Looking into the light

Where does the mountain end and the sky begin
When we find ourselves so close to heaven
Melting wings of wax to hold us

I lose myself in another storm
Silken sky falling
Following me
Or perchance ahead
Awaiting my entrance to its icy lair
Tempting teasing taunting
I can not resist and fall in

At times it seems we barely touch down
Floating in this sea of white
Moving with the ease of a dolphin
Parting waves
Parting ways
We fall through
Gasp for air
Grasp for solid ground

I remember red

The mountain sleeps
Naked and white
Do you remember the color red?
Raw and unrefined
Exposed like a deep wound
Bleeding
Pouring forth
The woman that I am
On the side of the mountain
Cut open by the river
Flesh
Healing
Soothing
Carry me away in a wash of white

How easy it is to forget.

Waves of white and shades of grey

Looking up the Rio Grande through Brewster Park and beyond

At times she holds me like a mother, the mother I wish I had, the mother I wish to be.

Strong, mighty, unwavering, non judgmental and wise. Indeed she is a mountain.  I am comforted in her vast command as she enwraps me in firm arms and soothes me with the soft touch of a breeze through my hair.  She allows my silent tears to soak deep into her flesh as she pacifies my fears with the warm fingers of wind and sunshine.

Other times she is my lover, allowing me to lie beside her, naked, raw, exposed, sitting together exhausted, slick with sweat and lost in a dazzling reverie of passion, amazed at the untamed, intense and intimate beauty spinning all around us.

At times she is too big and vast and I lose myself in her wilds.  We learn to let go.   

And then she finds me a place to be, to sit, to ponder, and allows me to find myself again.

I am frightened by the changes that I bring upon myself.  I could let go of my dreams, accept, and remain. Perhaps it would be easier.

But if I cease to dream, I believe I would cease to exist. 

She need not hold my hand and help me up, only reminds me that I can.  We are both too strong to condescend. I am no longer a lost child and she has nurtured the flower to blossom full and ripe. She allows me to stand up and sing on her hillsides.  I can ask no more of her.

Looking west along the snowshoe trail

I avoided the computer this weekend. It called to me but I would not answer. Do inanimate objects get lonely too?

From time to time I took a peak. Smiles from far away. Messages that do mean so much to me. I thank all who took the time to write here or by e-mail.

Here, the weekend brought life to the mountain, oddly abuzz with humans like ants on cake left behind on a picnic, though somehow lacking the sense of shared effort that ants are known for, each one feeding himself. How odd to hear the occasional distant motor, see tracks following our tracks. The strangeness of the holidays on this mountain attracts folks escaping. Each one seeking their own solitude, avoiding the hope for society, perchance even just neighbors. They come here to get away from those things. They can, they need to. It is no more than a weekend away. I have memories of distant mountains and neighbors at the holidays stopping in for eggnog or cookies or a story and smile. We sat at the kitchen table far too long. Funny the things I have missed. For these few times in the winter, this mountain seems small, aloof, uncaring, and cold. And yet, the air blows unseasonably warm. I take comfort once again in no more than the air. I need little else. There is little else. The rest will blow away.

Warm air. Warm enough to melt snow. Icicles form on the eves of the cabins. The ice flows on the creeks continue to build. Down at the Rio Grande, Forrest straps on ice skates and tests the frozen waters for the very first time. It intrigues me, the things I failed to teach him. No TV, no town. No peers, no peer pressure. How odd his education has been. Book smart. Mountain wise. Yet I forget many things, often things I took for granted as a child, things I assumed all children did and knew.

His life has been different, here, where we were before, where we will be next. There are few who have had the freedom of the wilds as regular as a deep breath. Nature teaches things I can not. He will learn his own boundaries, I thought, and he has. I try to be the mother wolf. He knows he is safe with me. And away from that security, he has learned, slowly, how far from the den he can wander. On his own. We do not push him. We try not to pull him back. I am here, wherever home is. Well and wild in the mountains.

I skated often as a child. I remember how it feels. Fond reminiscences of elegance and ease, gliding on this hard, unforgiving surface I felt enough to know intimately. He moves with surprising ease. The recollections I have of little boys beginning to balance on blades on ice is not what I see before me as this tall young man stands straight and begins to move with the manner of a young horse testing his legs on pasture. I am pleased.

The proud parents, Bob and I stand and watch. We both remember how this feels. We both wish to be there, gliding, over the mighty river flowing free, barred only by its cold, hard surface.

What is hidden beneath this heavy sheet of ice? I cannot even hear the waters below. With my wide flat snow shoes, I walk down the river in the center of its smooth silvery pale blue course of frozen waters. Now and then, the surface is broken, revealing the sides of the rigid surface in places a foot thick, and the dark depths below. I approach cautiously and look into the abyss. I hear the rush of the river from these faults, powerful and mighty, made more so by the memories of being here to watch raging brown waters in the middle of a summer storm. Now, the flowing black waters seem somehow colder even that the surface. Uninviting. Ominous.

What is hidden beneath this flat expanse of ice? There are my answers that I seek.
The plan lies dormant for lack of direction. Yet here I watch and see the water knows where to flow. Why don’t I? I am as still as the frozen waters on which I stand, as the sun dips behind the mountain and cold air spreads like wildfire in the wind, chilling me in an instant as the line of shade now works its way up the mountain,. I watch the warm gold glow rise and diminish towards the top of the mountain as the world below fades to indigo.

It is time to go home.

Forrest learning to skate along the Rio Grande

Please note I will not be posting on a daily basis this year.  For now, I will try for Mondays, Wednesday and Fridays. And on the other days?  Saturday, I’ll still post on the High Mountain Horse site.  Sundays, I’ll often still share recipes – hopefully some of you do try and enjoy them – but at the least, it’s a good way for me to keep track of the ones I like best as I prepare to give my cookbooks away.  And the remaining days?  Time for me to get that book together…

Regardless of when I post, I hope you will continue to join me here again this year. Please know that as always, I love to hear from you, to keep in touch, and hope too that you will continue to keep in touch with each other as well.

last light over the rio grande reservoir

Time is told by memories, by the change of seasons, the growth of our children, shadows from the sun, phases of the moon, placement of the stars in the night sky. It is a different story for each of us, based on a different history, seen from a different view. Though once we look around, it’s all the same, your world, my world, the same stars we look at from so far away.

Last week I could lie in bed, look up and see an unnamed star in an unknown constellation, the names of which are meaningless, we make up our own, their stories told by someone else long ago, yet still we recognize them all, seasonal travelers, or solid constants above our big back yard, this star now low in the southeast, shining in his spectacular technicolor coat.  We call him Crazy Star, dancing wildly to the west in the early night of spring, now in the mornings as I wake in darkness, peaking through the tops of the trees. I judge my timing on his placement, when and where he clears the trees, breaking into the open, and fading with the lightening sky.  I asses how much more sleep I am allowed.  I take a secret pleasure in being able to say, “Not yet…” and roll back over, snuggling against my warm husband for just a little longer.

This morning the moon was big, bright, overwhelming the fine and delicate pinpoint lights of the stars, and I could read by the long shadows coming from the west, by the silver glow touching the branches of the big blue spruce outside my window, where the moon was, how close time would be until I push back the warm covers into the cold chill of early morning in the cabin, walk down stairs in this semi-darkness, light the fire, and begin my day..

On days I wake with the worries of the world heavy on the pillow beside me, how simple it is to look up and remember the stars will shine with brilliance and clarity and a stability we will never know, despite my greatest fears. No, not despite me, or because of me, but regardless of me or my troubles, or even my hopes and desires.

The longer I lie there and look, the deeper and farther I see into that vast openness of twinkling space before me, just from the square of the window.  There is comfort in my insignificance.  My problems weighing grave on my mind become meaningless; put into perspective, they are nothing at all. For a moment, I fade off into the infinite horizon, then I wake and begin my day.

Far from home: Yesterday, my horses on top of the mountain.

Today a tin cup sky hangs heavy over the mountain, leaden and weighty and every shade of grey, pouring forth its burden of rain and hail.  In the high country, I imagine this would be snow.  But me, I am safe and warm.  I sit by the woodstove, with my husband at my side and dog by my feet.  I am home.

Sometimes, just sometimes, we make rash decisions… and they prove to be good ones. 

Yesterday afternoon I sat by the camp I had just set up, with my horses grazing on lush tall grass nearby. It was a camp I had been to many times, only a few hours into the Wilderness from home. The adventure was over.  The challenge, the newness, the unexpected was over.  It was, almost, comfortable.

The panniers were unloaded, tent set up, firewood gathered.  I sat on a log by the little fire pit and was getting ready to start a small flame.  It was early still, about a quarter to four.  This is the time I had arrived at a camp site the past two evenings after a long day on the trail, still awaiting the work of tending the horses and setting camp in a new location, a new home for the night for me and my two four legged companions.  Ah… so now I had a long evening of free time ahead of me.  Vacation?  That’s not why I was there.  Adventure.  A challenge.  To prove to myself I could do it.  To push myself and find what matters most to me.

Free time is not what matters most. 

My husband?  Yes. A partner who allows and supports one to bloom and grow and at times fly free only to welcome your return with open arms. 

My son?  Oh yes!  And Forrest was to be heading out to hunting camp before my scheduled return.  A last minute decision, a chance to work for a friend and outfitter, Forrest was pleased with the opportunity, but displeased with the timing that he’d have to head out without a chance to see me first… This complication meant that with my planned Thursday return home, Friday I’d have saddle up and ride horseback another five hours out to hunting camp and back just for a brief occasion to see my son. Of course I would do it, but there’s work to do on the ranch… another day off?

So what is important to me?  My boys.  My animals.  Nature. Wild things. My independence.  And finding the balance that works best to juggle it all.  Making compromises at times and being willing to push myself beyond my comfort level at other times in order to best achieve this precarious balance. It doesn’t always work.  But I have to try.  And so… this leads me to that part about rash decisions…

As I sat there staring far away into the still unlit fire, I decided to pack it all up and hit the trail home.  If I took down camp, packed back up, resaddled,  rode fast enough along the nine miles of Wilderness trail, and if all actually went well, I’d be home before it was pitch black.

And so it was. With just a little light left in the sky, me and my horses crossed the mighty Rio Grande, climbed back up the bluff on our ranch and returned home. 

My boys were reminded of how important they are to me.  My dog was relieved to have me back by his side (May I add here that, for me, camping without a canine companion is just not right!).  My horses were grateful to be back on their home turf with their herd.  And me, well, I had my adventure. I learned what I needed to learn.  I saw such beauty (I can’t wait to share a part of that with you next).  And I got the feeling, or perhaps the reminder, that we really can do almost anything we want.  We are strong in body and mind. We learn to move ourselves forward with whatever we have, what ever our strengths and overcome weaknesses may be. We may get tired and sore, but we can push ourselves and get there.  Where ever “there” may be.  Even if its home…

Most important, I suppose, in this short but rather special solo journey, I reminded myself of something that’s always been essential to me: I don’t want a list. I want a life. 

My horses grazing after a long days ride at the most beautiful home away from home I know: Starvation Gulch

Gone riding...

“Let us strive to improve ourselves, for we cannot remain stationary; one either progresses or retrogrades.”  Mme Du Deffand

At times, as change is so slow to come, we find ourselves in need of a challenge to push our limits, to raise our spirits and fill us with hope, to lift us above the ashes. And so perhaps creating the challenge is what we are in need of.  Creating the change…

On my fridge is a quote from an unknown author: “You cannot plow a field by turning it over in your mind.”

Around my home, and especially on the fridge which is covered with words of wisdom printed on simple magnets, are quotes of inspiration, little reminders for things too easy for me to forget.  Like bravery, courage, and strength.  I know these things are in me; they are in us all.  But I get too comfortable, and forget to challenge the drive that has got us all where we are today.

Above me desk is a quote by Eleanor Roosevelt:  “You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face… You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”

That in mind, I head out today for a solitary pack trip. Alone.  Not fully alone, of course. I will have my saddle horse and pack horse to help me, and for me to care for them. But it will be up to me, for four days, riding and camping in the back country and Wilderness.

As I prepare to head out this morning, I am grateful for my horses and the beautiful mountains around me in which I will be able to spend the next four days.  More than anything however, I am grateful for my husband and son who allow me the time and space and understanding to follow my dreams…

“You must be the change you wish to see in the world.” Mahatma Gandhi

Autumn comes to the high country at Weminuche Pass

Today it rains.  Before the big picture window I sit, warm and dry, a pot of water hissing on the wood stove, the old dog cleaning his wet paws beside me.  Awaiting the return of my boys out on a ride, caught in the surprise shower.  But no real surprise. You know how the mountains are.  My boys do too.  They will be fine.  Just wet, and happy for the warmth of the fire.

I listen to rhythm of the rain on the metal roof and wonder when we will hear the still and silence that tells us it has turned to snow.  It will be soon.  If not this storm, perhaps the next.  Bringing with it the gentle blanket that tucks the mountain to sleep and allows her to drift off into the dormant season.  For half the year she sleeps a deep slumber, beneath the frozen ground and layer upon layer of powdered white.

Behind the rain streaked glass I see the mountainside with her first glimmers of gold in the trees and browns across the open meadows.  A softening of the land.  Letting go of summer.  I allow the inevitable to come. What more can I do? Change.

Change within and without. As the seasons do, so will we.  The seasons stir through the mountain before us  like waves in the open sea, in constant movement, a cadence and synchronization as old as time and regardless of our whims.

And soon, oh so soon, she will explode with a dazzling display of green and gold, more spectacular every day.  I say I prefer when the sky is swathed in clouds; with the clear blue there is too much color, almost a gaudy display, too much for my eyes that for half the year are at ease with white and muted shades of green and grey. And yet I can not keep my eyes diverted from the brilliance.  I don’t even try. 

The flash of color like lightening in a July storm, the color illuminates the mountain, as brief as a day, or a week, a moment in time. And as quickly as it came, it fades and crumbles, turns to brown and blows away in the wind.

We grasp onto what was, running to catch a single leaf in the wind.  It is gone.  Now one of many carried away in a dance of abandonment.  Swept away anonymously in the crowd. Leaving the fine and lacy branches of the Aspen naked to the oncoming winter winds.

But for now, I sit and await the inevitable. In the simplicity of my home, at this moment so small under the leaden autumn sky, grateful for little more than being warm and dry, I stare out the window before me. I wait for change.

and dreaming of colors to come

Changing weather: A storm moving in from the west

A change is coming

A change in light

In color

In life

In seasons

So subtle

Barely there

Visible only in my minds eye?

Perhaps it is just my wishful thinking

I seek the subtle signs

And find reward in browning leaves

Longer nights

And pregnant bellies

Excitement of the new

Refreshment of the old

Anticipation of what lies

Beyond the next corner

Along the next trail

Atop the next peak

As I turn a page in the calendar

A page in my life

A change in life: awaiting the last pregnant mare of the season to give birth

Time and space, to sit and think...

Of all the gifts I have strived to give my child, the most valuable I would say is time and space to think, to dream, to absorb, to be… Time to sit, reflect, see the beauty all around, learn the beauty that is within each of us, perfect beauty in an imperfect world.

Nature provides for us the perfect setting in her constant imperfections.  Beauty breeds and grows from these imperfections.  Silently and quietly we sit and listen. We hear the world around.  We hear the world inside us.  And we are allowed the opportunity to think, reflect, try to make sense of it all.

Sitting by a quiet stream, walking down a tree lined trail or hiking up top a mountain summit, even just taking a moment alone in a city park, the answers come to us.  Sometimes, as a simple surprise. Look around.  Listen.  The answers are there. “Take more time,” the mountain tell us. “Keep on, keep on…” or “time to move on.”  Is the wisdom in the wind that whips across the jagged peaks, or does being there teach us how to listen to the answers within?  I have not figured this out yet.  Perhaps I never will.

As we sit together on a peaceful evening in the high country, watching the sun settle across the valley before us, we talking quietly, staring ahead at the magnificence before us, sharing words yet alone in our own thoughts. I encourage him to find his goodness, strive to cultivate this goodness, to forgive oneself, and leave behind the faults of yesterday. Likewise, rather than finding the imperfection in others, we should work to perfect ourselves. It’s all we really can do, isn’t it?  And this is hard enough. I know of no one yet perfect, and so much of myself that can be worked on.  I remind him we are each works of art, works in progress, beautiful in our differences, our imperfections, like every mountain, valley, hill and stream.

Perhaps no more than a momentary perfection is possible.  But we strive to find, to achieve, to be. 

And in the world around us, the world of nature, we see life and death, day and night, summer and winter.  Ever changing, ever recreating, always reminding us of infinite power and wisdom somehow far beyond our reach.  And in these changes, these constant imperfections, we learn to understand that there is where perfection lies.

Reflecting upon nature and life...

Now in summer the game of life and death is played out on her slopes and valleys each day.  Like a snake she shed her skin daily, new beginnings and endings, playing out the cycle of life with each inhale and exhale of the summer winds.

We learn to accept, to let go, to adjust.  Holding on holds us back to a time and place that is no longer.  She changes so swiftly, often in subtle ways; we notice so little.

Looking at the fresh morning through dead trees

The hillside above the Ditch is laden with dead standing spruce from the ravages of beetle kill.  Stark red and grey majestic spires shading a hillside I expected to be green. The sight saddened me at first.  Until I spent so much time in those woods and found the beauty in the lacy branches freed of their needles, dripping with the soft tangles of the old mans beard lichen, a soft and lush and secret forest.

And new life there if plentiful, with the fresh forest growing within the shelter of the old, protected and private, that perhaps we would not see if we were not there within her arms tiptoeing across the soundless forest floor to see the nursery’s bounty in the shade of the mature and once mighty dead trees.

We returned from Ditch Camp to find one of the blue bird boxes knocked over by a bunch of range cows or the folks that come up to mountain to hoot and holler behind them.  At first I was filled with sadness.  I was responsible for providing and failing these birds. Each of the four boxes I had put up was chosen by a pair of bluebirds; each I assume was filled with new life.  This one, now broken on the ground, had three tiny eggs still wrapped in the soft nesting.  I placed the eggs, probably too late now, under the dove in my kitchen who is contentedly sitting on her own eggs. 

A pair of swallows building their nest in an old bluebird box

I rebuilt and moved the box, and await a new family to find it.  The following day as I washed the dishes I watched a pair of swallows move into the old bluebird box in front of my kitchen window.  They have claimed it for their home, perhaps the same couple who has been there for several years, I wonder. We await the new life that promises to emerge shortly.

We participate in the game of life and death on this mountain.  How much are we responsible for?  Or is it easier to just observe and stay apart? 

We take the risk of being part of the mountain. It comes with sadness and loss at times.  It is replaced by joy and birth other times.  The pendulum continues to swing, now with a steady rapid rhythm.  And in winter, it seems to stand still.  Ah, but it moves, so slowly, it moves.

In the early morning watching the sun come down the mountains

Camping is one of those things I know is not for everyone – sleeping just an inch or so off the ground, smoke wafting in your face and ash settling in your food, dirty clothes and fingernails a constant – but I love it.  Call me crazy (you won’t be the first one) but I miss it and long for it by the end of winter, and after the spring rush of roads opening up, the mountain buzzing to life with projects, people, plans, problems… heading to the high country is a welcome relief for me.  Even if it means digging ditch while I’m up there. 

The first night I begin to unwind, relax, let go. I breath and it becomes deep and slow and steady. The high mountain air fills me with its thin but intense richness until I am full, complete, feeling myself and the world around me in away I cannot do with distractions and noises and sights and sounds that remind me of other things I could and should be doing besides just being there.

In the sound of the rushing creek, I still here motors approaching, trucks and ATVs driving up, for which back home I must stop whatever I’m working on. But here, we’re in the Wilderness.  The one with the capital “W.” The magnificent Weminuche Wilderness, the largest of Colorado’s Wilderness areas.  There are no vehicles here.  From our camp, the nearest motors are miles and miles and miles away, except for the occasional over passing plane.  And still, all that first night I mistake the sounds… the creek is the roar of an engine, the stomping of a horses foot is the slamming of a cabin door, the chorus of the birds is the barking dogs and yelling neighbors…

But slowly I learn to hear.  And the rush of the river fills me, the sweet song of the birds whirls around me and surrounds me with relief.  The snort of my horses relieves me, a reminder of how content and relaxed they too are in their high mountain pasture.

The first morning I awake as the tent begins to glow with early silver light.  I bundle in wool and down before heading out of the warm zipped up cocoon of the tent, leaving the sleeping boys and dog behind for another hour or so of well needed sleep, to take the horses from the high line and turn them out to graze.  They are anxious; they nicker excitedly as they see me and paw the ground until it is their turn to be released, always hardest for the last horse tied.

Then I return to the camp, build the fire and put on a big pot of water.  As I await the first cup of “cowboy coffee,”  I wander up the trail, following perhaps an elk trail across the frosty meadow, or meander through a thicket of spruce and sub alpine fir trees, heavy and lush with the rich ground amassed from years of undisturbed growth.  I return to camp as the coffee has boiled, pour a cup, stoke the fire, sit quiet and still and listen.  It is loud. The birds – I can not make them all out there are so many in those early morning hours – create a wild but joyous cacophony throughout the surrounding treetops.  The river runs stronger in the morning, roaring loudly to one side of camp.  If I listen clearly, I can discern this from the sound of the gentle brook flowing on the other side, the one from which I gather our camp waters and from which our horses drink.

The fire begins to warm me.  I sit and listen.  And for but a moment, there is wanting for nothing else.

In the parks above our ranch, looking back towards Simpson Mountain.

Life is busy now.  Days are full and never long enough. Light lasts late and we strive to have our energy keep up with the extended days. No time to write lists, we go straight into action each day, do what we can get done; we know we will catch up one day and can make a list then, so much shorter it will be, of the tasks that will remain undone.

It is a time of growth, new life, lush pastures and blooming hillsides, of melting high ground and abundant rain. Of projects buried all winter now exposed before us and racing ahead for us to keep up, to catch up.  All before the onset of summer, when the heat weighs heavy and slows us down, and days are filled with the unhurried easy work of… chatting!

I am still working on the art of small talk. It has never come natural to me. Our dinner conversations with the three of us are, more often than not… quiet.  Yet I care so much for our guests, and have been trying to learn throughout the years to overcome the shyness that follows me from the simple silence of my winters.  Such a drastic change the seasons bring!

To the “neighbors” I have found here, from Vermont, New Hampshire, North Carolina, West Virginia, Texas, Oregon… we may find it hard to keep up at such times, to check in to see how spring is progressing in your back yard, on your mountain, near your river, at your kitchen table… but I believe we have learned to care.  We know there is a time to reach out, a time to withdraw, a time to push, and a time to let it go.  If we are too busy to write, we know winter will come again… none of us can hold back the change of seasons.  None of us want to. It gives me great comfort to know you are there.  I hope it does for you as well.  I know of no one who is truly alone.

This season challenges our time, how we use it, manage it, struggle to keep up with it, and find enough sleep after our bodies crave it so powerfully at the end of each day. At this stage of my life, I can always strive to do more, be more, give more.  There is little satisfaction in achievement.  We know it is temporary.  There is more to strive for daily. New goals to set after each one is reached.  No matter how simple each seems to be, it is a matter of forward motion, which is something we can not deny in our lives, except perhaps for the very young, and the very old.

As a woman, I give. It is my nature, and I am not complete without.  The need to give is great, it is deep, it is old.  It is part of what defines me, part of what includes me with other women, from the beginning of time…

I write this on one hand, and realize how wrong I am to generalize on the other.  How many women have I met that still prefer to take?  How many men do I know that give more of themselves than many women do?

The mountain does not give.  She remains firm, indifferent. She does not wrap me in her arms but allows me to follow the path up her sides.  She does not sooth me with sweet words, but allows the birds to sing me a secret lullaby, early in the darkest hours of morning, with the first hint of fading stars. She does not shelter me from the elements but allows them to flow past and if I watch, I too can learn to let the seasons roll over me as they do to her.  And somehow remain the same.

But nothing really stays the same, now does it?

Reflections in the frog pond

A friend writes to share an ancient Chinese expression, at once considered a curse and a proverb: “May you live in interesting times.”

How appropriate to reflect on, for we do now, don’t we?

Interesting times.  Now seems especially interesting, or perhaps, are my eyes just more open as I reach out for support getting through our hard times, and realize there is no one I speak to (or rather, usually write to) that is not experiencing hard times of their own, in one way or another?

Another friend writes, “Everyone has their ‘situation’ to deal with.” And this goes beyond the realm of the difficult economy and job situation.  Is no one unaffected by some ‘situation’ or another, be it financial, health, marriage, family, neighbors…? No.  She is correct.  We all have our ‘situations’ to deal with, don’t we? Perhaps it is these situations, these challenges, these interesting times, which open our eyes, our minds, our hearts, and at the same time, bring us together?

Even in the most idyllic of worlds, ‘situations’ arise, fester if only within our minds, and follow us throughout our day.  Even here, in this pastoral mountain world where nature and beauty abound, we are not free from ‘situations.’ I have lived in many places, and never seen so closely the anger and hatred, lies and sadness that haunt this land, based on what?  A mother who chose to divide her family as she divides a land she holds more dear than her children?  I don’t know. I am convinced now I will never understand. In a land of magnificence and a pristine environment in which to raise our child, our home, our garden and horses and business, our life; hatred is just a fence away. There are a few ‘situations’ we will never comprehend, we will never be able to fix.  All we can do is walk away.  The land is indifferent.  Our loved ones are not.

Is there no perfection in this world? Do we spend a lifetime seeking what we may not find?

We go through our spells where the world seems magical, perfect and without ‘situations.’  These moments are fleeting, but often last long enough to remind us what we are seeking, what we are working towards. Perhaps like the carrot before our nose. Those moments are ones of true peace and contentment.  We are not longing, not wanting, not seeking; not hurting, not living with pain or fear.  Are these moments random or chance, or visions of what life can be if we learn to control our emotions?  We can not control the world around us, circumstances that affect us.  All we can control is how (and if) we react and feel.  Those things we can control, although I can’t say I know how yet.

Ultimately, we are reminded that life is not about the past. It is about now; a compilation of past experiences, future plans, and present situations. And now is constantly changing. Still, we find ourselves so reluctant!  It is scary.  It is hard.  But it is also exciting, and fresh, and necessary.  Without change, we remain like still water and in time, turn stagnant.

At times, I cling desperately to the past, to a situation which was once so comfortable.  But I see it is no longer there, it is but a memory to grasp on to, and learn to find comfort in the new world around me, in the new day.  Change reminds us of what is really important. Nothing teaches us more than the challenges of change.  Standing still, we know it all.

Change is a vital ingredient to life.  It can be simple and subtle at times.  Or harsh and drastic.  Waves in the sea, fluctuating with the wind, with the weather, with the moon.  We strive to stay afloat.

Evening clouds over the Rio Grande

Gazing up at Pole Mountain in May

How quickly spring comes and plays her magic on the mountain.  Winter comes and stays for months; summer just for weeks. Spring and fall are not seasons of staying, but of changing, of transformation, a quiet but rapid revolution of the land.

Lost Trail Creek running off with the snow from the high country.

Into the woods I wandered, hearing the crunch of dried leaves and branches fallen from last year, having been hidden for months, now dry beneath the newly exposed ground. The rivulets that were rushing throughout every low and steep draw last week have already come to an end, yet the creek flows heavy and strong with the melt off now from the snow covered peaks reaching well above tree line.

Even in the high country where the snow has cleared the path for the new growth, a faint but unmistakable green tint is visible. How quickly the changes must progress here, with the fleeting time frame. The succession of the seasons runs by so quickly, and rests only for a deep breath in the warmth of summer with the lazy long sunlit evenings; and then for a while, a deep sleep after the snow has come and covered the mountain with the gentle, calming blanket of winter. Otherwise, she moves rapidly, rushing out the cycle of life in such a brief but wildly fertile spell.

Iris buds: The promise of blooming

I found a single patch of iris already putting out their buds.  A promise of life, a promise of the burst of color, of the short but intense battle to bloom in this high and mighty land.

Lost in the whirlwind of the changing seasons, part of the movement and flow, no time to settle into stagnant waters. Suddenly September was within me again.  I felt the same sunlight on my cheeks, the crisp chill in the air, the excitement and anticipation of the change of seasons.  How odd to forget which way we were changing, which direction we flow.

I daydreamed of the elk, of the journeys and adventures that hunting season takes us on, as I hiked by a little grove that is often the last place we say farewell to our neighborhood elk each December, before the snow drives the last of them to lower ground.

And just then, before me, a crashing through the trees revealed three or four elk, red as the bark of the spruce trees in the fresh new summer coats. Some of the first back to their mountain, waiting to be in that sweet grass on the other side of the trail.

Looking back at our home on a May afternoon

On the other side River Hill the Aspen leaves are opening, crowing the silver branches with a pale green haze, soft as smoke wafting around up the hillside, a promise of what will be rising up the mountain, day by day, as the season inches its way higher.

Baby geese are all already out swimming with their proud parents around Road Canyon reservoir where the ice fishermen were what seems like just yesterday.

And a single bald eagle soars down from the rocky, austere face of Bristol Head mountain to the ponds in the flats where the elk winter.

All this and more on a quick trip to the vet to pull the stitches from the well healed Malakitty, no longer looking much like a Frankenkitty.

Would I be less complete if I missed the changing of the seasons?  Would I feel out of place if I failed to notice the swollen tips of the budding branches ready to burst forth with new life, new leaves?

I have moved plenty and long for solid grounding. That which comes with the seeing, feeling, understanding and being a part of the change of seasons. The completeness of the cycle each year. Is it the longing for acceptance, perhaps, the wish to be a part of the land? Or maybe the ability to blend in as unpretentious and natural as the deer in the woods? It has become an important part of me, to allow myself to be and change with the seasons, with the land, and yet, I can not get too comfortable.  The impermanence of life on the mountain looms large all around me.

At what point do we really know the land?  The mountain can look and feel the same when we remain looking from the same perspective, the same point of view, and same time every day, every year.

I could stay home and look at the same view from my front porch day after day and the mountain would seem rather simple and similar. But when we start to go out into her, to explore every hill and draw, trail and off trail route we can find, our eyes open up.  We begin to see how little we really know.  How small and insignificant we really are. How unimportant our need for importance really is.

To be out there, to feel the seasons change, be a part of the transformations. There allows the completeness of the circle.  There are great mysteries, but no voids. Empty space is replaced with intimacy, understanding, acceptance.

Suddenly it is warm again.  I do evening chores in shirt sleeves.  I consider changing my jeans for shorts mid day (but I don’t go there more than a time or two every summer, as my bright white legs will attest).

The mountain has turned temperate and easy. She spills forth with abundance and life, with energy and color, with open rivers and trails.