High Mountain Musing

Heart shaped biscuits and steaming sausage gravy

A good, hearty Sunday morning breakfast, and one of the boys’ favorites. 

I’ve been on a mission to find the best recipe for homemade biscuits.  With all this flour, I refuse to resort to buying those that come in a can, though they are cheap and easy. 

In my quest for the perfect biscuit, I am up against a few added challenges due to the altitude and my preference for making breakfast on the old wood cook stove. After many attempts, none with the results I desired (though the boys have been enjoying my various and frequent tries), I turned to a fellow “high altitude” back country baker for her favorite biscuit recipe.  The results were the best yet.  The boys found them especially tasty.  So, following is a “guest post” recipe for biscuits, thanks to Valerie, followed by my old faithful simple recipe for sausage gravy.  I hope you try and enjoy.

Biscuits and gravy with Val's biscuit recipe

Valerie’s Biscuits

In a large bowl, combine:

          2 cups flour

          4 teaspoons baking powder

          1 teaspoon salt

          2 tablespoons sugar

Cut in:

          1/2  cup Crisco

Add:

         1 large egg

         2/3 cups milk

Mix together just until blended. Do not over mix. On a heavily floured surface with well floured hands, pat out dough to about ½ – ¾ of an inch thickness.  Cut with the rim of a small canning jar (or heart shaped cookie cutter if you’re feeling so inclined), and place on a baking sheet fairly close together. Bake in a good, hot oven (if using a gas or electric oven with proper gages, preheat to 425 degrees) for 15-20 minutes.

(thank you, Val!)

yes, I'm a sucker...

Breakfast Sausage Gravy

This is good on fried eggs, hash browns, and even toast.

In a medium iron skillet, melt:

            1 tablespoon butter

Add, and cook until brown:

            1 pound bulk breakfast sausage (you can use crumbled bacon, or diced ham with good results as well)

Stir in:

          3 tablespoons flour

Slowly add, while stirring over medium/high heat:

            2 ½ cups milk

            1 chicken bouillon cube

Stir until boiling and thickened, then sprinkle liberally with:

            Fresh ground pepper

a snow drift before Simpson Mountain

Last night I considered the smell of the rose
How odd our ability to remember scent
And that with an odor a memory can ensue
Our senses overwhelmed and transported
With the simple recollection of the fragrance of a sweet flower

For but an instant, I am there

Some things will never be here

My growing hope in a  terra cotta planter above my kitchen sink
A climbing rose bush, modestly contained, small dark and glossy green leaves
A humble promise of what could be
We long for what we can not have
And a part of us must try

Scent
We have it not when
The air is frozen
And with it the sense of odor arrested
The light tells me I should find fragrance soft and subtle floating in the air
The warming of the world
Elsewhere perhaps
The white ground before me allows otherwise
I press my cheek on my horses back and there I finally smell
The sweet hearty lovely scent of earth

These are the simple things I look for
And long for as the seasons will change
Every season the same hunger for what is to follow
Uncertain, unknown, unfamiliar
Anticipation swelling like leaden clouds low over the white mountain tops
What else will change
Our lives now as frozen as the river
I imagine brown waters fiercely surging down the course through the thawing land
And believe we too will flow

dark trees in a light snow storm

outside of Cabin 2 looking up at Pole Mountain

Work on the remodel is almost complete.  This is the part of projects I most enjoy.  The finish work. Fine tuning.  The little touches. Details. Trim. Completion.  Finally we step back and say, “That looks good!” We will conclude this job, clean up, move the tools, and get going on the next project.

How quickly time passes.  I remember when it seemed to go so slow.

I step outside the cabin at the end of the work day.  The sun is low.  It is time to feed.  I will head over to the corrals to put hay and grain out for the eagerly waiting horses.  With light remaining a little longer each day, feeding time comes later as well.  The horses do not necessarily approve.  The temperature was twenty below zero this morning, and this afternoon they ran through three feet of snow, kicking up the rooster tails of soft white behind them. This does not feel like a change of season for them yet.

I look up at the mountain, Pole Mountain, our back yard, our muse.  I recognize the shadows.  These are the same shadows I see in October.  Only now the mountain is softened by white rather than the last golden glow of aspen leaves and dried grasses. I count, and yes, we are now of equal distance to the solstice, from the solstice as we are then.  The light, the shadows, the sun is our clock, our calendar.

And at times, I wonder if time passes too quickly.  Do I appreciate it all?  Or does it pass so swiftly I miss a thing or two? What a pity, when every little element matters.

and a little more snow is swallowed by the black waters of the Rio.

Today the sky was too blue.  Too much of a good thing?  Ah, all things in moderation.  Even this blue?  We make exceptions.

Robin shell blue.  At times, the color appears unreal.  If I painted it this way, would you believe it could really be so?

Robin.  Where, pray tell, did those robins go, those who lit nearby in the last passing storm? 

A nest from last year, a robin’s nest, I found fallen in the willows and filled with snow.  It was a thing of beauty, to be looked at, admired, considered.  

And it all meshes together under the bright blue sky.

The passing of time.

a nest in the snow

Horizon line in soft snow

Hope.  There is always hope. 

And it is up to you, up to me.  I can’t give it to you, and you won’t pave the way for me.  But maybe, just maybe, we can hold hands and get through it together. I remember running through the sprinkler on the slippery lawn as a child.  The spray of the water was so cold, a thing to fear and desire at the same time.  And my sister and I would hold hands and then it would be a wild adventure we would take on together, running straight at it with the comfort of each others strength beside us.

Yesterday I read, “… fate kicks you in the gut, then turns around and gives you a tummy rub. That, my friend, is life.” (J. Thorson in Horse & Rider magazine)

Unwanted tears swell in my eyes as I read this.  I think about a truth that at times I wish was not. I wonder why life can not be more like a fairy tale.  Think Cinderella; you get the tough stuff over with, and then are allowed to live happily every after.  Nope.  Not in real life. What’s with all these ups and downs?

And yet if I refuse the ups and downs, I refuse the richness and beauty of life which surrounds us, and isolate myself in protection, remaining apart, blind to the brilliance. I consider the splendor of tear descending a soft, dry cheek. The twinkle of an eye with a secret sense of humor.  The gentle curve of a smile, and the intrinsic pull this has on one’s heart.  Life is indeed lovely in all her magnificent moods.

We could play it safe and stand on the shore and watch as the tide comes and goes. Instead, I choose to dive in.  At times, this leaves me drowning.  Other times I am as free and fluid as the playful dolphin teasing the sparkling surface at sunset.  And then silently I sink into the depths and withdraw to the deep darkness like the Sperm whale.

fresh snow on Pole Mountain

After three days of snow, three feet on the ground, having been snowed in for three months, and still figuring on a couple months left to go… the hens begin to lay.  Forrest returns from his evening chores with two beautiful brown chicken eggs.

And this, my friend, is a handful of hope.

Hope.

I want life to be easy some days, and some days it is.  The next day it won’t be. Usually it’s a roller coaster, isn’t it?  At times I feel the best we can do is strap in and enjoy the ride.  (“How do you drive this thing?)

Tres is due to foal in just over a month.  Soon I will lead her off the mountain in all this snow, somehow, perhaps over the packed snowmobile track early in the morning when the snow is still hard.  It will take hours to walk out.  Perhaps all morning. Perhaps all day.  I will enjoy the time with her. I will talk to her and we will walk together, and she will be fine, comforted in my presence as she has trusted me for years. And then, I will miss her, miss her birth, but hopefully allow her a healthy foal.

Crow will suffer more than me.  Of all his mares, Tres is his favorite.  She is everyone’s favorite.  She is their leader.  And she will leave them, temporarily, for the hope of new life. 

Hope.

We do what we have to do.  We stop whining.  We start hoping.

a light load, a heavy load

I know this photo is completely unrelated to the recipe, but we ate all the brownies before I thought to take a picture... so I thought I'd share this cutie with you instead.

Guest recipe post today!  And really from a guest. That is, a guest visiting up here at the ranch just last week.  Karen brought a plate of these brownies with her and kindly shared them with us.  Sorry, no picture, as we consumed them all quite rapidly.  But I requested the recipe so we (OK, I!) could make more.  Here’s Karen’s recipe. These are good.  I hope you try and enjoy.  I know I will.

Karen’s White Brownies

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons all purpose flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
1/3 Cup butter
3/4 Cup packed light brown sugar
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
1 large egg
3 bars (6 oz) Nestle Toll House Premier White Baking Bars, chopped (Karen used white chocolate morsels, and I’d probably do the same – they were perfect)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Grease 9-inch square baking pan.

Combine flour, baking powder and salt in small bowl.   Beat butter, sugar and vanilla in small bowl until creamy.  Beat in egg.  Gradually beat in flour mixture.  Stir in baking bars.  Press into prepared pan.

Bake for 18-22 minutes or until golden brown.  Cool in pan on wire rack.

A robin arrives too soon (photo by Forrest)

Robins, a pair, pray tell, what do you do here now?
You surprise me with your presence.
I imagine the white world upon which you lit surprises you.

You look around in concern and I too wonder and worry what you will do, why you are here. Wherever you were, you began to think of spring. Perhaps it is somewhere else. I do not leave the mountains to see bare ground and feel the warm winds. I am told they exist, no more to me than a fairy-tale.

Did you come here with an oversight in schedule or direction? Or was it wishful thinking?

Here, you see now, Spring is far away yet, with the river just a crack open and peering into the black night sky, no more than a hint of light and warmth and soil and brown waters. Winter remains surrounding us.

What wild wind brings you to my kitchen window? You who have never visited before the first of April, before the dirt is exposed in places, before the earth and river begin to thaw, before the white sheds her skin to brown.

There is no place for you now. The only dirt I see from here is the flower bed beneath the west eve. Shall I assume you are just passing through, or will you try to remain?
What shall I feed you?
What will you do?
What called you to this world of white so early?

the sky promises another storm

I follow the moose tracks. There are no others so large out across these parks but theirs and those of my snowshoes. Funny how we both follow the same trail, a secure string weaving its way through the tapestry of the mountain, and we both cling and stay close, the wild and weary.

As I head out, blue sky teases, the clouds suggest they mean no harm, will gather no strength, will not amount to much. I leave the down jacket behind.

Yet as I stand out there, stark and exposed, the clouds amass to more, the wind picks up, my hands turn numb, and winter weaves her frozen threads about me once again.

I am both humbled and fortified in her frigid embrace.

stark storm coming

the growing line of exposed black waters of the Rio Grande

The wind blows violently.  It is spring somewhere else. Somewhere else there is exposed, dry ground, fields and fields of brown, yellow grasses waving in a humid breeze, rich dirt stirred up, temperate to the touch if you reach down and dig your fingers in, the rich, sweet smell of the earth, decay freshened by the heat of the sun on temperate soils, warming the air as it rises and blows east.  It reaches the mountains, the Divide, our world which may remain white for months yet to come, and the wind turns angry and cold, biting into the cliffs and  cutting down through the gorges with the force of melting waters .  I can only imagine the wrath with which this same wind descends upon the San Luis Valley below us.   

the earth exposed

Yesterday I saw dirt.  Here, so high, in a world still white and frozen, seemingly endless seas of snow and ice. On a south facing hillside beneath the exposed face of red cliffs. Dry ground with last years grasses sticking through, brown and dried, tired memories enduring.

The redwing blackbird returned on time, I dare say even a few days early. The same tree, the same time, every year.  For how many years have I awaited him with seed on the feeder board when I hear his call?  And I worry what he will do when I am gone. The boys remind me the birds fared well before I cared for them, and I wonder then how old he may be, does he remember a time before me?

redwing blackbird and stellar jay

He brings a new song to the mountain, a mountain with which our knowledge and intimacy is intertwined with breathing and the surge of our blood.  We discern the sounds of our birds, the few that remain with us for the winter. 5 chickadees, 7 magpies, 9 stellar jays, and the two ravens that feed on the leftover table scraps Forrest delivers to the chicken coop each morning, the same two which follow us about the mountain calling out in recognition as I am out alone on a snowshoe in the afternoon.

The sound of the blackbird was anticipated, but still somehow shocking.  A new noise, a new song, stirring the air like a pleasant breeze.  We hear the call before we see the flash of jet black, always where we expect it to be. 

Completion.  Our understanding of the world around us, the world of which we are granted to be a part of here, if only for a while.  Not as distant strangers, observers, but as participants, players in the game.  At times I feel as wild as the coyote, and just as misunderstood.

How incomplete would I feel if I missed the return of the birds?  How foolish am I to feel it matters?

frozen waterfall

first born of the season

There were no roses. No chocolates. Nothing to wilt or melt or fade away.

The bare essentials. Only that which matters most, that which is dearest to my heart. What is that? If you had to choose for me, by now knowing me as you do, would you know what matters most to me?

Bob knows.  He is learning. He got off the hook easy this year. What could be better, he asked me, than a cute fuzzy cuddly (this remains to be seen) newborn calf?

Perfect!

Cyndee and her newborn

And so, our Highland heifer, Cyndee, surprised us with the birth of a little bull calf. A few months earlier than we all expected. Did the neighboring bull jump a few fences… and back? Or was one of those steers NOT a steer?

In any case, she calved well, and blessed us all with this beauty. We’re not used to such long limbs. Highland Cattle are not known for being leggy (what’s the point in being so far from the ground in a cold and windy climate?). Those legs must have come from the Charolais daddy. Poor little calf, he’s gonna get a crook in his neck before he is weaned, bending down to reach under his mama.

And so I am satisfied. I am wanting for nothing. For now. And lucky me, I am loved. Isn’t that a remarkable feeling? Of all our emotions, surely love is what matters most. Of all our sentiments and sensations, what could matter more?

But what, pray tell, is love?

It is not what I thought it would be.

It is deeper. It has substance, like soil in which the rose grows. It is as strong and firm as rock in the river around which the water flows, shaped and sculpted and softened by the rushing waters. It is more fierce than any attachment. It is a commitment. It is worth fighting for, standing up for, standing beside.

Love is rising on your feet in the face of the harshest of winds on the top of a mountain blinded by the wind and reaching out, and finding a hand to hold. Love is waking in the early morning in blackness and taking comfort from hearing gentle heavy breathing as they continue to sleep, safe and sound. Love is the flow of the river that slows and freezes and runs wild and brown, but remains its eternal course.

Love is more than a feeling; it is a promise, an action. It is not stationary, but moves and grows and flows. If we remain sitting comfortably on the bank admiring what we have, it will float down stream and be lost. We must be in there, with it, paddling and floating hand in hand.

I am learning. I am trying. It is not always easy. No one said it would be. Those who have made it work and tried the hardest told me this. It was not always easy for them. But was it worth it? I have no doubt.

I have been inspired. First, by a poem shared by my friend, Shari, which somehow captures the essence of this hazy notion of love. Inspired by our friends Marvin and Bobbie, now sharing and enjoying their 28th year together. By my parents, who will be celebrating their 50th Anniversary this summer. What brings us, them, together? Keeps us, them, together? Allows us, them, to move into the future, and still hold comfortably to a past, but most important I see, is enjoying today, together?

I am still learning to love. It does not come easy for the wildly independent soul.

Being a mother came easier for me. I found no job more worthy. And still I strive to be better, to develop and amend as our lives transform and evolve. The relationship between mother and son grows as does the child. I can not hold on to what I had, but adjust and cultivate and revise myself, my ways of interacting, my method of loving, though not my core of love, like the foundation, strong and solid my son can always count on, fall back on, trust, find comfort in the strong and steady hands. My son knew he had the mother wolf looking out for him, guarding the den. As he grows, he learns to run with this wolf, and now further, faster…

Being a wife was not easy for me, and is still not easy, though I learn and try and fine-tune my ways and means. I strive to be a partner, an equal, a balance. I do not seek to be or have a mirror image or a shadow. I try to find, and be, two separate entities, side by side, ready to move on forward, together. Stronger because of each other. Some how more complete. I did not know this could be so. I am seeing it is. I am learning to love.

Our relationships grow, evolve and move ahead as does the world around us. We can not remain sitting on the bank as the waters rush onward. How do we endure the chilly waters, the rough rocks, and the flooding banks? Together.

A family.
This is what matters most.
We are complete with one another.

Roses will die
Chocolates will be consumed.
What will last?
What will remain fast and strong and true in our lives, our loves, our hearts?

Cozy in the hay

Chocolate Truffles under the bouquet

Uh oh.  Did you forget today was Valentine’s Day?  Forget to get or do something special for your sweetheart? 

Better get baking.

Here are two recipes that can save the day.  Chocolates.  Real quick and simple. 

Say, did anyone notice the bouquet?  No, that’s not a new one from today; it’s an old picture from December (see the post entitled Bouquet for more on that story).  However, as for gifts this Valentine’s Day, stay tuned for the next post…

In the meanwhile, happy Valentine’s Day to you all, and I hope you’ll try and enjoy these recipes.

Dark Chocolate Truffles

In a double boiler, combine:

            2 cups semi sweet or dark chocolate chips

            6 tablespoons butter

            1/3 cup heavy whipping cream

Cook over medium heat, stirring regularly, until all ingredients are melted together and smooth.

Remove from heat and stir in:

            1 teaspoon vanilla

Let cool until it begins to harden up.  This can take a few hours, even in the fridge.  But don’t let it harden completely…

Now you’ll want to form the “dough” into balls, each under an inch in diameter, by rolling in between your palms.  Drop each ball into a pan with about 2/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder, roll the balls around until complete coated.

Fudge

Fudge

In a heavy pot over medium heat, combine:

            1 ½ cups sugar

            2/3 cup evaporated milk

            2 tablespoons butter

            ¼ teaspoon salt

Bring this mixture to a boil, stirring constantly, and keep at a full rolling boil for four minutes, continuing to stir constantly.

Then add:

            2 cups marshmallows (full sized marshmallows are difficult to measure so I press them down firmly in the measuring cup to make sure I have a good two cups)

Continue stirring over medium heat, and cook for another two minutes or until the marshmallows are mostly melted into the milk/sugar mixture.

Remove from heat and stir in:

            1 ½ cup chocolate chips

            1 teaspoon vanilla flavoring

Stir until smooth and completely combined, then pour into a small baking pan, 8” x 8” which has been lined with aluminum foil.  Smooth out and allow to cool completely, then cut into 1” squares.

Looking up River and into the high country from Snowmachine Point

Darkness arrives a little later each day.

The minutes of daylight are slowly extended.  The sun is higher in the sky; shadows are shorter; days are longer. We notice the slightest change.

The river begins to open, the Mighty Rio, swallowing mouthfuls of ice in its still quiet trail when no one is looking. A black ribbon flowing, twisting, dancing through the heavy layer of white.  Beneath, the river runs black and deep, quiet and still, a hidden grin on a somber face.

Without fanfare, it breaks free. So subtle and soft and slow this transformation.

Perhaps you did not notice And the tracks of the moose to the open water tell us they know.

We know the torrents that will follow when the melting begins in full force, the big brown waters of the wild spring runs. Subtlety is then lost, and none can overlook.  Now, it is only a hint in the calm, cool waters that have cut through the seemingly forever white landscape of the frozen river. It is but a minimal change, a hint, a suggestion of what will be, what is and lives beneath, beyond our blatant view. 

Nature is not ready to scream “Spring!” quite yet. For now she yawns, blinks her eyes, but does not stir awake. She will remain in winter a little while longer

The Rio Grande begins to open

This morning darkness is absolute. The horizon is black, pure and still.  Endless. There is no moon, only starlight to reflect back so faintly on the crystalline snow, and the delicate pattern of pin-prick lights across the vast black seas of the sky.  Between here and the heavens are the dark looming silhouettes of the mountain, complete, composed and motionless. They are this overwhelming bulk separating the faint glow on the surface of the snow from the twilight overhead.

Between the two I sit in silence, warm and comfortable, inside looking out, a part but so far away.

Looking up at the Little Cabins over the Rio Grande as the sun lowers behind