autumn glory: cider party

My man's been busy busy working 90, 100 hour weeks for crush this autumn.  Malbec, syrah, albariño, cabernet sauvignon, bolsa negra.   

So it was extra generous when he set me up in his Ranger (we traded cars for the weekend), carboys and growlers strapped down in the back, and sent me north to his village at the foot of the Cascades, even though he couldn't come.  What a delicious treat to help his family pick apples and join in pressing 50 gallons of cider! 

And to discuss the true story of Johnny Appleseed, the tearing out of cider orchards during prohibition, and the subsequent advent of wheat production and beer in our country, with a certain beloved hobby orchardist and father.  

Bringing back 20 gallons for the Winemaker to convert into hard cider felt small but purposeful, the way it feels to help pick or de-stem grapes.  I always knew I'd be with a farmer.  And I am so lucky.

happy solstice

Banff Mountain Film Fest 2012

Tuesday. Let's go.

has this day really already passed?

Every afternoon, I followed the scarred dirt road
rutted and dry, or else water-logged, thick with frogs,
an eighth of a mile from my front porch
past the houses of my neighbors
(and his house, the one for whom I left)
until the road turned right and became a trail.

I crossed the stream, water supply of the village,
where the trail began to climb and became La Culabra.
La Culabra: wilderness behind my house.

I memorized that trail like the ridges of my own dry heart
I have no photographs but memories
of greeting Justa, Marlon, y Marí, breastfeeding her newborn as she climbed
The men with machetes, sometimes drunk.
Buenas tardes, I would sternly tell them, trying to glare them off from any ill intentions.
I love you, they would say back in English
Once I came across one in a fetal-position in the middle of the trail;
he was fast asleep.

The rising trail offered a topographical look at the village,
the Great Rubber Tree marking one of many forks.
My favorite wandering place in those mountains had a view like the Rockies
shale rock, the river below, miles of sky.
I would steal away there and cry, sing, pray, sit in silence
until the light was almost gone and it was time to stumble down the mountain in the twilight.

Well I have hiked four times this week, and I am grateful for the steep, quick paths; the wildflowers and vista rewards,
the familiar land of my birth.

But it is nothing like La Culabra.

And I miss La Venta, the earth, the students I dream of nightly, the warmth of a language and a body next to mine
and I grieve the separation and loss of this 23rd year.

[on looking for the bright side]

The happiest I've been feeling in this strange and surreal week is when I'm shaking my hips to Shakira in Zumba class. So, there's that.

But then there are also two good parents and five dear friends who are okay that I'm so sad these days, and need to hibernate. And even one farm to donate lots of effort and love to (and of course, be in the sun).

And heck, maybe I will just go get a Masters. Or move to Mexico. Or simply quit worrying about what the hell I'm doing and what the hell comes next.

So, you know, maybe crying secretly in your bed every night still means you're making it. Or you're going to.

summertime, don't leave so fast

Went out to cut dogwood and tamarack branches. The sun is strong today--my scarf, sweater, vest almost too much. Five days of sun and hardly a cloud in the sky. Glory be, spring is really coming.

Now a small wind moves through pale, bedridden stalks of grass. Stalks that will miraculously revive and stand tall and green to sing their song in a matter of weeks. How do all these seasons move? Just when you feel you cannot bear another grey morning, another colorless afternoon--the first resurrections of spring come exultantly.

I've been thinking of that afternoon, that evening spent at the Flats with the orchard one, passing the soccer ball back and forth, back and forth, until both sweet spots on my bare feet were numb and I was smiling into the sunset, all the endorphins of pain and pleasure, summer and sunlight and friendship filling my stomach.

Now I have traveled East and West, have lived South of here for seasons that were rich, but when it comes to a Northern spring, or murmurings of one, well I have never found its equal, and that's the truth.

Perhaps you are interested in some more formal articles? Here are a couple of links to my day job:

Braving Winter: Thoughts from a Former Snowbird

Blue Gold: Expanding Water Access in an Age of Privatization

Ruby Parasols at the Old Colville Grange

on eagle carrion sightings, and evening baking

Welcome to the Bird House!

So I promised to post some photos of our new casita<3

Well now,
Ciderfest has come and passed, and we finished the Harvest not three days ago.
I have heard the Canadian geese honking overhead,
and studied symbols of the coming cold in everything:
the tall mullen stalks aging brown and thin,
the yellow grass rattling in the wind at dusk,
the maples and aspen turning golden and deep red.

My hands are dryer than they've been in months,
(And I've been reading about the drought in East Africa, the worst one this decade)
Oh, forgotten lands!
But I will not forget you!

We have heard the Buddha saying, truthfully,
that to live is to suffer.
And maybe we can receive this even as we mourn the drought.

Maybe grief will grow on us like the changing of the leaves,
subtly at first, before we notice its overwhelming color.
For as long as we trade careful and authored farewells,
as long as I long for your hewn words,
I will watch the trees,
kayak glassy lakes,
miss you pensively.

indian summer

We hiked as the sun went down:
the twilight was simple, pines silhouetting against dusk
the darkness came quietly, unobtrusively.

On the way down to the cave, the trail,
or rather, the overgrown bush and branches we crept through,
grew quite steep, and we slid,
our footsteps releasing small avalanches of rock and earth.

The mouth of the cave wasn't large;
planks connecting the outside with the deepness,
water lay beneathe.
(Much less in September than in July, David said.
It's been a long summer.)

I felt spaciousness and caverns,
but where light shone there were walls where I expected rooms,
openings where I expected rock.

We climbed one small chute beside a packrat,
rose to a cavern with distant ventilation hole,
found three bats flying.
All the timber-rat nests had me a bit on edge,
and I squatted, smiling, but shaky,
feeling the eerieness of dynamite holes and darkness.

The walk home, in deep night, took longer (we being slightly lost),
but we kept on, found that hillside field,
followed it to cabin-light.

Well now, the first day of autumn has arrived
but it is still 95 glorious degrees Fahrenheit.

The soccer season ended last night,
and I have said my goodbyes [to my team, to that boy]
and even [one very important] hello [oldest sister-friend].

and I will hold out my arms and welcome Fall,
I will gently let Summer go.

Fog covered sunrise this morning
evergreens and firs growing silently out of the white
we, dressed in down vests, thick socks, boots
strapped canvas bags to our shoulders,
huddled around trees picking Bartlett pears
red and green, we picked every one, climbing the hard ladders,
pouring the bounty into wooden, spidery crates.

My Dad and I walked through the field last night,
the now autumnally greenish-grey field,
counting pine saplings.
The dead and the survivors (only 55 didn't make it this year)
which leaves 200 to become strong Ponderosas--
the best numbers we've ever had!

My Dad, solemn and focused, counts carefully
(for him, tree-planting is no small responsibility),
credits the July thunderstorms, the blessed rain this weekend,
weather that redeemed an unnaturally hot and dry June.

The puppy, its big paws and young face, is growing so fast
soon it will be faithful and obedient
(oh, how I long for a dog)

I have studied so many sunrises and sunsets this summer,
have stood every day under a changing sky
have faced, despite sweet skateboarding and a boy I am quite taken by,
no small amount of loneliness.

But oh, I'm not finished finding stories on windy beaches yet!
My ear is to the ground [the song is in the soil]

three women may walk this road at any time of the day or in darkness,
carrying bowls of fresh-picked raspberries with shining eyes.
on the beach not far from me,
a boy has picked up a flopping, dead fish
now he swings it by the tail, taking ginger steps on the hot sand

he pointed out a heron to me, plucked his banjo patiently
recording deep layers of stratus clouds, the gentle ambling of a turkey flock
i climbed into tree branches to pick the plums
greeted the small quail scurrying at the edge of the road

oh my body, betrayer and sustainer
my hands, that have known work and yet remain soft
this is my summer skin, meeting yours as the rain falls down
rest your jaw on my clavicle
your calloused hands on my smooth back

i have seen the scenes and scenery stretched out like canvas over the pilgrims' west
have squatted like a hobo to drink soup from hand-thrown mug
have returned to a land as overwhelming as any i've yet seen

now i examine tree bark
now i stand tentatively under the waning moon

summers in washington are like a dream
i've been going out with a beekeeper,
crushing cherries into wine,
painting porches and weeding fields and chopping wood

but i wanted to tell you about the dancing last night
the peasant skirts, chaco sandals
socks with birkenstocks
about nearly falling over under all those stars
and whispering ts eliot
listening to aspens shiver

yes, summer is strange and wonderful
and we will swim and bike and work and eat berries until we fall flat under the stars

[the real reason i can't wait to go home.]

Meet Pancake & Waffle.

far away from the pura vida tropics
back in a pine-smelling village,
four feet of melting snow poured out by the god of the sky

and we are getting so old now, honey
in fact, it can be hard to write about, sometimes

being home

opening 18 birdhouses and examining nests, cleaning them out for spring
wren, violet green or tree swallow, blue bird? you can tell from the material,
or abandoned left-over eggs

tastes of rich, full-bodied coffee,
satsumas, eggnog and pomegranates
staining fingers scarlet
oh! and those two pies i made from scratch:
one with a large squash from the garden, the other with apples from the orchard

you are inhaling hard, bracing breaths, now
you've been out hiking and walking through the cold
and the fiery sky's setting sun stuns you,
the mist shrouding ponderosa pines and douglas firs of your favorite green-gold
you are lucky, though here in a not uncommon sort of way, to spot a great-horned owl

we are witnesses of the first enduring snow-fall
for so long forgotten in the extravagance of summer,
we turn again to receive Sister Winter

our folklore days

put away the canvas, now--it has all been painted white
huddle close, listen, now, to the stillness of the night

the hens running free, the ducks and the geese merry
the weight of a ripe melon measured in your palm
and black seeds from the yellow and red fruit spat pleasurably to the sand at your feet

the days are spinning now, harder and faster than before
and you are careening toward something you can't see
oh, hold on in your dizziness, hold tight

the blooms of shy sunflowers fading now
once saffron and amber, ivory and gold
the roundness of each august peach in your hand
now turning to an apple, an oblong pear

the days are slipping away, dandelions blown by the wind
the harvest is coming, the harvest is here
put away the canvas, let it rest with your sweet summer dreams
bind up your bare feet, braid the wild farmer hair into the attention of your studies

come closer, now, lock your fingers in mine
we will fall into the leaves of autumn
rejoicing, we will brave the winter together

let the shimmering strips of fabric dance on in the shifting winds