Pole Mountain in early winter snow

High Mountain Musing has moved to our new site.  Please click HERE to join us…

I apologize for the inconvenience, but look forward to seeing you there…

Gin

Lots and lots of doughnut holes

A good snowy day treat.  Here, if you have a craving, better look around the pantry and see if you just can’t make it yourself.  So, when Bob hinted at “doughnuts…” you know we couldn’t head over to the nearest Crispy Creme shop. We had to make our own.  A rather messy project, but when it’s snowing hard outside, finding an excuse to linger longer in the kitchen is OK with me…

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tufts of grass on a cliff collecting snow

It does not happen all at once.  It is often slow, subtle, easy and soft.  Layer upon layer it builds, piling deeper and deeper, smoothing out the landscape to a gentle even white.  With time, with layers, rocks, roads, brush, even fence lines will become absorbed.  Our world will be buffered by snow…

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Icicles on the porch.

We drive home in the dark.

The outskirts of town fade quickly; the oncoming flow of blinding white lights was short lived and is gone. We leave the high beams on, ready at each turn to flick them lower if need be. Few vehicles come, and none follow us further up the mountain.  Now we pass but the occasional home, most closed for the season, an invisible part of the dark landscape surrounding us.  Those with lights have the tell tale blue glow of a TV screen.  I know there people in there, sitting and watching some story from far away, perched before their modern evening altar…

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The roll and swell of an autumn hillside.

Inspired by (and with gratitude for) Kim from Enlightened Horsemanship through Touch and her series with this name, I take a moment to reflect on how much I have to be thankful for. How easy it is to be tangled in the web of the day to day weavings, or overwhelmed with issues and conflicts and schedules and appointments and pressures.  We forget to slow down, to stop, and look around us, within us, our lives, our worlds, our dreams, everywhere, in every home, in every person.  We must look and find it.  It is there. Everywhere.  If it is hiding, lift up the rock and look underneath.  It is somewhere.  Something to be grateful for…

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November under Pole Mountain with naked Aspen.

The woods are still, though I know there is a gentle movement in the cool air along the treetops as I hear the whine of two aspen rasping against each other, irregular yet steady in its own rhythm of the woods. I stand by the wallow and look for recent elk tracks.  There are none.  The water is static and transparent. No one has stepped in to stir up the muddy bottom. Not today, at least. I wonder how long it may have been…

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The kids on pasture on an easy November afternoon.

As if it wasn’t bad enough…

My husband asked me once if I thought this place was cursed.  I laughed and said of course not.  Perhaps just the part of his family that has cursed themselves with their own misery. But no, not the land.  Never the land.

I still believe that. However…

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Big Horn Sheep, ewes and lambs, above the Rio Grande Reservoir (photo by Bob)

As we leave the ranch just for the weekend, the splendor of the mountain overwhelms, breathtaking both literally and figuratively. The low light of the early morning, late autumn sun light sparkles like so many diamonds across the smooth expanse of the reservoir.  We stop to look, to fill ourselves with this magnificence, so that we do not find ourselves empty in the city over the weekend, lost in a land of dazzling lights and blaring noises…

For the continuation of this post, and to leave or review related comments, please visit our new site at:  High Mountain Muse

Announcing a change of address for this blog!

The Rio Grande Pyramid and The Window in Autumn

High Mountain Musing is changing it’s web site address from:  highmountainmuse.wordpress.com  to:  highmountainmuse.com. 

A bit confusing in the short run; but hopefully simpler in the long run.  The change of address is just for the web site.  Me and my boys are still here on the mountain…

The new blog address will be effective immediately.  Same author (me), same stuff – my rambles and the mountain musings – just a different web address.

One of the more complicated changes may be in leaving comments.  All previous comments to date should have transferred over onto the new site, and I’ll ask that any comments in the future be submitted to the new site, as in due time, the old site will become obsolete.

If you subscribe to the posts, comments or have the site saved in your favorites, please be sure to make the changes. 

Sorry for any inconvenience this may cause.

Please let me know if you have any difficulty connecting to the new site, or find any problems with navigation on the new site by leaving a comment on the new site, or e-mailing me directly at highmountainmuse@gmail.com.   I imagine there will be some things we find that need to be tweaked – and thanks to Ron (J) we can fix them…

I’m not very computer savvy, but I’ll do my best to help in any way I can.

I’m taking the weekend off (going to the BIG CITY) and won’t be posting until Monday, so I’ll look forward to hearing from you then – at the new site!

Warmly,

Gin

November sun on Pole Mountain

Yesterday, I wrote to a friend, was a “wish you were here” day.  No one was here but the three of us. We work around the ranch in shirt sleeves, break for lunch on the deck, exercise the horses on dry pasture. Suddenly the silence is broken by the rumble of an engine.  A semi truck, delivering a load of pipe.  Not very often do we get a big truck like this up here, always bringing with it a big stack full of excitement and expectation. This one came unexpected.  We were figuring a day later, were planning on escorting the driver through the snow packed sections and single lane parts of the dirt road below our ranch.  He made it on his own.  And what often is a long, relieved exhale upon arrival, this driver climbed out of his rig and said, “Wow! What a beautiful drive!”  The amazement and appreciation in his wide eyes brought smiles to our faces as we watched him look around in awe at the mighty wilds about us.

Late afternoon, stillness resumes its rightful place on the mountain.  The semi growls down the road, the noise slowly fades, we can see the big truck getting smaller and smaller until it finally turns the bend over two miles away, and silence returns.

We head down to towards the Little Cabin and plant trees. My solace and healing, our attempt to give back to the land. The starkness of the open pasture becomes a little softer.  The trees are small, young, fragile; they will not all survive; perhaps with the Aspen the roots will take hold, and new sprouts will emerge.  Perhaps one day there will be trees tall enough to walk through, to hide in, to provide comfort from the harsh winds and shade the open hillside just a little bit.

We may not remain long enough to see these trees mature.  Somehow, it does not matter. We are here now, and while we can, while we remain, we try, we strive, we find a purpose to each day and make the most with what we have, what we create, what we simply make and do.  We do not wait for tomorrow.

I remind Forrest that every day is as special as we make it.  He is there with us, shovel in hands, digging into the loosened soil, throwing dirt on the roots of these trees, and he is smiling.  I believe he is glad to be a part of this gift, regardless of whom the recipient is.  If only just the mountain, and that would be enough.

Perhaps his children, or their children after them will one day return. Or a grateful stranger will walk through these trees, then tall and mighty and proud, and wonder if they always were here. We can not help but wonder who will wander through these trees one day and be grateful, perchance smell the sweetness of the sap, languish in their autumn color, listen the magical rustle as the wind dances through the leaves.  And as long as we remain, we will try.

An anonymous gift to the mountain.  And still we know we take far more than we ever can give.