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.

Looking in the east garden, early november, late afternoon.

Outside, the garden sleeps, the raised beds silent as graves in a burial ground, lined up as straight and somber.  Hidden is a promise of life deep with each bed, a challenge here to see what we can grow in perhaps but a month of frost free weather, with the monsoons providing untamed waters to my pleas at domesticating crops in this course landscape.

But try we must. We need our hands in the earth, the cleansing of dirt, of our soul within the soil.  We need to garden.  Is it the tending, the nurturing, the care of a tame and cultivated nature so fragile and unwilling on its own?

Here I have learned to turn my focus inside at times, to satisfy my need of dirt under my fingernails.  House plants are plentiful, it’s a jungle of sorts in our cabin. A bountiful crop of Jade, Philodendron, Christmas Cacti, English Ivy, Aloe and herbs.  In the southern corner of our cabin, a tropical paradise grows.  As a reminder of my summers long ago in the Greek Islands, I once bought a bougainvillea, thought it would be lovely outside a guest cabin, draping down the log walls, showering the cabin with fuchsia blossoms, a vivid contrast to this wild landscape and a refreshing change from the geraniums and petunias I tend to choose to decorate the outside of our cabins.

On the last day of June, it froze.  A heavy frost turned the leaves a dark, liquid green.  I was certain it was all over.  It was my first or second summer here.  I didn’t know better.  I didn’t realize a frost can come about any time here.  When you least expect it. I have learned to expect it.

The guest who had been staying in that cabin was from Florida, where these plants do grow.  She laughed and told me you couldn’t kill a bougainvillea if you tried, suggested I cut it back and try again.  I did, cut it all the way to the stem, leaving a sorry basket filled with ugly grey sticks protruding.  And then a funny thing happened.  It started to grow.  Six or seven years later, it is still growing.  It remains indoors now, and I can’t say it drapes and languishes over my log walls anything like I remember these plants did in the Greek Islands over the white washed walls. But it is alive, and blesses us with bright blossoms quite regularly.  As out of place in these mountains as a tropical bird. 

Now our lettuce has sprouted, our winter crop, beginning its life in our kitchen window.  It will end its life there as well in the spring, yet provide us with fresh greens throughout the winter.  Nothing fancy, no greenhouse, no grow lights.  Just a large planter in the window.  Things will grow.  If you give them a chance, they grow.  

And things will die.  The garden outside is dormant now.  There is not life I can see.  Perhaps an earthworm buried deep beneath the frozen surface. I wonder how they survive the deep freeze.  The beds have been prepared for next year, softly tucked away for the season beneath a blanket of manure, so plentiful here, a pity my crops can not be so.

I prepare it all in anticipation of what will be, yet I wonder if there will be a next year.  I look at these beds, this garden, this soil, and wonder how long it will take to return to the earth from which it all came, to turn fallow and free and forget about my futile attempts.

And still, what can I do but try?

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.

a shock of red rose leaves outside a guest cabin

A flash of red. Not what you expect to see outside as the last of autumn fades a monotone brown into the frozen ground, deeper and deeper, in a quiet anticipation of the long winter to come.

roses in the snow along side a creek just begining its flow in the afternoon thaw

This red is not a blossom, but the color of the leaves turning; the last song of the wild rose, shocking the mountain with her fiery bursts.  Sudden, unexpected, and brilliant. A spark in the snow. 

the rose in the kitchen

Indoors I plant a domestic rose.  Awakening, she is called, and I chose her for the name.  An old heirloom rose from Czechoslovakia, via Oregon, now here in the mountains with no chance of making it a winter outdoors.  So inside we try.  Within the comforts of the kitchen window, we will tend to her, water her, provide sunlight and soil and even temperatures and hopeful gazes.  Nurture her tenderly and see if she will grow, see if she will grant us with fragrant blossoms, pink and fancy, delicate, so distant from her home, so different from the surrounding lands, forced here on this mountain by me, my desire for what I long for.

A plate of fresh tortillas

I hadn’t made tortillas in a while. In fact, I guess it’s been years. I knew they were easy to make, but I remember a mess, a big mess, and figured they were cheap enough to buy – I could avoid all the hassle.  But when you have 300 pounds of flour in the pantry… you can NOT buy tortillas.  You have to make them.  And truth is, I’m glad I did.  They were much easier than I remember, much less mess and waste.  Maybe I’m just neater now… but if you look around my home, you won’t believe that.  Anyway, as with most everything we make from scratch, the homemade was so much better than any store bought, it was worth the effort.  Gladly, the effort was minimal, so these will be a staple again in our house.  And another good use for some of that flour.

I hope you try and enjoy!

 

Flour Tortillas

In a large bowl, mix together with a fork, pastry cutter, or your fingers:

            3 cups flour

            2 teaspoons baking powder

            1 teaspoon salt

            5 tablespoons shortening or lard (I use shortening)

When the shortening is well mixed with the dry ingredients so that the flour more resembles corn meal in texture, slowly add:

            1 cup warm water

Knead the dough for a few minutes.  It should be soft and pliable, not sticky.  Use less water if it’s getting sticky; more if it’s still too dry to knead.

Pull apart or cut the dough into 12 equal parts. Roll each into a little ball. Let them sit out for about 15 minutes.  Preheat your griddle or heavy fry pan.  I have a large cast iron griddle that takes up two burners on my gas stove, and allows me to cook two tortillas at a time.  Since you’re only making a dozen here, it doesn’t take too longer no matter how you do it.  Keep your heat at medium.  Too much heat will burn them; not enough will dry them out.

Roll out the dough balls into an approximate circle, as thin as possible. Use a rolling pin, and turn the tortillas over, rolling both sides flat and thin.  Use a little flour to prevent sticking, but no more than is necessary.  Lift and put onto the dry skillet, one at a time, single layer. Cook on each side for about 2 minutes – air bubbles with form evenly in the cooked dough, and they will have golden brown spots when cooked perfectly.

Stack them in a pile to keep them warm, or reheat them back on the cast iron skillet if need be before serving.

Rolling out the dough

Cooking tortillas on the griddle

A cold view of the mountain on a late october day

I step out of the comfort of my cabin and into the cold night air, into the soft radiance of the moon subtly opening up the world in front of me. I pause for a moment and allow my eyes to adjust.  There is nothing else I came here for, but to stand, and stare and be.  I take a deep breath. The smell of wood smoke wafts through the crisp, thin air.  The sound of the river hums smoothly in the distance.  Above me is the waxing moon, and stars, infinite stars, more than I will ever comprehend.  Before me is our mountain, the outlined silhouette of the high ridges I know almost as familiar as the face of my child. The patchwork quilt of snow and melted ground, exposed in a crazy patterns; now soft and dark and grey, now brightly illuminated from the silver light of the moon.  I can see a long way away, over the ridge, to the mountains in the distance, and farther still. In this faint and fine light, I think I see past and beyond, far, far away.  Under the same moon, under the same stars.  I could be anywhere.

Last night I sat next to my son on his bed, with my arms around him, and tried to bring him comfort.  He is bigger than me now.  As long as I live, I shall want to protect him. The worries of the world laid heavy, brought too close to home with an ugly letter, yet again, from the sorry side of my husband’s family.

This Utopia we try so hard to create for our home, our lives, our children can so quickly and easily be crushed. For just a little while. And then we hold each other and remember what really matters, and lift each other up. I try.  For my son, I will always try. We can not always explain the injustices in the world any more than we can explain the wrong doings so close to home, within our home. Yet we do our best, learn what not to be, what not to do, remember we have a choice.  We choose the positive.  We hold each other and the world becomes a little better.

I could never watch the news.  I took it all so personally.  How could there be such hatred and unfairness in the world?  I was distraught with human nature.

When I was 18, I was living and working in New York City. My boss was a heroin addict.  When he tried to go clean, he went off the wall.  In his fury, he wrote me a note tearing me apart. Ripping at me as if it were all my fault.  I read the letter over and over again, and said “why?”  I did not do drugs. I did not give them to him. I was at the wrong place at the wrong time.  Nothing more.  He later apologized.  Realized he was wrong, was sorry for the accusations and cruel words.  The damage was already done. We can forgive.  We should not forget.  

It is happening again.  This time from one of my husband’s family.  I am glad it is not the greater part of his family.  Fortunately it is only a few that we have all been so hurt by.  But I am tired of it.  I have had enough.  I really do not know why. My husband says I am again in the wrong place at the wrong time. I am vulnerable here, exposed.  I did not realize how much so.

And you, dear reader, have wondered why I would want to leave the home, the business, the life, the world we built, the mountain we know and love and have lived on more intimately than anyone ever before.  Now you shall learn. 

It is from the ongoing conflicts I have seen within my husband’s family that I have learned part of growing up may have to be choosing to walk away from the family from which you were born.  Some things you can not change, the pain will not go away, and we learn to stop beating our heads on the brick wall. We can choose to leave.  No family is perfect.  I am lucky.  The one I was raised in is rather solid. I find each one to be a good person. We care about each other.  We treat each other respectfully.  Sure we have our ups and downs. We sit down, talk, work things out.  I thought this was how all families were.  I was wrong.  At some point, we find we have to stand up, we learn the well being of our selves, our spouse and our children out weighs the obligations of outgrown family ties.  We try to get away.  It is not easy.  Blood oozes thicker than water.  That does not make it better.  Only stickier.

Today is my birthday. I am 43.  It was probably 30 years ago I read “To Kill a Mockingbird.”  At the time, of course, I thought I was Scout.  I imagine many a young tom-boy girls have read the book and felt the same.  But I was lucky.  I also knew Atticus. A real live Atticus.  He was my father.  A man who taught me more powerful than with words, but by example, the importance and the power of truth.

He is still my Atticus, my father, and still reminds me of the ever importance of honesty. I keep him in mind today.

I didn’t realize how unusual being willing to stand up for the truth is. It is hard.  It is frightening.  It is often times painful.  But at the end of the day, it is what has to be done.  We may lose sleep with the worries of the world heavy on our mind, but we can know we have done something about it.  Something right.

As a child I lied, and I remember the guilt.  My father would not need to punish me, need not even say a word.  My conscience alone taught me how wrong it was.  And so, I learned to try, I have tried to build my life upon truth. My truth perhaps, but one I truly believe is right.

Yesterday I received another nasty note from one of my husband’s family.  This is not the first time.  I wish it was the last. I am afraid it will not be.  They can not leave us alone. In it, I was accused of lying, and yet I know not what my lies are claimed to be. 

It is this part of my husband’s family who taught me about lies. Too close to home. The part of his family which was built upon deceit.  Their greatest of which, this ranch, was founded on falsehood, obtained with deception.  I was nearly 40 when I found out. Already married and a part of this family. I didn’t think it was fine, imagine many would have been hurt by it had they known, and although leaving the truth hidden would indeed be easier, I have been unable to sit with such untruths. I can not look his family in the face without seeing the facts, and wonder how, and why can you justify such falsehood? An unfortunate truth.  Living with lies. Building on lies. Is it these that bind families together?  Or tear them apart. 

I don’t know what lies I can be accused of.  From the stories I have heard from a distance, I believe I am better off if I do not know.  The stories are ugly enough, have hurt me enough.  I know my life is true.  I do not live a lie.  I do not tell lies.  You might not like my life, nor like what I say, but I can pretty well guarantee you this:  it is the truth, to the best of my knowledge.

I will not live with dishonesty, and teach my son that truth is stronger, more powerful, and worth standing up for. We try to be Atticus, even for just a little while. I am not as strong, not as wise, not as brave.  It is easier to try to stay away. Walk away when need be.

We have tried to stay away.  We separated our land, our home, our business.  We separated our lives.  We built fences and learned no fence is high enough to hold back hatred.  Peeking over fences, peeking into our life, and now we find, peeking unwelcomed into our world through this blog. 

I suppose I should be flattered they are so concerned with my view of the mountain and my simple day to day.  I am not.  I am tired of it.  I wish to be left alone, have my husband freed from this hurtful side of his family, and my son protected from hateful people being too close.  This is not what we want for our children.  This is not how we wish to teach them family can be. This is not home.

One can not build Utopia with such abhorrence across the fence.  And although we may never build a perfect world, we can build a better one. Our need to try is stronger than our pride in what we have built here, our love for the mountain, our home.

And so we have chosen to move on.

I don’t know if distance will finally free us.  In the meanwhile, we are still here, waiting for a chance to move, our lives to change, to sell this home and start anew. Change does not come fast enough.  We try. We wait.  What more can we do.

I can ask my in-laws, those few that would rather share hatred than love, again to leave us alone.  We are leaving as fast as we can. You can remain on your ranch, your pride and joy, that which I suppose was always more important to you than your family, and the truth.

And to my readers, my friends, my clients, and my dear family and in-laws, for which I am grateful far outnumber the other few, for any who did not know the reason for my discourse, the source of my tears, and the reason we must leave our home…. Now you know the truth.

Earlier this morning, I wrote to a friend, “I just need to vent, and then move on.  I do not want to be so self absorbed.  I am, here and now.  It does not help.  In fact, I think it helps more when I get over it and focus on the things we can all relate to, what we all need to hear.  My simple mountain musings…

I have so much to be thankful for.  I do not overlook these things nor dwell on the negative, but it is real, it is there and it has to be dealt with. I do not always know how.”

And so I move on.  If not with our home yet, than with our life, our attention, our focus.  Onto better things.  Our family, our mountain, our world for now, and a beautiful world it is. What more important lesson can I teach my son?

Onto a brighter tomorrow.

Brightness on the hilltops while peeking through the trees

Nine degrees below zero, and only an inch of snow.  The frost starts to form within the earth. It begins, becomes a part of the surface, nearly permanent and almost rock hard. Deeper and deeper it will inch its way each morning.  The paling sunlight will not be enough to hold back the cold. Five feet under the frost will be before winter begins to fade.

It has only just begun.

The leaves have been stripped.  There is nothing left to hide. Nothing left to hold back. And so I too breathe out and a fury of bitter wind whips and whirls up the desolate hillside as the long, cold winter gains hold of the mountain.

Now I exhale.

You see I seek solace in the high country, in the mountains which free my soul. How I need the river to wash away my tears, and the breeze through the trees to help me forget.  But still, my burden remains.

You say my life is idyllic.  I laugh and remind you I am not the view before me. My life is not endless summer or a holiday romp. I remind you this is not heaven but earth, though I look for it every day, and find bits and pieces in the silver flash and ripple of the brookie hiding beneath a smooth river rock or a grove of Blue Spruce alive with the laughter of the chickadees. It is simple, but enough to carry me through. But not enough to make the rest go away, to fix the problems and pay the bills, to give us comfort when things can get pretty uncomfortable.

I remind you this is not my vacation but my life.  I do not come here to get away from it all and unwind.  I remain here to make it all work.  And try as I may, it does not all work, always work.  I need to decide what matters most.

You come here and leave your worries behind.  Mine remain with me.  Here they are. As plain as the snow dusted trees and the air almost too cold to breath. You wonder how life could be anything but perfect with such a lovely view before me.  I remind you of financial burdens.  Of endless hours trying to make a business succeed, a family grow, a home safe and warm. Of in-laws too close and good neighbors too far. The losing battle of trying to make things live and grow and prosper.

There are times I too feel a beautiful view should be enough. I wish it was. You laugh, and remind me it not, no more so than a relationship based solely on a pretty face.  How deep does that go? How long does that last?

You remind me that happiness – or is it goodness, or peace, or whatever we humans inherently seek and desire – does not come from the land.  It comes from within. Easier perhaps in a pretty place, with a pretty face, on a warm and gentle day.

The answers are found only as deep as what we put into the land. It is hard to dig in frozen ground. But we try. Somehow we try to balance the load. 

My burden is heavy now, yours will be tomorrow.

Today I will seek consolation in the deepness of the woods. You know I will go there to looking for it, to somehow soften my troubles and fears, to thaw a part of this freezing land.  My woods are no different than yours.

Looking in the yard in an early morning snow

They say a big storm is coming. We say, let it snow. We stir with anticipation and spend the day preparing, too excited to come in even after dark.  Tools, piles, stuff, junk – anything left out will be covered for the next six months. Four feet under, covered in a smooth, white all encompassing casket which encloses the mountain for miles and miles.

I am glad to have it gone, picked up, put away.  It is clean, neat, tidy.  There is a peace in that, in knowing everything is in its place. Safe for the season.  You decide what will be needed, what you can do without. Some of it I will not want to see again even in the spring.  But you better know where stuff is, and how to tuck it away.

Otherwise, it is buried alive.

Will this be it?  The big one to tuck us away for the season, to close our road and open our concealed vast white expanse of winter wonderland?

I don’t think so.  But fools we would be to be caught unprepared.  Do we challenge the mountain or ride on her waves?

The ritual of tucking away for winter, as natural as the change of seasons and as old as time. It was never more apparent than the years we had to pull the bridge before high waters would wash the timbers down river.  A ritual if any that claimed winters presence.  There from the high waters of the Pacific Northwest’s November rains, an average of 68 inches rainfall in a matter of months. Mud slides would close the road.  The bridge would block access to the cabin beyond. High waters, raging and fierce, so frightening I would not get near and hold back the dogs, did for me then what the snow does now. We would wait until the waters of the creek were touching the logs crossing the expanse.  Every year, putting off the inevitable as long as we could, then be out there scrambling in the drenched ground and soaked timbers with slick footing, grasping with wet and frozen fingers at the sodden, slippery planks.  Always just in time…

And here we await the ritual of the closing of the road, giving in to the inevitable heavy mountain snows. Leaving our trucks by the plowed section. Farewell to the easy access and a town trip, there and back, in one day. Suddenly it is easier to stay home.  Where would you rather be? 

A closed road, followed by a forced hibernation. 

You may at first look at this as unnatural.  But I believe it is not.  It is, perhaps, as natural as the rain or snow… We humans may have the extra baggage to care for, from bridges to tools and piles of, ah, junk… but is it any different than the bear or squirrel or Stellar Jay who knows food will be scarce, travel nearly impossible, and  does what it takes to prepare themselves, to tuck themselves away?

We are tucked away.  We are safe. The fire is crackling and the world outside in the first light of the day shows me nothing but white.  We await the snow and anticipate the inevitable change and allow the calm, quiet white world to become all that we see and do.