice of the mountain.

We see no one on the trail until the trailhead, nearly five miles from where we had stopped and turned towards home. I speak to the people on foot before me. Pointless sounds so out of place. I wonder if they hear.

An ermine at play at camp

A backpacker joined us for dinner one night last week at Ditch Camp. What a wonderful treat to hear the stories of a life so different than my own, from a young man brave enough to choose a ten day solitary adventure in the Wilderness.  Sharing stories… are these not the pearls we find unexpectedly as we swim silently along the bottom of the sea?

I’d imagine he was rather curious about the three of us as well, so comfortable and at home in our humble little camp, surrounded with tools and horses.  And odd thing to stumble upon in the Wilderness, no doubt.

He asked us if we’ve had any problems with wildlife in camp. 

So we told him about the two ravens who had claimed our camp as their own, chasing off the camp robbers, hoarding the food scraps for themselves, even stealing sausages out of the pan over the embers if left unattended.  Such giant and regal birds; the King of the Forest, at least in the tops of the trees around our camp. 

We told him about the elk and moose that we see daily across the meadow below where our horses graze.

And we told him about the fat and furry marmot who’s been seen slowly scampering out of camp with a belly fuller than he came in with.  We know where the bagels went…

There was the doe that joined us at the campfire one morning, and the pack rat that snuck in one night, only to try his luck chomping on my hat.  Guess it didn’t taste too good.  Two bites and he was through. I now have a most distinctive hat with a couple rather large chunks removed from the back side rim.  Yes, time for a new hat…

And one of our favorite visitors, as you can see from the photo above, was the little Ermine who joined us for dinner one evening after work.  He had no interest in our Hamburger Helper (I confess, we tried to see if he’d eat it…) but was there to play.  Really!  Just to play.  And play he did, scampering in and out of the panniers, hiding under a shirt of Bob’s that was left on the ground, poking his head out and zipping back in, scurrying over Forrest’s boot still on his foot and through the obstacle course of our wood pile in his speedy little movements, and best of all, running up the wall of the tent, bouncing off the fly, and sliding back down.  I wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t see it myself.  He was there for no other purpose than to play.  He took nothing, chewed on nothing… just ran around like a little whirlwind, despite our sitting, watching, laughing while eating our dinner… even the flash of the camera didn’t disturb his play.  And when he was through, bored I suppose, he dashed off to another adventure somewhere else in the forest and was gone.

Of course, we imagine the backpacker was referring to bears when he asked about visitors.  But the only bear “problems” we’ve had in the three years of Ditch Camp on the Divide involved a Coors can of Bob’s that had been left chilling in the creek.  We found it punctured and drained.  Wonder what the poor bear thought of that. No wonder they stay away from our camp…

The view back towards Ditch Camp and beyond, from the top of the Rio Grande Pyramid

Ah, the importance of work. But what fun, a day off!

Yes, I confess.  We took a full day off of work last week. Had to do it at ditch camp.  You know how it is.  If we had been home at the ranch, we’d have found things to do.  Work would have stared us in the face and followed in our footsteps.  You have to get away to get off the hook, so to say.

It wasn’t a relaxing day off.  Sitting on a porch watching the day go by has never been for me.  We had to ride our horses from camp to tree line, and then climb the Rio Grande Pyramid, which stands high and mighty looming over our big back yard at an elevation of over 13,800 feet.

I don’t know what was more remarkable:  the three of taking a full day off, or the three of us climbing to the top of the highest peak around.  I suppose the former.  The latter, as Bob said, was still easier than a day of ditch digging.

Peak Bagging is a popular hobby here in Colorado with a long list of mountains over 14,000 feet elevation awaiting the challenge of ascension.  The Pyramid comes in just under 14,000, therefore isn’t the attraction and destination of many of the slightly higher peaks.  As an added bonus, this means no crowds. We didn’t see another human all day. 

This mountain is not just a destination on a map, or a name on a list that needs to be checked off.  It is the mountain which appears before us every day, which shadows over us, reining over the headwaters of the Rio Grande in all directions around us.  It is the mountain which has called and beckoned us, teased and taunted us, tempted us to take a day off and try her on for size.

I wonder why we humans are so obsessed at conquering peaks?  Perhaps it is the explorer within us. And yet it’s all been tackled already, hasn’t it? But if we stare at something long enough, in due time, we need to be there.  Alas, the top of our highest mountain called us. 

The boys looking back towards the ranch

Well, that mountain was magnificent. The ability to see, in all directions, to look down upon the mountains that we have ridden up on horseback over the past eight summers… to put our world in perspective. 

Climbing her rocky slope, at times she seemed larger than life. And at first view, taking in the panorama before us as we stood and soaked in the spectacle from the top, it seemed overwhelming.  But then, we start to break it down and make sense of it all. In each direction we looked, we could say, “yes, we were there…”  And suddenly what was once so large became somehow more intimate, more known, safer, almost touchable.

We returned to camp late than evening, horseback in the dark, and sat by the fire savoring a can of soup.  Simplicity.  The three of us around the glow of the fire, the horses turned out to the open pasture of the high country for the night, sharing the mountain with the deer, the elk, the moose, the coyote… You could look up from where we sat, and in the soft silver light of the waxing moon, see the silhouette of the mighty mountain, so close she somehow felt.

So small it now seems, our little neck of the woods.  And in a good way.  We have a greater sense of perspective having seen the bigger picture. The mountain, well, she’s a little less aloof.  A little more understanding. We know her just a little more.

The Rio Grande Pyramid, I don't tire of gazing at her from our work along the ditch

Yesterday morning, our last at ditch camp for the season

When I was a child, there were branches of Bittersweet laid out upon our mantle, bright red stalks with orange berries.  My mother would bring them home each fall, as brilliant autumn decorations, to liven up the greyer skies of an eastern autumn.  Bittersweet was the bright colors, the change of season, the inedible berries, the mood of melancholy yet eager anticipation that comes with the falling of the autumn leaves.  The leaves on our mountains hold steadfast and green this morning, but the bittersweet is on my mind.

The air this morning is bittersweet, warm and fresh and windy, and tickled pink, a bright fuchsia along the tips of the mountains in view over tree line.  We saddle up once again, despite tired selves and horses, to bring a group up into the Wilderness.

The mood this morning is bittersweet as we are home having returned late yesterday from Ditch Camp, bringing our camp with us.  32 days of work in the high country, at our home away from home, for this season completed. Our bodies are elated to be over the heavy work. Our spirits are at a loss to leave our serene little camp tucked into the high trees…

Just for the year, just for the season… always changing.  What will come next?

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.

After the sun goes down behind the Rio Grande Pyramid

Much of the inspiration that comes from being at Ditch Camp results from the peace of the early morning on the mountain.  That is the time I am able to sit before the fire with note pad in lap, pen in one wool mitten, and cup of coffee in the other. Of course there is no time to write during the day.  That’s when we’re out working.  And by night, we’re tired, as you can imagine.  After dinner by the fire, we climb into the tent and read a chapter or two out loud.  Often times, there is the gentle steady breathing of sleep before the reading is done…

So mornings on the mountain…

It feels good to be back home.  Home away from home.  So simple, our tent and tarp tucked into the woods.  Everything just as we left it, washed and cleaned and freshened by the heavy rains of the past week.  And now we sit bundled under the tarp as a pot of coffee steams on the fire, rain sizzling as it drips onto the coals to the side of the coffee pot.  The rain beats down on the plastic; a rhythmic, steady, soothing sound.  The horses are already out on pasture, grazing, oblivious to the ominous clouds, the heavy rains, the lightning hitting the surrounding peaks high above where even the trees can not subsist.

A driving rain fell throughout the night.  This morning, the meadow is hidden in fog. Out on pasture, the horses are secrets, veiled among possible others out there, the elk, the deer, the moose.  Sharp, dark silhouettes against the velvety background.  Above the mist the world is blue, cloudless, clear, crisp, endless.  The peaks of the Rio Grande Pyramid and her neighbors sparkle above the cold grey layer in the first soft light of the day.  A promise of at least a little sunshine to dry our wet jeans and boots.

Last night was funny.  After all the nights of silence and solitude that we are able to experience up here, last night was a good one to remind us how precious peace can be… and how easy it is be to interrupted at times.  Take nothing for granted! It started with hearing the footsteps of horses on the pasture outside the trees our tent is tucked into and where the horses are tied to their highline for the night.  At first I figured it was just the one draft horse who always manages to untie him self and graze contentedly through the night as his buddies remain tied up near by.  But then it was more feet, and then a whinny.  I know my horses voices, and I couldn’t place which one that was.  When I heard it again, I woke Bob.  “The horses!” I told him.  No need to say more.  He sat up and began to dress for the cool night air.  When we climbed out into the light of the big moon, we could see a group of animals down below camp where the horses spend the day grazing.  But upon checking the high line, they were all there, even the big draft horse.  We walked down the pasture to check out what was there.  Sure enough, a group of rogue horses who escaped from their camp, away from a fellow horse camper. Then their owner showing up looking for his strays.  After sending him and them back on their way, we returned to the tent… only briefly.  At the very first light of day, with the fog thick and heavy, a helicopter flew by, staying low and slow, looking, searching with a bright spot light in the valley below us.  We know the helicopter, the red and white tell tale signs of the search and rescue or flight for life.  A uneasy feeling flies with the copter, as it portends someone, somewhere in grave need.  Twice the copter flew below our hidden camp, until we could hear it find its mark, settle down, and shut off the motor a couple miles away.

Horses grazing, a morning at ditch camp

Hands in wool mittens

Wrapped tightly as if in prayer

Cradled around the chipped enamel cup

Half full with steaming coffee

Closer to the fire I sit each day

Absorbing the heat of the flames

Through layer upon layer of smoke scented

And soot covered clothes

Noises of the ranch

Follow me so far from home

Generators, vehicles, voices,

Bells and whistles and alarms

But this morning is nearly silent

There is little noise

It is quieter

More still

Colder now

In the hush of early morning

With only the fire and the distant creek

To break the calm

I note the absence of the robins

The song birds have left the high country

Now there are only the ravens

To share the motionless and chilled morning air

An urgency in their call

As they search and scour the hillside

For heat and light

Food and shelter

Even the horses nearly panic

Tight and tense as I lead them two by two

Down to the meadow after a night in the trees

Hungry, ravenous, their need to move, to eat, to warm up

Is overwhelming

As they await the sun

Slowly inching down the mountain

Across the meadow toward them

Standing their like sundials

Broad side to the sun

Awaiting

Finally calm and relaxed and warm

Finally at peace

They rest their heads and breathe

They are here only because of me

Perhaps the ravens too

Cleaning up the scraps of dinner

I ask myself what I am doing here?

How much longer will I too remain?