You know, few well thought out choices are ever really wrong. Some are just better than others. 

Only in retrospect do we judge.  And who needs to spend time looking back?  Today is already too short, too full, I’ll never get it all done in one day!  And tomorrow will be here soon enough.

Tomorrow. How do you figure out where to go, what to be, what to do when you grow up, and when will that finally happen?

Yes, it’s a big wide world.  I want to taste it all. How will I know if I don’t try? I wish I could take your word for it.  That would have saved much pain throughout the years. 

How many said I couldn’t live here?  Next month begins my tenth year.  I think I’ve proven I can.  And now I’m ready to try somewhere else.

Decisions are not always easy.  Bob has been here, working to not only keep the family ranch up and running, but to make it a better place, and has succeed. That’s got to feel good.  And at the same time, he’s ready.  Ready to try something else.  Finally free.  He struggles to see beyond.  He is catching glimpses.  Some days bright and shiny.  Other days blinding and quite exhausting.  I bet you know what that’s like.

Forrest has big decisions to make.  The future awaits his choosing. School.  College.  Career.  Opportunities.  Obligations.  Expectations.  And dreams.  Dreams yet to be.  Dreams still unborn.  Such wonderful options and opportunities!  How does one decide?  See which door opens widest and sucks you in…

Me, I have nothing to hold me back.  There are no roots.  The ground on which I stand is separate from me.  Still, a severed cord at birthing pours fourth blood.  Change is never without loss, remorse, pain.  When we look back.  Excitement, anticipation, and hope when we look ahead.  Which way do I look today?

I leap and rush to build the net as I fall if need be.  Weave together my own threads to carry me.

Shed my skin and step out unadorned. It’s only cold for a little while.

But now winter remains, and it feels cold and dark and I’m somehow longing for mud, and flowing waters, and sun on the back of my neck.

The sun will rise. I will walk the land. I will step outside and smell the purity of air and stare up at the growing light on the sturdy mountain and see the brightness and beauty again.

Like seasons that blow the leaves from the trees and winds that cover the tracks, the problems of the past will not remain. Really, how shallow are my concerns? I will ascend above the skeletons in the dirt, and climb the magnificent mountains that beckon me.

My moods fluctuate with the wind and change just as quickly.

I am a kite caught in a whirlwind I cannot control. I seek stability but find none. Not within. Only around me in the solid rocks of the high mountain, the spruce trees that have endured how many seasons of storms, and the steady flow of the river.

I am not certain like the seasons. I am quick to cry. Slow to heal. I love fiercely. And see passionately. And give all I can to those I love most.

I feel too much.

I am here to seek a balance in a land more passionate and intense than me. I give myself to the mountain, my tears to the river, my rage to the wind, and for a moment, I feel nothing but the ensuing silence for which I have hungered.

an aspen leaf from last season

I sit here on a hillside of exposed dirt, dried grasses, crushed wild rose stems, aspen leaves brown and frail. Perhaps the only place on the mountain with signs of life exposed. Dead and dormant, but a fragile promise. Not frozen or covered in white. I feel more alive by sitting here, smelling the distant odor of decay and thawed earth.

Here is where spring will come first, now so far away. Here is where I will come to find the first bit of green. A place of hope.

Now I sit here in silence and listen for the sound of my boys approaching to come find me. I hear nothing, and wait for the last of the sun to fall on me and the dried leaves I stare at with my head resting there on my knees.

There is no noise. No one will come.

It is my fault. I have chosen to be here. And even here I find it. Disappointment and isolation. An odd combination that makes one wonder what really does matter.

In a land more harsh than any other I have endured I try to find my place. I try to find solace. This is still a softer world than from where I came. Am I far enough away? What I run from, is it something within me?

Or am I here because I have nowhere else to be?

An Aspen leaf. That’s it. In one little place where there is no snow where today I sat and cried. With my head resting on my knees I saw this perfect beauty between my feet. The light just right. Perfect nature in our imperfect world.

sundown at pole creek, photo by Bob

Darkness of the early morning

Stillness as the rest of my small world remains asleep

Contented breathing and the whisper of the wood stove

A space and place for my mind to wander

It takes off and I dash to keep up

Wild horses running on the plains of my imagination

Behind them dust settles

Silence returns

And words pour onto paper

Light slowly comes to the sky as I lift my focus from the screen of the computer.  A pale silvery grey showing me no further than the mountains that contain and protect me.

What about the world beyond?  Somehow it no longer seems right to be stuck in a land where others cling to no more than memories and find that to be enough, yet my mind searches elsewhere for true meaning. Deeper waters beyond the shallow pool.

You will find it within, I have been told.  Limitless, bottomless; I fear I may drown.  Choppy waters that long for relief. We seek walls to contain us, boundaries to define us.

I find purpose in the connection between hands and land.

What more will bring us to the place where we belong?  It can be anywhere.  I can be here. Today.  Tomorrow perhaps somewhere new.

What lasting connection can there be without labor?  Shall we stake a claim and say we deserve and expect to be given and think it shall last?  Or do we build and toil and create, and grow with our creations?

majestic mountain

Quite contrary.

The garden will not be given a chance to grow this year. I won’t even try. Last year I watched it turn fallow. Is there a crime or sin in rich soil left uncultivated?

I think of the days of roses, pruning, tending, caring, transplanting, nurturing each branch like a child, each blossom like a humble reward. That was not here. Here is a world of white. I await the opening of the forced Paperwhites on the window sill above the sink with great anticipation for their simple splendor and heady fragrance.

Seed catalogues arrive. I am learning not to look.

Inside I am growing what I can.  The south windows are cluttered with lettuce, chard, kale, parsley, chives, basil and one cherry tomato plant that may never produce a single fruit for lack of light and warmth. We try though our results may be futile.

Though now hidden and nearly forgotten under a smooth white cover of snow, in spring we will pull the boards that defined the raised beds and spread out the mounds of years of collected horse manure, chicken coop cleanings, wood ash and compost. What hurts more?  Seeing something we built left barren?  Or turning it back to the land from which it came?

Can I define the place where I live it in terms of what it is not? This is not a land of deep roots or fertile growth.

These are my minor concerns, selfish and shallow they seem to me now, and it embarrasses me that the matters I share with you here on days like this are the worst that trouble me. Or the worst I can find words to describe. How petty they seem when I open my mind beyond the protective boundary of these formidable mountains surrounding.

How slight has life become (or has it always been) when we consider such to be a trauma?

And we worry about bad hair days and finding a parking place and will we have time to stop by the store and pick up that extra special something for dinner.

What lies beyond your mountain?

willows like flames before the mountain

Today I do not want to return to the seemingly shallow words of speaking of the weather, the mountain, my moods flying in the wind as permeable as snowflakes.  I am in a solid mood, a heavy worn oak table of a mood, rich as the soil now frozen and buried and firm as the rocks from which it came, soil that runs deep in my veins in places where perhaps you thought there would be blood.  

Will I ever be a part of a land as strongly as I long to be?  I think about roots.  I have shallow roots if any at all. And yet I long for the settling into the land.

To be a part of the land. The land as partner, solid as a long time lover, more than agrarian but rather an intimate connection like an old married couple… the unspoken understanding.  I go deeper still in the relationship, beyond farming to the connection with the wilds, the parts of the land we cannot touch, out of reach, private parts if you will. We keep our own identity but share the same house. Two strong individuals living side by side.

Here an uncaring mountain.  There, perhaps where you are, a completely cultivated landscape.  I need a bit of wild places and space.  More than a bit.  I need room to roam.  That is where I belong, not tightly squared into a lot of farmed ground under a patriarchal order of existence. Can you see me there? You know I need room to think, to choose, to do what is right based on my choices and thoughts, not because I am told or it is what I was taught.  I learn for myself.  Don’t you, too?

It is about home.

My quest for home.

For home, you know, is not always the place where you live.

How simple, you say?

Yes, but oh-so complicated at times too.

I was not born into, taught, or raised to be. I was left to discover. Is this a blessing or a curse? I find a bit of both. Every life is, or can be. It is what we make it. Rich, full, a fantastic journey. I was not happy remaining. And still I am not.

Funny to look for a place to commit to, to grow up with, to grow old with, now when I am already mid life. May I never stop learning and growing. And what have I learned today?

The world appears before me, calling, though I find myself here, and what can I do?  Nothing is never the answer.

a cold day in the back yard

Twenty five below zero.
The coldest we have had to suffer this season thus far. There will be more. There will be worse.
I sit now as close to the wood stove as I can and still I feel cold. A safe and shallow cold. What I feel outside is different. That is strong, powerful, frightening. At once demanding respect and fear. Best yet to avoid.
We cannot. There are horses to feed, chickens to care for, water and power to maintain, a puppy that gets stir crazy. We bundle up and bear the burden.
At first it is shocking to eyes, nose and cheeks, the only parts left unprotected. The breath is halted for an instant. We lean forward as if hunching over somehow helps, and continue on.
Over time, the extreme cold instills a slow soundless fear that penetrates body and mind, an open mouth braced to scream, yet the noise cannot come out, the listener does not hear. I wonder if we only understand when living through it. Once it is over, we seem to forget. Our memories fade the pain, like I once read is true of childbirth, to allow us to live through it again.
The horses kick up their heels in anger at each other, the dog, the elements. Their patience has been worn thin by the bitter cold. They seek relief and find little on days like this when the temperature struggles to reach above zero, and drops below with ease at the slightest suggestion of sun fading behind distant mountain. Long shadows of mid winter provide little relief mid day.
The boys carry the puppy home on snowmobile. I have never worried about frostbit paws before. I do now. We feed the horses double and hope it helps.
The cold penetrates. Sends us running indoors. The work can wait. The walk is shortened. The wind makes it even worse.
There is an odd sense of panic, trepidation of the elements that cold creates. Its power is fierce. Our abilities to overcome are few. Our preparations and actions must be precise. The cold is not forgiving.
I see our house, only a quarter mile away through the veil of blowing snow, horizontal beads that burn flesh, the little bits that are left exposed. The house looks so far away. My legs feel weary and the cold has ripped through the parka and seeped into the bottom of my pack boots and I wonder if I will make it home.
How silly is that thought?
Unjustified perhaps, and yet, try telling that to my frozen mind.
Is that the worst of our fears?
As we sit on the sofa together sipping tea, so civilized, while the wood stove cranks away, and look at the news from the past two days. How can all this happen in just two days?
Bombings, crashes, protests, violence, hunger and persecution.
Would we see it if we did not look? How sweet and at ease my mind could be if only I did not see?
And I realize again how safe we are in our frozen little world. How foolish are my fears. How narrow is my vision. And how little we do but listen to our brothers complain as I have heard myself do. I abhor the bleating of this country. I don’t want to hear it. But want to hear what we are doing about it. For someone else. For someone who needs it. Not for those of us who just want more.
My country is missing her soul at times. We are cold at heart. While the blood of our bleeding sisters pours warm and rich and red.

snowing in trees

My boys are sick.  All three of them. One husband, one son, one dog.  Winter colds.  We blame it on the mall.  (Yes, we really did go to a mall!)  

I cannot be too.  Someone must care for them.  You know how it is.

Caring, nurturing, giving.  Is this not our nature? An integral part of our selves as strong and healing and natural as the river that runs down the face of the mountain, feeding the hills and valleys?

As women, perhaps our greatest strength is found not in bulk and brawn but in that quiet caring. The gentle brook that meanders through the shade of the tall trees.  Quiet force of healing.

How much of ourselves do we have to give? The spring does not go dry, though in times of drought perhaps is reduced down to a trickle and may not feed its full course.  The rains come.  The source replenished.  And we have more to give again.

We bequeath a part of ourselves to our children (two and four legged), our partners, our careers, our land and animals, our passions and art and writing, nature and gardening…   A part of our selves is lost, and a new part is found in the feeding of our souls that giving allows.  Nurture the soil and seeds grow fruit.

For each we pour forth of ourselves, our bleeding enriches, nourishes us, our land and families and dreams, fulfills us, completes us. And thus we grow like the seeds we tend.

And suddenly we return to the beauty and magic of our world and our lives.

I had slipped into the state I find myself too often of fear of our fellow man, the mess of the world, and the muddle of my mind.  It is a place of darkness where the stars do not twinkle and the snow does not reflect the wonders of the universe in this subtle indigo glow of a moonless night.

It is as if my eyes are closed and I must make my way about the cabin in the inky air with arms extended groping about to find the things I think I need or need to avoid.

Perhaps you would turn on a light. And you may wonder why I do not.

Ah, for if I had a light to blind me I would not be able to see out in these early morning hours that belong only to me.

And I would have missed the shooting star.

But I saw it.  A bright blaze across the southern sky lasting no more than a second or two.  And that was time enough.  Time enough to fill me with hope, marvel, and the feeling that even in the darkest hours, there is magnificence to be found. 

(If we keep our eyes open and the lights off…)

on a snowshoe trail

I read yesterday of “the richness of solitude.” Have you considered it to be such?
The solace of solitude came early for me, found as a child in the secret rocks where I played behind the house or the corner of the basement where I hid in my own little world away from family, friends, neighbors and noise. And in my own mind there was plenty. Stories and songs and colors and lights that could keep me entertained for hours.
Solitude. Rich and full.
Solitude. Room to breathe. The place and space to let the resonant sigh from deep within the dragon’s belly roar. We settle and are satisfied in the vast expanse between lonely and alone. It is a peaceful sea on which we float, buoyant in the salty waters of silent waves. There we are both soothed and strengthened. Though we risk floating farther and farther from shore where our loved ones await us.
This does not make for a good wife. I lose myself at times intentionally. How can I expect my husband to keep hold when I swim away in my mind so often like the flash of the fish under the shady bridge in an autumn river? And yet he gives me the space, allows me to wash away in the currents. And sometimes I see him there too under the bridge like a sparkling flash.
My son is somehow used to this. He knows I am still able to love, and so many of my thoughts are for him. He too is at ease in silence, and in that voiceless place finds a deep wealth of inner resonance as words pour forth from him in silver streams like flowing water when he sits to write a poem.
Solitude. I think of it often. Society does not approve. An intentional outcast. Some of us are comfortable alone. Perhaps we should not be.
Perhaps I will never fit in, and have learned no longer to try. Pain is hard to wash away.
Am I too young to find such contentment and comfort alone?
I complicate my own self with nothing but words and thoughts.

up high

I find myself alone on the mountain. A place and space of comfort.  Our cabin guests leave early due to the threat of the oncoming storm.  The last of the hunters who ventured up from down the road realize their efforts are futile and return to lower ground (where the elk are, too).

And before you know it, puppy and I are heading up Pole Mountain.  I know this our last chance to hike this year.  Beyond today, there will be deep snow. Yes, I can snowshoe up there, and have before.  But there is a freedom in resistance.  I want to have feet in boots alone, freed from the cumbersome snowshoes that will be strapped to the soles of my boots for the next five months.  And so I resist and find myself trudging at times through snow knee deep, and other times, on the naked windward slopes, stepping on frozen ground.

It is not easy.  It never is. The puppy doesn’t question why we spend hours working upward.  He does not ask where we are going, only trusts and follows and does his best to enjoy. 

The elements challenge us. The wind above treeline nearly topples us over.  It bites my cheeks and pulls tears from my eyes. Gunnar leans on me, pushes his face into my warm body at every rest (every few steps up there), and I lean over to rub his ears and legs.  My legs are tired before we reach the top.  They feel as if they are made of rubber.  I wonder if I can make it but talk aloud to the puppy and tell him we can.

The top of the mountain, over 13,000 feet elevation and no one around for miles and miles and miles.  And funny thing is, for all of you who climb mountains, as soon as you get there, on most days the wind is whipping and the snow blowing and weather threatening and there is no shelter or comfortable place to rest and it’s too cold to take off your gloves to grab a snack, so all you do is snap a couple pictures to prove you were really there then head back down quickly, so quickly. Isn’t it remarkable how fast you can get down when it took you so long to get up?

So why do we go there?  What drives us on when climbing higher is so hard, and time and again we have to push ourselves mentally and physically to go on? What makes putting yourself in a state of discomfort as you climb, as you reach your goal, and then often the following day as you find yourself stuck with sore muscles – what makes that so rewarding?

The lick from the puppy as we sit huddled taking pictures to prove to the boys that we were there?  The view far, far, far away? Perhaps it is the perspective. The perspective of seeing our little piece of the mountain down there, a tiny rectangle, pin point pricks that may be the horses, our home, our little barn… so tiny, all of it, against the big background that is our mountain, all these mountains, all of them, so many, so big… Yes, perspective.  So I can see how little we are.  How small our foot prints are. How much more lies beyond what I can see from my kitchen window.  How small that window is.   

Up there looking out is like looking into the night sky and seeing all those stars.

Perspective.  I see more clearly from up there.  I see farther away and deeper within.

Beauty is found only if we look. How far are we willing to go to see?

This morning I am sore, head to toe.  Ok, that is an exaggeration.  My head is fine, and I suppose my feet are too.  But my shoulders, my arms, my back, my legs… all the rest, I guess, I feel these parts and they are not fine. Outside, the world is white and getting whiter (can that really happen?).  Perhaps a deeper shade of white, measured in inches as the snow falls, closing off our view and our road.

I look out my kitchen window.  My vision is limited by the heavy snow.  I cannot see across river.  I cannot see the mountain we climbed yesterday.  Yet somehow, I can see farther than I did yesterday when the skies were clear.

looking down the mountain we came up

cabin 7 on another snowy day

Soft and heavy and full the snow falls once again, settling over the mountain like a fresh sheet from the line.  A spring snow, calming in her languid easy beauty. Temperatures hover just above freezing.  On the horses shedding hair, snow melts instantly, leaving dark patches of brown like big blankets dripping over their steaming backs.

The season lingers.  Here, winter comes, settles in, and takes her time to depart.  This is her mountain. This is her season. She does not let it go readily. The summer she endures, a brief fleeting glimpse only slightly longer than the brilliant display she shows off in spring and autumn.  But winter, winter she allows to come and settle in and stay a while.  It is what makes the mountain, the river. It endures. It is the season she wed; the rest are passing fancies.  

Pole Mountain behind cabins in snow

Winter.  Springsummerfall. The mountain balances the cycle. Springsummerfall. Fleeting seasons. We enjoy them for their dazzling parade then close our eyes and turn within and become a part of the vast white world all around. It is in winter we breathe. 

Cold, stark, somehow distant.  I believe this is the true nature of the mountain. The rest is a brief show on stage.

new door

The door hung yesterday is somehow symbolic.  A door to the once open bathroom. Hanging there, suspended, able to open and close, even before walls that will close off the room even further are built. A door, not so much to leave the past behind but to open up a path to the future, allowing us to step into a new world, tomorrow.

Last night I lay back in the tub with the door propped open by my old worn cowboy boot. In the quiet glow of the candles, I observed where the walls will be, all around me, closing me in.  My last soak in the openness.  The walls will go up today.  This is said not with fear of change, for change is both exciting and inevitable, but in observation only, trying to appreciate each day for the newness it brings. I wish to miss nothing.

Bob's winter cargo van as he arrived home from a trip to town

On a lighter note, Bob hauled home the carpet for the bedroom in the remodel cabin.  Remember, this was going to wait for the road to open, trucks to drive in, so far away still is seems… I guess he could not wait.  Thought you too might get a chuckle out of how he brought it home… As usual, it worked.  We should have the installation compete today, so will share pictures shortly.  But I wonder, do you think he’ll do the same for the big window we’re waiting on?  He has been known to do such things…

Above the ranch looking down at the reservoir

Ten below zero and the whiteness remains unchanging. The signs I saw what seem so long ago of the assurance of spring now give the impression of such insignificance.  The birds, feeding on fields of snow.  The swollen tips of the willows and glossy new branch ends on the Aspen. The increased intensity of light, almost blinding on the settled snow.

Funny how we worry ourselves that it will be so different this year.  It will be later, earlier, bigger, lesser… than what, I wonder?  For I say this too. Later that our calendars read or our minds demand?  Does nature fail to meet our expectations or are we too thrilled in seeking the variety? And then we watch and it all work out in due time, and usually, the correct time.  It is not ours to choose.  It is not ours to control.

Let it go.  It will come.  And probably, right on time.

It is not so much the end of winter that I long for, but for the something new that promises to be here soon.  Excitement, anticipation. The transformation of life, our lives. Building, swelling within me as within the river still remaining covert beneath the ice and snow.  Listen to the flow now.  Is it intensifying, or is the protective layer of snow and ice thinning so that we can hear what is below better now?

Us, we can transform, and we do.  Daily we make progress, are one step closer to our future.  Where will that future lead us?  So many uncertainties, and still so much we can do.

The remodel of cabin #2

We complete the remodel of Cabin #2, with the exception of some final details, including the bedroom carpet and the new window, which for some reason which I imagine will not surprise you, we have decided to wait to bring in when we can drive our truck, not haul the 9 foot long piece of glass behind our snowmobiles. And decorations.  Nesting.  I can not help myself and enjoy setting up each cabin as its own perfect little home.

Construction is cleaned up. Tools are packed up and moved on.  Where to? Onto the next…

And now we make changes to our cabin to retrofit it as a rental guest cabin.

The first thing to be changed is the upstairs bathroom.  What I loved most about it – the openness, free of walls, I could soak in the tub and still chat with my boys downstairs in the kitchen – we figured this would not go over too well with a group of guys here for the fishing.  Walls and doors might be preferred.  And with our hammers, nails and saws, most anything is possible.  This one will be simple.

a before picture: our upstairs bathroom

In the back of our minds already is the project we will work on when this one is complete.  Finally, the start of the remodel of the Little Cabin.  After all, we do need a home…

Be not afraid of growing slowly, be afraid only of standing still.

Chinese Proverb