Playing Catch-Up: December

Pictures guide the stories today. Here's a bit of December, before I took off for Mexico, in a nutshell.

1. I inhaled a piece of grated carrot up into my nasal cavity while eating a salad for lunch. It remained there for a week, during which I tried everything you could think of to get it out and developed a new stupid-human-trick. 
2. Temperature have dropped so low that the people of Paonia have been forced indoors only to post regular updates on Facebook about how cold it is outside. Who knew that such a small town was host to so many weather forecasters!? Before this era of bone-chilling cold (yeah, that's right, -14 degrees, farenheit), we used to walk outdoors and laugh at farm animals doing funny things. 
3. Hiking down Red Mt. with Ru and the gang.
4.  My friend Kale has a tipi up at 10,000 feet. We climb up there for a weekend retreat, cram eight people and five dogs into a tiny space and ski, giggle, relax, and eat. These weekends are magical. This trip was in honor of a dear, old friend, Sean, who left us a few years ago for grad school and to play music. 
5. With the whole freeze-thaw cycle, the hill that leads up to the land is like a Extreme Glacial Slip and Slide, complete with a steep drop-off down one side of the road. After I slid and crashed into the bank one morning, I started parking my car at the bottom of the hill. 

That's right, I snorted floss up my nose and pulled it out my mouth, inspiring the future generations of America in the process.

I was spreading the last of fall's leaves on the garden bed when I looked up to snap this photo. 

We make sure to keep Sean's feet warm when he comes so that he'll return again and again.  

Walking home from work. I've picked up some extra time to watch the sun descend each day. 

Out checking out the fresh tracks in the morning. Keeping my eye out for my mountain lion.

Low pressure system socked in on Lamborn

Morning chia seeds

Heading South of the Boarder

HellO little  creation of mine. I'm alone at a bar in Denver drinking a mescal cocktail called the Mexican Devil.  Soon I will cast aside my scarf and frosty breath in favor of flip flops and mangos.

In between working on travel plans and turning in grades for the end of the semester I've been neglecting you without regret. Climbing mountains and soaking in hot springs. Attending to the inevitable castrophes of my life. Slipping around on ice and snow in the car to the point where i refused to drive for a week and just walked or bummed rides.  And there's the piece of grated carrot that I somehow lodged in my nasal cavity for over a week.

And my silence will be prolonged further as I scurry south for the next few weeks in search of adventure.

Abrazos,
m 

Where I Talk About Composting Poop

Running into neighbors becomes less frequent as the days grow cold and short. 9 o'clock, which was once a time when most people wrapped up outdoor projects and headed in for dinner, is presently a non-negotiable bed time across the valley. Everyone in our little community seemed to be on the same page Sunday afternoon.  Between gathering manure and leaves for garden beds in preparation for their long winter sleep and soaking up the 60 degree weather that hardly points to any winter at all, we savored the now rare moment to catch up with one another.  

In most neighborhoods catching up includes hearing about the kids, the latest adventure, a new gardening technique, or a tidbit of gossip, but when I set down the wheel barrow to join in on a neighborly discussion, we talked about the ever exciting topic of poop. Everyone who lives on our mesa, Sin Agua, is off the grid and without a water tap. We all have composting toilets because they do not require any water. So, don't be surprised when you come to visit, because standing around talking about decomposing human doodie is totally normal.

Composting toilets are as variant as the people who build them. Most owners post user-friendly directions next to their john that explain the details of that particular toilet's temperament or they deliver a soliloquy on the subject when asked where the bathroom is located.  On the walls of an outhouse I used to frequent was a user manual stating that pee was not allowed in the pot as it formed a "messy slurry." Now, you've either gotta be a professional athlete or a master juggler to take a shit without letting a drop of liquid escape. 

Every few years we open the trap door that leads to heaps of composted poop. We transfer it to another barrel to allow it to further compost and decompose and surround these piles with straw bales to insulate them. Heat facilitates the break down of the poop. After its all composted we spread it on the fruit trees. We don't want to take any chances creating the next e.coli outbreak or the spreading of salmonella by mixing the compost into the soil where we grow our food.   

The only complaint I will offer on the matter....since our toilet lives in a little outhouse, sitting on a frozen toilet seat in the winter is a perverse, self-inflicted torture. Pooping is supposed to be relaxing!!  Soon enough you will see advertisements in Mother Earth for solar powered toilet seat warmers or squat toilets like the ones I used in India....Alas, I've spilled the beans on how I plan to make my  millions. Homesteaders beware!

Girl Seeks Hot Shower

When the earth tilts further from the sun’s warming rays, and just before the biting cold descends without hope of lifting till spring, I become somewhat of a nomad in search of a hot shower.

In the summer, the sun heats our water with the help of a large black barrel that sits atop the roof of Dev’s house. In the winter, copper tubing coiled around the wood burning stove stovepipe circulates water in and out of a holding tank, heating the water as it passes through the hot copper.  But in the fall, the sun’s powerful rays diminish so that the solar heated water grows tepid, yet the house remains too warm to justify building a fire. (Strawbale +Passive Solar= Totally Hot)

After cursing my way through a few cold showers I started to stash my soap, shampoo, and towel in the car. Following a run, a soak in the hot tub, or a visit to the brewery, I’d awkwardly invite myself to friend’s house for some old fashioned scrubbin'.

Generally speaking, I am as equally opposed to imposition as I am in favor of self-sufficiency, but my hot water dilemma puts me at odds with both. I can’t tell which is weirder--my aversion to asking for help or my habit of shower hopping.

Lucky for me, it finally got cold here last weekend. I emptied the solar hot water tank to prevent t from freezing and cracking. I pulled my onions from the ground. I put the garden to sleep and hauled two truckloads of firewood. I lit a fire in the stove and then, hopped into a steamy shower to wash the day’s filth and biting cold from my body.

First of the winter squash...my favorite.

Most common fire wood mishap...

Girls weekend to the San Juans included a white-out hike on the Bear Creek Trail.

And a hot beverage warm up! Can't express how grateful I am for amazing girlfriends who make you laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

For Michelle and Another October Passed

Tomorrow marks the start of November, the day of the dead, and the end of October. Six years ago I spent most of this month on my knees, pushing all air from my lungs, feeling the empty heat in my core until the next wave of sobs shook me. Snot and tears lubricated my passage of one day to the next.

In the beginning of the month my friend Michelle had gone missing. It seemed impossible that my forever friend, a woman with soft brown eyes you could swim in, an easy smile, and a laugh that pulled her shoulders up and down, a woman who I shared late night beers with as I passed through Virginia one soggy evening just months before, would  take off from her new home in Vermont without notice. Even harder to believe for a woman like me,  steeped in idealism and nativity like a thrice used tea bag, was that someone would take her.

Hikers found Michelle lifeless and brutalized a week after her disappearance  I poured over the details of the police  affidavit: the scratches, the hematomas, the traces of DNA and semen. I dreamt nightly that I was there with her.

These images rub me raw, not only because of their graphic and violent nature, but because they cloud my memories of a friend who picked me up by my guts to hear me fart and died laughing when the lemonade we drank mixed with our laughter and came shooting out of my nose.  She was the first friend I shared the darker parts of my life with and she allowed me into the shadowy sides of her own.

When we were in first grade we sat between two raspberry bushes and Michelle explained marine biology to me, her chosen profession at that time. We explored the first thrills of hanging out with boys at a Pizza Hut lit by greasy yellow lamps that hung over maroon booths and dialed inappropriate 1-800 numbers on the pay phone next to the door.

 Late at night on the pull out couch in your parents shadowy basement under a laminated copy of the constitution you'd hold my hands before we fell asleep. You'd tell me corny jokes like your dad's. Every time I eat dates, especially with peanut butter, I think of your mom, so dedicated to your success, and your snorting pug Fonsu running in tight circles around your living room. Even thought that beer was long overdue it was like nothing between us had changed--that we would continue along on separate paths and still find eachother endlessly interesting and entertaining in the years to come.

I think of you still. I know we all do. I bring you with me to snowy outcroppings to watch the alpenglow. I keep you by my side while I'm hitching a ride. And in the quiets of October I can still hear you bouncing your shoulders and laughing.

The scars on my wounded heart threaten to gush open when such a tender and emotionally wrought topic like rape is so cavalierly part of the political conversation. I feel incapable of speaking intelligibly. Waves of emotion wait in the wings readied to flood and drown all those in close proximity. I can't even begin to comprehend such small minded statements from men who seemingly know so little about violation and the sanctity of life.

My Encounter with a Mountain Lion

Last night, I looked up from the sowing project in my lap and locked eyes with a mountain lion. I sat in front of a window that stretches from the floor to the ceiling in a rocking chair, ten feet from the enormous feline; she looked directly at me.

Those unmistakable, round eyes penetrated me to the core and though I pulled myself out of the chair with confidence, my insides turned to mush. I yelled at the lion in a deep voice, ordering it to go away. Rather than retreating, she advanced, and in two swift steps her nose was at the glass.

Ruda responded to my bellows and came to my side, completely unaware of the hair-raising wildness perched three feet from us. Immediately the cat's eyes turned to Rudabega and in that moment I crumbled.

I drew her away from the window. I hid under the desk. I refused to look in the direction of any of the widows. My skin crawled. Adrenaline coursed through me like thousands of angry bees.

When I got home yesterday I found vomit all over the floor. It seemed Dixie, our unloved cat, had an upset stomach. Since Dev left to teach a six week course in Cape Code, Dixie has become my sole responsibility and I wish her dead daily. After cleaning her vomit I threw her outside for the night. She sat at the next window over watching me all night and remained in her place when the mountain lion arrived. I was certain I manifested her death. And though I hate her, I felt remorse and guilt.

After ten minutes of cowering I kept my eyes to the floor as I walked to the window to retrieve my phone. I called Luke, and shamelessly begged him to come over. I did not try to hide the terror in my voice. I woke Dev, it was 1:30 in the morning East Coast time, to tell him I was certain I killed his cat. He assured me that this would be the perfect way for Dixie to go and then asked me to go to the windows so I could describe the lion in greater detail. I refused.

Never has a hug felt more welcomed than when Luke arrived.  I remembered the way my parents' hugs made everything bad go away in an instant the moment Luke wrapped me in his arms. I finally relaxed and I would not let him go.

I tossed and turned in my bed, the eyes of the panther burned into me. Adrenaline filled me again at intervals throughout the night, like the chest of my friend, rising and falling. I matched my breath to his. I watched the sky grow light, drinking up the soft, streaming pastels, and bathed in the bright pinks and oranges. Dixie mewed at my door.

In the haunting darkness the lion seemed so threatening and her advances menacing. But in the comfort of daylight I wondered if she had been curious, trying to get a better understanding of the wildness of lights and noise. I won't be running at dusk for awhile, or peeing outside...or doing anything outside around my place at night until the cold settles in and the cat heads for higher climes.

These photos were all taken by Andrew Cranson, a man of many talents and trades. He's a farmer, a hunter, a musician, a photographer, and a ladies man.

Andrew Cranson

Andrew Cranson

Andrew Cranson

Andrew Cranson

Unknotting Your Knickers

Who's ready for a little cyber exercise here? Take a second to check-in with yourself and consider whether you've got your knickers in a knot over some situation or another. If you don't come up with anything, holy shit, I think you're enlightened!! Or… in serious denial, and I'd put some nag champa on the line and bet it's the latter.

For those of you who have a grievance that's slightly greater than getting cut off at the Third Sreet intersection, I will also bet you think about this situation a lot. And when you do, I bet you think the same damn thoughts, over and over and over again, kinda like when you reorganize your kitchen and move the forks to a different drawer and then spend the next month swearing because every time you open the old fork drawer you remember that sneaky you thought they needed to be closer to the stove. With the repetitive story situation, however, you can't help but agonize over every detail, and even though that story is so lame, so old, so over-played, so boring, you can't help but tell it to yourself again. You might even write a blog post so that hundreds of people will know your story! 

Guess what?! No matter how many times you tell that story (I'm talking to myself here, but if you also need this little pep talk you can pretend like I wrote this for you), no matter how many people hear you tell it, it doesn't make the pain go away. It does bring your heart rate up though.

Since my last post I've been thinking about how no one intended to bring pain and suffering into my life.  I take it all so personally, but it's not about me. It rarely is. 

Hidden proof that I haven't worked on any projects since peach season

Final product.

The Reservoir.