on the Rio Grande at Brewster Park

Down by the river I flow while the water stands solid beneath me. Here, we are supported. Still we stand on the white expanse and listen.  A murmur of life below. Is that Thalia I hear beneath the surface, tempting me to join her?

It has been years since I had a dog who can keep up with me. I am enjoying the more distant explores this year. But have I ever had one who can sit and listen, enjoy the moment and ask for nothing for now, only to soak it all in as this one does? What a wonderful companion I have.

I think of how many come here to fish in summer, standing in free flowing waters with their waiters and hip boots, tossing lines to dance on the water’s facade.  And how little “use” one has here for winter.  Peace and solitude hold only so much value.  We tend to choose more excitement, brighter lights, and louder noises.  (Perchance warmer places, too.) Stimulation provided for us, not created by mind and nature. Our senses left dormant where here they can breathe.

The banks and adjacent hillsides are littered with droppings and tracks of the moose that were scattered here yesterday, high tailing it for the trees, as a low flying helicopter broke the peace, hovering over the frozen river, scanning the hillsides, back and forth. From our kitchen window we watched a bull moose run through the deep snow on the north side and seek shelter in the trees, only to be chased back out again twenty minutes later as the helicopter changed its course.

We call it wildlife harassment.  I believe they call it “counting elk.”  Funny they wouldn’t think of the simpler method – asking those of us who live where the elk do for answers. Perhaps our answers are considered too simple.  I have found local views hold less value than facts and figures filed behind a big desk.  Living with the wild life, one sees and understands more than many a report will tell you.  But learning to look… I’ve been thinking of that often lately.  Our inability to see.  We see what we expect to be there. We find more comfort in the safety of seeing what we expect to see, not what is really there. It is a blindness we all must battle.  Seeing is not always easy.

Ah, but who am I to say?  I don’t see the elaborate reports.  I don’t look. A blindness for which I am at fault.  I only see the magnificence around me, and look at the finest of details.  I hope to miss nothing.  It all holds value.

We return home among longer shadows along the packed snowmobile track, the half moon rising in the ridiculously blue sky over the tops of the trees peppering the hillside.

Have you ever heard the shivering aspen with their intricate silver tips trembling naked in the frigid winter wind?

The ptarmigan (photo by Bob)

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

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

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

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

Ptarmigan in flight

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

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

A ptarmigan deep in the snow

The Rio Grande Pyramid from Pole Mountain

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

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

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

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

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

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

I do not want more.

Below the ranch looking up

another frozen creek bed

We await snow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...yet willow buds begin to swell

Ice flowing where once did water.

The land is dry. 

What once flowed freely is freezing mid stream, caught in its course, suspended in an interrupted surge, as the streams solidify, each into a leaden grey mass like congealed molten lava.

The flow of water is arrested in ice.  No more than a trickle slips beneath the thick surface and carries down the mountainside. You can hear the seep so faint as you stand by the ice flow, that which was once an open creek, hold your breath and listen. 

Little water makes it to the Big River. She is muted, subdued now, with a burdensome coat of ice weighing heavy upon her breast as she lies back and rests with long shadows of low sunlight above her and the smooth and sluggish freezing flow beneath.  Suppressed streams still faintly feed her.  Her hunger subsides.  She too closes her eyes, turns within, and sleeps.

the freezing of the Rio Grande.

Looking north from the road above the ranch.

A Stellar Jay perches on the corner of the railing and calls to me with his raspy voice.  It is winter, he is telling me, it is time to begin feeding again.  The transient birds have passed through. The juncos and crows dwindle in numbers. Only the Stellars, chickadees, a few magpies and a pair of ravens will remain.

Days are noticeably shorter now.  At 4:30, the sun lowers behind the western edge of Ute Ridge.  Within a month, that will be closer to 3:30. The next few weeks leading up to Solstice brings a dramatic change.  Even mid day the sun will be low in the sky to the south, the shadows long.  The ground is allowed to freeze, sending a chill deeper and deeper into the soil.  The earth exhales for last time this year, a slow heavy sigh like a distant moan, a mysterious wailing from far away through the woods, and sleeps.

Dormancy on the mountain.  Denied only by our human mind.  Nature accepts this.  We can not. Our lives must go on regardless of the season and according to our schedules, despite nature’s quiet calls, our tired feelings, our lowered energy, the expanding darkness and cold.  We turn instead to electric lights and another cup of coffee.

The Aspen stand bare and grey, sap stops running and the life energy sinks down deep in the roots.  Mid day when the warmth of the sun is however scarcely alive and well, if only just in her soft low light, the black tailed tree squirrels still chatter from their safe perch on the Blue Spruce as we walk underneath going about our business.  Soon they too will sleep for the season.  Few will stay, remain active, and alive. The coyote will continue stripping the last of the season’s carrion, digging and pouncing for mice shuffling in the dried grasses pressed beneath the deepening layers of snow.  We watch from a distance. So much labor for a tiny reward. The ease of summer has passed.

The mountain sheds her pretence of vibrancy, and allows herself a long season of sleep. I anticipate these changes, am learning what to expect, and enjoy the transformations in the world around me that I know will be there.

Lowered sunlight, longer nights, lessened daytime. The dormant season.  Our bodies are aware of it, our minds deny it, and our souls hunger for the quiet repose if we only allow ourselves to listen. But chances are, we will ignore it, fight it, deny it, and try to rise above what nature is trying to tell us.

Winter approaches like foam riding the waves in a deep sea, still so far from the shore.  Our emotions follow suit with the ups and downs.  There is balance only in time, evening out the extremes. The snow paints the pasture white one moment; the next it aspirates into the cold, dry winds and returns us to the dried, brown grasses.  The air has a chill about it now, even as we stand in the paling sunlight with her elongated shadows she tosses across the horizon. 

We have a resolve about us as we wait for “the big one” – the one everyone talks about, builds up, turns into another approaching doom.  We have learned to hesitate with expectations.  I try to refrain from assuming I know what my mountain will do. The more I am with her, the more I know her, the more I see my significance.  I have no control.  I learn to accept. 

A drastic and dramatic time of change, for the mountain, for wildlife, for us, filled with anticipation and apprehension, a natural unease of remaining when all others have left. We get over it.  We settle in like the frost in the ground, deeper every day, and become a part of what we choose.

I suppose the first few years we felt a looming sense of trepidation, following us around in so many questions and eyes and inside our own minds.  Stories of those who had tried and left.  Anxieties of sub-zero temperatures and snow so deep one could be buried alive by stepping off track, made bigger always by the tales of others. The unknown.

It is no longer unfamiliar, though always different, always changing. We learn not to expect, but do our best to adjust.  Making plans, dreaming, such a vital part of life, of truly living, here has been a great challenge, learning what little control we have in our own hands, as we work around the weather, around the constant trials of a sorry history grasping strong and tight, clawing for its last hold.

The air space within our view becomes more still as most birds have gathered and gone. The crows remain, cleaning the last of the carrion from this autumn’s kills.  The Stellar Jays stare in the window and wonder when I will break down and begin my winter feeding.  I tell them the skiff of snow and single digit morning temperatures do not qualify as hard times yet.  They must wait.  They too are plenty prepared. They know what to expect, know how to survive.  They do not need me, but always enjoy the ritual of the morning hand out.  Throughout the winter, they are more punctual than I am, and chastise me when I sleep in.

Our pantry is stocked, the hay barn full, and firewood piled in seemingly decadent abundance.  We sleep well at night and wait.

Looking down from a distance at the headwaters of the Rio Grande

Your river calls you, sings softly to you, lures you like the Piper

And into her arms you go and flow

Enwrapped like a sleeping babe

Your toes curl and dig in warm sands

My river is cold

Kept and far away

Though right there before me

She allows me to look but not touch

Her icy depths go unfound

She does not beckon me

But chants to me in the distant hours

In a lonely wail of wild ways

And ancient wisdom where earth and sky merge

Full of answers for which I know not even the questions

And still I ask

And still I stare

And still I remain before her

And appeal for more

a twist in the river

I sit by the river

And watch the metallic spark

Of the setting sun

Define each coil and curve

Of the surge of the river

Flowing like molten steel

Burning a path through the open flats

Burning a path though our simple lives

With nothing more to do here and now

Than watch the perpetual course.

Last light of the day

We grasp onto it

With both hands

In desperation

Afraid to lose what we once had

Forgetting that tomorrow

We will have something new

Is it this innovation that frightens us?

This is not the end of the day

But the beginning of feeding time

As the elk emerge from the solace of black timber

Once again trusting the exposed meadows

In the renewed silent static darkening

Shetler of the open places.

On the other side of the river in the naked flats

Afraid to let go of the consolation of light

A formation of geese

Shine silver against the indigo sky

In the last of the luminosity

As they fly so loudly

To their near by sanctuary

Calling it a day

As the light readies to fade to black.

Before the sun lowers itself behind the mountain

To the west from where this water flows

I watch rays of sunshine casting horizontal shadows

Long and lean and sharp

Lying like knives in a drawer

Across the edge of tree line

And then it is gone

The river turns black and cold and still.

Another storm rolling up to the Divide on Weminuche Pass

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After the sun goes down behind the Rio Grande Pyramid

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

So mornings on the mountain…

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

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

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

Horses grazing, a morning at ditch camp

Hands in wool mittens

Wrapped tightly as if in prayer

Cradled around the chipped enamel cup

Half full with steaming coffee

Closer to the fire I sit each day

Absorbing the heat of the flames

Through layer upon layer of smoke scented

And soot covered clothes

Noises of the ranch

Follow me so far from home

Generators, vehicles, voices,

Bells and whistles and alarms

But this morning is nearly silent

There is little noise

It is quieter

More still

Colder now

In the hush of early morning

With only the fire and the distant creek

To break the calm

I note the absence of the robins

The song birds have left the high country

Now there are only the ravens

To share the motionless and chilled morning air

An urgency in their call

As they search and scour the hillside

For heat and light

Food and shelter

Even the horses nearly panic

Tight and tense as I lead them two by two

Down to the meadow after a night in the trees

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

Is overwhelming

As they await the sun

Slowly inching down the mountain

Across the meadow toward them

Standing their like sundials

Broad side to the sun

Awaiting

Finally calm and relaxed and warm

Finally at peace

They rest their heads and breathe

They are here only because of me

Perhaps the ravens too

Cleaning up the scraps of dinner

I ask myself what I am doing here?

How much longer will I too remain?

Riding up the mountain with full packs

It was just another day of work. Or as my old boss and friend used to say just about every day on another mountain where I once lived and worked, another beautiful day in paradise.  I don’t take my appreciation for where I am, what I do, and that my body holds up most of the time to allow me to do this, lightly.  There is rarely a day that goes by that something about the work, the mountain, the horses, my family, or perhaps even all of these things, does not fill me with joy and gratitude.  Just as I never want to stop “seeing” things fresh and new.  This is my eighth year living and working in these mountains.  I came here, and stayed here.  We have struggled to make it work, despite financial and family disorders. It has been a labor of love.

And as I look around the mountain that surrounds us, that cradles us in her arms, the beauty nearly overwhelms me. Every day. I hope that feeling never stops.  I don’t believe it will.  It’s a matter of how we choose to look at it all.  A matter of taking to time to look, you know?  Because when we open our eyes, really open them, we also open our heart.  And then we not only see the mountain, but we feel it.  And then the beauty of the mountain really shines through.

How grateful I am to be here, doing what I do, for some great folks. The work itself, when we’re not digging ditch and cleaning cabins, is taking folks horseback on advanced mountain trail rides, or doing “drop camps.”  A drop camp is taking people and their gear, or just their gear, into the high country, so they can enjoy a week of back packing and camping from a far and away, remote location in the Wilderness without having to haul it all in themselves. 

So, yesterday, Bob and I headed out with the gear of six folks planning a week long adventure of hiking and technical climbing deep in the Weminuche Wilderness.  I admire these folks.  This is the third year we’ve had the honor of working for them.  Each time they choose a different area, study their maps, and find some incredible routes… and adventures… during their week.

Looking down Ute Creek from the Forks of the Utes

I suppose the most obvious perk to our work is the view.  Not a bad place to spend the day, I know, even if I may whine to you from time to time about the cold wind and rain that get us most every day. Beyond that is my respect for our horses, who are polite, respectful, hard working, and a pleasure to be with.  We care for them like children.  We’re proud of them as parents should be.  They are this way because we’ve taught them what to do and how to do it in a firm but fair, respectful manner.  Sure, they get sore and tired just as we get sore and tired.  But at the end of the day, we’ll all get the job done, and be rewarded with a good meal and a good night sleep.  Simple pleasures, simple rewards.  But we understand and trust each other now, and working together, though days may be long and tiring, we’re a team, and good team now.

Sharing the mountain with other folks, helping in our very simple and small way to open up the wilds and wilderness to appreciative and caring people… at the end of the day, every day, all summer long, that is what it’s really about.  Folks come here to “get away from it all.”  Our job is to help them do just that.  That, my friend, is one very special honor. 

Riding home with empty packs past Black Lake

And so, we’re off to start another day of work, another beautiful day in paradise.  Looks like we’re bringing a few fishermen up the mountain horseback for a day of fishing in a high, remote lake…