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

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

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

Bob finishing the chinking around the new little window

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

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

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

Boys in the bunks

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

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

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

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

Ah… here I go… distracted and dreaming again…

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

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

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

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

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

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

A break in the storm in evening. Alan down outside the Little Cabin.

In a peaceful clear of the early evening, a lull in the storm and a break in the clouds, we go down to the Little Cabin, the three of us and Alan, and begin housekeeping.  Sweeping up cob webs and chinking knocked from between the old logs during the Big Move.  We pull down old shelving and expose the weathered Spruce walls, opening up the past, the present, the future. All at once with such simple motions as running a broom across a log wall.  As we clear the past, clean the past, we feel it is ours, and we begin to build a new.

A tiny cabin, only 12×15 feet inside, I suppose.  And all the room we need.  We need no more.  We want no more.  We plan a place for everything, and our dreams begin to form to reality as the wood cook stove warms us and the air freshens with the windows opened just wide enough, and the cleaning and clearing expose for us the clean slate, the open canvas that is this little cabin, that is our lives.

We grill our hotdogs outside over coals from burning scraps of wood, and return to the haven of our cabin as the rain returns. Inside, now warm and dry, we roast our marshmallows over the embers of the wood stove; and enjoy our s’mores while listening to the rain beat down on the tin roof, drowning out the roar of the river so near, though we gaze dreamily through the rain streaked window at the raging flow below us.

roasting marshmallows over the wood cook stove inside the Little Cabin

In our own silence, we sit and listen to this perfect world around us, and the stove continues to warm us as we shed our damp coats. I hear Alan’s heavy and relaxed breath, as he sleeps so completely content on his dog bed beside us.  This is when his world is best, like when we work at camp and spend so many nights close together in the tent.  His world is simple and safe and right.  Everything most important is close at hand.  His life does not get better. All that matters most is here.

We understand.  We feel the same. Without the pressures of the outside world for as long as we can put that off.

As we begin to talk of plans to build in a kitchen table and bunk beds, we find everything we need can be right here, within these tiny walls.  There is no need for more.  We have had so much more; it does not bring us what is most important.

I wonder for those who build bigger and bigger and bigger if they are ultimately seeking to find, to feel, that thing which is so hard to find, deep inside, which really can not be built or bought.  One house, two house, three houses… and still they can not find it. 

The windows now are streaked with rain; the outside world a vague blur.  We are closed inside our own little world.  It is not the view from the window that brings us this joy, this peace, this contentment. We remember feeling the same zipped inside a tent, or gathered in a hotel room on a road trip together. It is not the mountain which bring us together, brings us this sense of inner harmony. How many count on the land to relieve them of their burden, when what I see is that the burden will follow as the heavy load you create it to be no matter where you are, if that is the bundle you choose to carry.  What matters most?  Some still don’t know.

Sitting in that cabin, as the rain pours down and the light of the day fades and we chatter away among the three of us, making big plans for such a simple little cabin, we remember what matters most.

The old wood cook stove, hooked up and fired up for the first time in years.

I try to be practical. I’m not one for collecting (except maybe horses?) or keeping things just for show.  A wood cook stove sitting around just looking pretty to me is… a waste of space.  I want it hooked up, fired up, and baking!  Yesterday, we had the opportunity to revive the life of an old stove, and in turn, bring the Little Cabin by the Big River to life.

There’s something about a wood stove that warms you to your bones better than anything.  It’s the real deal.  Fire. 

Growing up, we had a fire place.  It was big and open and put out heat if you pretty much sat inside it.  But ten feet away and you’d be chilled again.  Kind of like a camp fire on a chilly night, you know? But wood stoves are so much more efficient. Having lived with woodstoves for my primary heat source for the past two decades, I’d say nothing warms you deep inside, and warms up your cabin, quite like it. 

Add to the wonderful warmth, these old cook stoves work.  Those of you who have used them know – they take a little getting used you, but before long, you feel lucky to be standing there frying the bacon while being so comfortable and warm, with no more effort than that of feeding a few sticks of wood every once in a while.  So simple.  So efficient.  So warm!

Anyway, we got the old stove in through the door of the Little Cabin. Had to turn the stove on its side to slide it through, but didn’t even have to take the door off the hinges.  The boys climbed up onto the old roof (in need of new roofing, no doubt on the list as finances allow), opened up the hole in the roof and got the chimney hooked up through there.

Although it was a blustery day and the smoke blended with the grey of the sky and moved so quickly in the spring wind, you can just see the smoke wafting from the stove pipe. I wanted to see that since we moved the Little Cabin down there.  Something about seeing the little drift of smoke rising from the chimney symbolized life inside the cabin. 

And indeed, we were warm inside. Alan quickly found his place by the stove.

We sat there listening to the “snap, crackle, pop” of the wood, and the roar of the Big River so close by, and the rain began to fall and everything felt very right.  No doubt, it was home, if only for the few moments we remained and rested there.

Smoke coming from the stove pipe...

The clothes drier

This is my clothes drier. It is not fancy. It’s next to my bed, up in the loft, where the hot air from the wood stove rises, so clothes do dry quickly. Usually in 12 hours or so. In the summer, before the monsoon season, I use my outdoor drier:  a line strung between two Aspen trees, with old cinches for “tree savers” and recycled phone cable for the line. I can say it’s all very “green” and I can feel a part of the modern world.

Our humidifier

This is my humidifier. It runs on wood heat and water from the tap, but costs nothing to operate. No moving parts or motors; nothing to break or fix or replace. The stove goes every morning and most every night, all year long; the humidifier is filled daily. One more ritual in a simple life.

I think of how many we have, those of us who chose to spend the day raising and growing and cooking our own food, teaching our own kids, building our own home. The day is filled with the little chores. It turns into one big chore. And at the end of the day, we are tired; we sit at our table and have so much to be grateful for.  Most of which is being here together. We look around and see so directly the fruits of our labor. The table, the shelving, the fencing, the chicken coop, the trained horses, the corrals and barn.  Our home, our business, our life.  Right here before us.

They say the finer things in life are free.  I don’t agree.  They cost a great deal.  But not with money.  They cost with time, with labor, with love.  In that case, we have spent a fortune, but the rewards have paid off.  We are rich with those essential wealths; we are bursting with plenty. 

Look around your home, your life. I bet you are too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I look around my home and continue to find little things I can pass on.  Books to a neighbor, clothes to a thrift store, a plate full of cookies from an extra large batch.

That part is easy.  After all, it is just “stuff.”  An ongoing house cleaning, never ending as we always seem to acquire new things as we give the old away. But there is far more to giving than a simplifying of our lives and of the clutter around us.

I suppose it’s just part of human nature, a trait within us all that creates a smile as we give a gift. You know that sense inside. You feel good. I’m not saying giving is selfish.  We are not motivated to do it because of how it makes us feel. But when we do give, there is that special reward that follows. It is a simple way of making our world just a little bit better. One gift at a time.

I do not give enough. It has been a challenge to find ways and means to give, to reach out, to volunteer from such a remote location. Sure, I could send checks in mail or donations over the internet, I know… but what if I want to give the most valuable gift of all: my time?

Last New Years, the start of 2008, the three of us made resolutions not about giving up, but about giving. Volunteering. Finding ways and means to give of ourselves when we live so remotely was not easy. What could we do from such a distance that would still hopefully help in some small way?

The lover of the land that I am, I signed up for environmental program monitoring frogs on the mountain (yes, we do have frogs!).  With a brother serving over in Afghanistan, Bob agreed to mail over packages of our used clothing for the needy over there.

Forrest decided to grow his hair to donate to Locks of Love. He estimated it would take a year to reach the minimum required length of ten inches. It took longer than expected, but this week he finally reached his goal.  We had the cutting ceremony, and then trimmed up what was left behind. The long hair had become an annoyance at times, yet he had a commitment, and a responsibility to fulfill.  He chose to wait it out, and was rewarded by being able to present a gift representing time.

Before...

...and after.

We stress the importance to Forrest of giving, teaching by example and by encouragement of his actions. It continues to be a challenge from up here, but with creativity, he finds ways.  Last winter, he was able to participate in the organized efforts to feed the elk suffering from the extremely harsh winter. This year, he helped out a neighbor, staying alone on their ranch caring for their menagerie. He has written the CDOW officer who covers this area and requested if there was any way he could help out from up here on the mountain. Unfortunately in this case, the CDOW officer has yet to write back. I ask myself what kind of person can ignore a 15 year old kid who writes with hopes of volunteering? There are always disappointments. Perhaps we should be hardened to such. As one friend says, we can expect the disappointments, expect to be disappointed in life.  And when we are not, we can be pleasantly surprised.  I don’t know if I want to go through life like that. I truly believe in more. I expect more.  And I’m willing to give more. So yes, I also may be hurt more.

And yet, just when we are about to give up hope in our fellow man…

A few weeks ago, I lost a two year old horse. A group of very special friends, a volunteer group called Paws to Go from the Fellowship Church, took their time to write me notes, simple words of understanding. When I received each one in the mail, it was like getting a hug or an understanding hand on my shoulder. It was a beautiful gesture and a great help to me to know I was not alone in my grieving. A reminder to me of what positive effects our acts of thoughtfulness and kindness can have on each other. And then, to consider what each of them might be going through?  There are good people.  I do not give up hope.

And so I am reminded of people who can give, even when they may be in greater need than myself.  And reminded what a beautiful thing the gift of time can be – even if it is a simple act of sending a caring note in the mail.

I have plenty to give, though I need to remember to take the time to give the most valuable things I have:  my time

It is so easy to find excuses; I do not have enough time.  Perhaps I do not take enough time.  But when we remember what a difference our time can make…

These are interesting times. Hard times for many.  Yet I see it bringing out the best in so many.  Perhaps we all need a shake up every once in a while to stop and take a look around and remember how much we have, remember how much we still can give.

Amassing more and more stuff.

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

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

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

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

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

An aspen grove in fall color

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

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

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

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

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

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

The life and death of trees in the forest

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

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

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

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

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

That feeling like a heavy sigh, a deep breath, letting it out, letting it go…that feeling of knowing you made it through the winter.

Yearling horse, Bayjura, looking out onto the pasture of snow. Does she know it will be green some day?

Animals feel it, the ravens, the coyotes, the rabbits sitting unhurried in the morning air, even the horses. I don’t know if we humans usually are aware, probably many of us who live where winters are long know this feeling well. Some years it is gradual, a slow letting go of the breath as the snow leisurely melts and the leaves gradually open on the Aspen trees. One breath replaced by another without us conscious of the effort. Other years it is a gasp for fresh air, sucking through a cold morning chill, anxious for what we know will come and somehow seem to need. Most years, like most things, it’s somewhere in between…

The air was just a little softer this morning, the wind still, the sun over the mountain had a gentle comfort to it that we all had not felt for many months.  I felt it, the horses felt it, and together we sighed, we smiled.  We made it.

Three generations of horses, enjoying the sun as they take their mid morning nap. Two feet of snow still on the ground, but a promise of spirng in the air...

There was a promise of spring, so faint only those of us who have endured the long winters could sense, but we all have, and though we know we could endure more, we felt this promise, and knew the end was near.  We would be lying on green grass in the heat of the sun as a warm breeze blows over us.  A promise of seasons to end and seasons to change, and we all felt it in the air.

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

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

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

1.  what do we need?

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

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

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

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

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

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

the kitchen table

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

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

the pantry and the pastry counter

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

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

The Rio Grande Pyramid, seen from tree line on Pole Mountain, on a snowshoe that brought me there yesterday.

Nature heals. Despite our efforts to contain, conquer, dominate, and take everything we can from her, she remains steadfast in her cycles, in her growth, in her death. When we allow ourselves to just be in nature without motives and goals and demands, there is a natural acceptance.  We become part of the bigger picture.  I can not imagine a better state of inner peace.

Thus when we feel inside stirred, in turmoil, anxious, what could be more soothing than being in nature?  Not sitting on your front porch and staring at it, or taking a Sunday drive and seeing it fly by your windows.  That’s not quite it, but that is a start.  Get off the porch or out of the car, and go out to the woods and walk.  Or down to the stream to fish.  Or up to the mountains alone and then sit and listen. She is never far away, but we often don’t look. I have even seen magnificent sun sets that sooth the soul while sitting on the west piers of NYC.  No one else was there to see it, or no one stopped to see.

My need for nature and solitude is strong.  When I become restless, I go out – on horseback, on snow shoe, on foot.  I do not need goals or motives.  I just go. It is not important that with each step I get closer to an objective.  It is more that with each step I am farther away. Climb yet another nameless peak in our big back yard, one where I can be absolutely certain I would not see another human being. No path, no trails, no tracks except perhaps from coyotes and rabbits. A group of chickadees excited to see me, and one single grey jay surprisingly indifferent to my presence.

I would like to share with you today a poem written by a friend, Dick Sederquist.  This poem is from a book compiled of Dick’s writings entitled “Hiking Out,” a collection of short stories and essays “from the heart, about family, friendship, adventure, hiking, travel, overcoming adversity, surviving depression, about forgiveness and moving on.” If you have a moment when you’re done reading this, please take a look at his web site at http://www.hikingout.com/ .  In the meanwhile, I hope you enjoy this, and hope you remember the healing powers of nature.

DOWNHILL

I plunge downhill  avoiding

the spruce traps that could suck you in

and discharge you next spring.

My  snowshoes are like skis.

I am floating 10 feet above where I would stand in summer.

I stop and  sink  and  sit.

Silence, my son looks back  and sits himself.

No words, none needed, I feel the chill on my legs.

I see the vast gulf below me, two hours ago I was looking up

wading up this deep hill, my face almost touching the snow

wondering if we’d find the summit.

Now we are going back down to where we started

an endless cycle of discovery.

The summit was there, it looked like the highest point,

but it was nothing compared to the up and the down

and the pause above this gulf with my son.

Written and with permission by Dick Sederquist,

Years ago, I worked in the Dude Ranch industry and attended the annual Dude Ranch convention.  You can imagine the topics we discussed: from the importance of meticulous cleaning; to horse back riding safety; to how being in a business where our job is to give so much of ourselves to our guests affects our marriage and our family life, and how to keep this all in balance.

Our ranch here is a Guest Ranch, not a Dude Ranch.  The difference is huge: our guests come here to enjoy the land, the mountain, the river, and “their” cabin.  They don’t come here for us, or to expect round the clock entertaining. Time we spend with our guests is our choice – we do it because we like them, and like spending time with them, not because it’s part of the package.

However, in the middle of our main summer season, we often find we have spent a great deal of time with other folks – between visiting with our guests, chatting with tourists who stop by, and caring for our outfitting clients.  Although we enjoy it, you can imagine what a tremendous change this is from our “off” season times, when it is just the three of us alone on the mountain together.  So, no matter how much we enjoy our guests and time visiting with our seasonal neighbors, it is a big adjustment for us.  One we make readily and happily, but we have learned the importance of when to say when.  We ask ourselves, if I give this part of me, will I feel good about it, or feel like I gave too much?  The last thing we need to do is resent others because we put out too much.  Others will assume our resentment is directed at them, when of course, in reality, it should be directed at ourselves.  We were not aware enough of our own needs and boundaries to respect ourselves, and our guests.  So, we try to pay attention to such things, and if we start to feel that gut reaction of “warning: violation” growing inside, it’s time to say “no.”

There are so many businesses that you may be a part of that are similar – businesses based on serving others. (Probably the most common of such jobs is that of being mother and/or housewife.) If we know our limits, I believe we are better at our job.  If we take the time to care for ourselves and those things or people that are most dear to us first, then we tend to have more to give to others.  If we neglect our own needs and give too much, we are exhausted, resentful and simply wiped out.

My intention this morning was not to ramble on about all this, but actually to share one way we found of insuring we took time for us, for our own little family, by closing the door for just one night a week to our neighbors and guests. And by the way, no one even usually notices, so that alone taught us how easy it is to take the time, and how well everyone understands your need for time together or alone!

About two years ago now, we started Family Night. One night a week, we take time to do something special, just the three of us. We alternate weeks. If it is your week, you get to decide what special event to do that evening, as well as cook dinner. For me, that’s easy, as I’m usually in charge of dinner and evening entertainment. But for the boys, it’s been more challenging. Forrest has learned to cook!  And Bob, who was never much for making a big deal of dating or romantic endeavors, has come up with some pretty fun and spontaneous evenings (from spa night to Bob’s tostada bar).

Throughout the two years, we have had all kinds of special evenings together. Simple is fine – it doesn’t have to be a big deal or a big production, as long as we just take the time. We have spent evenings together just reading a specific article or story aloud together, or horseback riding to a picnic spot; playing board games, or watching a movie on DVD; practicing dancing, or singing Christmas carols. We haven’t missed one week – I know because we mark the dates on the calendar. There have been a few weeks, of course, when we have had to double up either the week before or the week after, but we always catch up and take the time.  We make the time.

Last night, it was my turn.  We had a dinner of homemade pizza (oh – I should share that recipe with you tomorrow!), then I had Bob jump on his snowmobile and bring a box I had previously packed down to the Little Cabin.  When he returned, we all bundled up in warm winter gear, called Alan Shepherd (loudly, his hearing is not what it once was), and walked along our snow covered new road down to the Little Cabin.

The moon was directly over head, just over half full, and so bright reflecting on the white world around us.  So although we had headlamps with us, there was no need for any additional light than that of the silver glow of moonlight.

When we arrived at the Little Cabin, everyone had a job. I gave Forrest a big knife, and asked him to go to the willow bushes and cut us three long roasting sticks.  Bob and I unpacked the bag, lit a candle in the Little Cabin, and got a fire going out front where the porch will be, in a portable grill (sure beats digging through two feet of snow to try to find dry ground on which to build!).  We pulled up three chairs that remained in the cabin throughout the move, set them up in the snow before the cabin. There in the snow on the bluff above the river, in the crispy frozen night air, with nothing but the light of the fire and the light of the moon, we roasted our marshmallows and had s’mores for dessert.

Roasting s'mores in the moonlight in front of the Little Cabin by the Big River