A crooked road

It is a beautiful morning here on the farm. The sun is shining in the crisp fall air. Harvest is humming and today – for the first time in about a week – I am starting to feel normal.

Bronchitis and I are old foes. He comes to visit once or twice a year and I spend the rest of the year trying to figure out how to kill off the little bugger for good. I got sick while I was on vacation in New Hampshire last week and have been home trying to recuperate. I’m not very good at sitting idle. I’ve gone out a few times this week just to get some fresh air in my hurting lungs. This morning was the first time I took a good walk, which I would guess was just under a mile in length.

Typically when I go out for a walk I head up through the dairy and head west on the canal bank that splits the north from the south on this property. It’s fairly level with few obstacles. The canal makes it feel like I’m walking along a stream and occasionally, I’ll catch a glimpse of a deer or two. I headed that way this morning, but made an abrupt change before I hit the end of my driveway. I headed west down a lane and through a freshly planted field. I felt like taking a walk off the beaten path today.

Fall always feels like a “New Year” to me – far more than January 1. There’s the start of the new school year for starters but I truly appreciate the transition from the passion and energy of summer to the slower reflection of autumn. Walking through this field, I thought back to this time last year, when corn was being harvested. This summer it held two different barley crops. Now a winter crop is planted and a few little green sprouts have made their way to the sun. Soon it will snow and the plants will sleep and store energy to be harvested next spring and fed to the cows.

Walking the perimeter of the field I can see the various footprints of my neighbors. Plenty of deer. A raccoon. An odd-shaped print that I have to guess is a piece of equipment, though I’m at a loss to explain what the hell it is.

This picture really doesn’t do it justice. At first glance it looked like a print from a draft horse, but it’s too deep and the wrong shape. It’s way too large to be a boot print. I’ll have to investigate further.

Once on the edge of the field, I cross to the lane that runs toward the river and a gravel bed. I can run a little bit there. My slow shuffle won’t win any races, but the breeze feels good on my neck. Then up the tree-lined path toward my house. 

It’s a short walk, but my body loves the air and the energy it provides. I feel ready to face my long list of to-dos. The fall always makes me feel ready to start new projects – but it’s different than the rush I feel in spring. This time of year, I want to nest. To settle. To create. Like a bear hibernates and stores energy, I seek out activities that fill my soul and challenge my mind – perhaps so that when spring comes, I can emerge fresh and full of ideas.

Sometimes, I think we forget we’re part of the animal kingdom. We have instinctive rituals that get buried in our busyness. This is a perfect time of year to listen to our bodies again. Hear the inner calling to restore our souls. For me that means I’ll spend as much time outside as I can – filling my lungs with good air and filling my heart with the richness of the harvest.

The soundtrack to this morning’s walk.

Tomatoes of green and red

I'm finally starting to feel partially human again. I think I'm about 75%-80%..
It's a beautiful day here in Southern Idaho. Perfect crisp fall air, breeze and golden sunshine. Harvest is in full swing on the farm and here at the house as I attempt to salvage what's left of the garden.
This has been the most productive garden I've ever had and I'm rather said to let it go. When I see the lovely weather forecast I hesitate to start plowing it under, but I know Idaho weather and just when I think it's safe, we'll have a freeze and all that work will go to waste.
So I'll be seeing tomatoes in my sleep for a few days.
I took a few minutes out this morning to organize the rather large and ever-growing stack of recipes on my microwave. This is where I stack the recipes I cut off of boxes, out of magazines and off the internet. I came across one my sister had emailed me months and months ago and never tried.
I didn't manage to take any pictures -- I just wasn't thinking about it. However, I can't tell you how wonderful it was! Plus, it was a perfect way use a few of those tomatoes I have coming out of my ears. Give it a try and let me know what you think!

MEDITERRANEAN PASTA with FIRE ROASTED TOMATOES
(makes 6 servings)
2 lbs. medium plum tomatoes (10 - 12) halved lengthwise
1/2 cup olive oil, divided
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 TBSP Italian Seasoning
1/2 tsp Crushed Red Pepper
1/2 tsp Sicilian Sea Salt
1/4 Coarse Grind Black Pepper
8 oz pasta, such as fettuccine

Place tomato halves, cut-sides up, in a foil-lined 15x10x1 pan sprayed with no stick cooking spray. Mix 1/4 cup oil, garlic and seasonings in a small bowl. Spoon over tomatoes. Drizzle with 2 TBSP  of the remaining oil. Roast in a preheated 400 F over 45 - 60 minutes until tomatoes are soft and browned n top.
Prepare pasta as directed. Drain well. Place 1/2 of the roasted tomatoes and remaining 2 tablespoons oil in large bowl. Coarsely mash tomatoes. Add pasta and remaining tomatoes; toss to mix well. Sprinkle with shredded Parmesan cheese and additional crushed red pepper is desired.

I didn't use crushed red pepper because I didn't have any. Fresh herbs add some extra flavor, I think. You can roast in the BBQ, but it can get awfully messy. I used a manchega instead of parmesan -- but it was wonderful -- so wonderful, in fact, I was disappointed when I was full and couldn't eat anymore!
I served it with broiled salmon. I was going to have roasted veggies too -- but it was just too much food!

I did provide some garlic bread to help with the bones in the salmon.

I'll be canning some green tomatoes over the weekend and will post those recipes then.

I haven't fallen off the planet. I've been on vacation and came home sick. I'll post more ASAP. So sorry!

Telling stories.

Wonderful day in the Queendom of Karmalot.
My spectacular friend Shelley and her darling daughter Emma joined me on a simple and sweet adventure north and west of the castle to the tiny (and I do mean tiny) burg of Hill City.
Another friend of mine, Ione, is in the process of renovating an old store and bar there. Ione wasn’t there, but she told me where to find the key and turn on the power. I guess it was last open consistently in the 70s although it looks like it was used at least partially in 1990 – as there are signatures on the wall of the bar with that date.
Ione had said that walking into the building was a bit like stepping back in time. They had just shut everything down and locked it up 30 some years ago. The tiny post office in the corner of the store is a testament to that. Truly,it looks like the post master went home from work one day and never came back. Postage meters sit on the counter.  Mail remains in a sorting station. The boxes, complete with combination locks still in tact, still have the assigned names taped to the back.
I’m still doing some research on Hill City and will post more, along with the pictures I took, at a later date. It sits along a highway that serves and as the main passage way between Boise and the resort community of Sun Valley.Thirteen miles east of here is a small town called Fairfield. There’s a ski hill here too, along with several businesses that support the community along with agriculture.
It appears there were a couple of stores here at one time. None exist now – all boarded up. Ione plans on opening this place up as a convenience stop and bar to serve recreational travelers who are commuting between the resorts and snowmobiling sites during the winter, and bird watching, fishing and explorers of the summer.

She’s looking for area artisans to put some art in for sale, so Shelley and I figured it would be a good opportunity to see if we’d like to hang some of our photography or art here. I’m hoping to sell a few eggs. Maybe I’ll come up with some baked goods or something. We’ll see.
Shelley and I took bunches of pictures of the building and its contents. I shot on film, so it will be a few days before I post, but I’ll share Shelley’s when she sends them to me.
We then made our way down to the Centennial Marsh. It’s a great place to watch birds and in the spring, the camas lilies are in bloom in an incredible shade of purple. More about Centennial Marsh. 
Shelley and I covered all sorts of areas of conversation. I love spending time with her as we have a kindred spirit, I believe. We spread out a picnic near the marsh and while Emma made friends with a caterpillar and looked at the crystal blue sky, Shelley and I talked about  truth.
It’s no secret “the truth will set you free”  -- we’ve all heard it before. In the last few years, both Shelley and I have come to appreciate the truth in who we are and in those with whom we choose to spend time. For me, I have finally realized that I’m not interested in being anything but what I am. I’ve spent far too many years trying to live up to other people’s idea of who I supposed to be. I should be more accurate – I spent a lot of time trying to live up to the expectations I thought other people had for me.

The truth is that many times what is said and what we hear are two different things. We “hear” what we “think” we hear and then choose to not only believe, but to make those things our personal story.
Here’s an example. Growing up, what I “heard” my family telling me was that I fat and un-athletic. Now if you were to ask members of my family, they would tell you they didn’t say that. What I know is that is what I heard – not just from my family, but from television and other forms of media.
My sophomore year of high school we were required to take P.E. and within that class we had to run.  One morning we had to run along the canal bank near the school. I remember loving how I felt while running. The wind in my hair. The strength in my body. The feel of my feet hitting the ground and then lifting up again to take another step. It felt amazing. Then I found myself passing another girl in my class. A thin girl. She was really struggling. In my head, in some distorted voice, I heard myself say, “This can’t be right. She’s thin and I’m fat. I can’t be doing better than her.”
I stopped and walked with her a while, but my body was screaming to run. So I ran and then later signed up for the cross country team. I was intimidated by the cross country team. They were champions and a close knit bunch. Besides, I still had it in my head that I was not an athlete. But I loved to run so much and I wanted to be part of this team.  Within a week or two, I mentioned to my dad that I had practice and he said, “You’re not built like a runner.” Took the wind right out of my sails.
For some reason, I internalized that and quit the team. From then on I told myself, and anyone else, that I wasn’t a runner, much less and athlete. When we played soccer in P.E., I loved it, but did not pursue it. I’m not an athlete. Right?
Fast forward another 29ish years. After telling myself that for so long, I have become the story. While I’ve entered 5Ks and walked them with pride, I have realized that I entered those to prove something to everyone else, more than myself. It was a form of rebellion. “You keep telling me I can’t do this, so watch me.“
The problem is, it’s temporary. Once the races were over, I’d be in search of something else and when I couldn’t find anything I liked, I stopped doing anything physical at all.
Finally, I’ve realized that what I love is running. I have dreams about running – running along trails. Running along the roads. These dreams are reoccurring and for I while I thought it was my subconscious telling me I was running from something. I think now, I was just running in those dreams.
So you know what I’ve been doing? Running. Now, I can’t run much. Really I just shuffle, but I run. And it feels great. Amazing.

I often write about finding silence. Stillness allows you to hear your own voice instead of all those others, well intentioned or not, rattling around in your head.

Today was that kind of day. Silence in the tall grass of the marshland. Silence in the history of an old building and comfort in the company of a good friend.Within the quiet I hear my truth and that’s the only truth I really need to hear. And the truth is, I want to run.

Trail Ride Day 3–Finally!

It’s a week late, but at long last here are my thoughts on the last day of the trail ride.
It’s not like my dad hasn’t been trying to tell me this my entire life! In the summer sun of southern Idaho, you’ll stay cooler if you were light colored clothing and big hat rather than as little clothing as possible and sunscreen.

CJ listening to Richard on the wagon.

Here’s the thing. I’m watching all these cowboys and cowgirls and they, for the most part, have long sleeves on  -- often with a neckerchief – and the requisite cowboy hat. Oh, and long pants.
When I’d show up to hoe beans or paint bee houses or help around the farm, my dad would get after me for wearing cut offs and a tank top with no hat. (This, by the way, is still my preferred apparel until I am forced to switch into a sweatshirt and jeans) I was convinced I would stay cooler and have an awesome tan.
So day three, I figured I give this whole long sleeved thing a try. I’ll be damned. Now, it didn’t get that hot on Day 3 so I wasn’t able to try this experiment in the heat of the day. However, I had a long sleeved shirt on and a big, quite ugly, floppy hat that had been stuffed in my suitcase for several days. By golly, I didn’t feel overheated. Who would’ve thunk it?

Poet Jessica Hedges, dressed like the cowgirl she truly is!

I learned quite a bit by watching the cowboys. Real cowboys take care of their horses first. They might grab a smoke and a cup of coffee, but they feed and water their horses before they do anything else in the morning. Real cowboys make sure everyone in the party is together. They wait to make sure the stragglers are OK. Real cowboys might carry a gun on the ride, but they rarely carry them in public. They don’t pack heat just because they can. Real cowboys have manners, a sense of humor and a spiritual appreciation of the land they ride.
I also over came my gigantic fear of horses. Horses are, in fact, amazing creatures. I now understand why people are so obsessed by them. They have personalities and intellect. Something I’d heard about, but never witnessed the way I did this week.
In a new development, my brother found his copy of the transcripts of my great-grandfather’s wagon train diaries. I’ve only made it through the first few weeks of the journal, but already I’m seeing a few similarities.
First of all, on a good day they average 10 – 15 miles. On a really good day they might go 20. That’s about the extent of what we did. They are traveling between stops where they can rest and water the oxen and  horses. While we were close to home, Richard had to stop frequently to let his horses rest. The trail boss had planned the route so there would be frequent breaks. Getting over-tired doesn’t serve anyone, human or horse, well.

The thing that stands out the most so far is the friends my great-grandfather makes along the way. Sometimes, they’ll work to pass other groups making the trip. Others they avoid. But, more often than not, they make friends and join forces with other travelers. I know I’ve made some wonderful friends along my short trip. As we went into the three – day Lost – n- Lava Cowboy Poetry and Music Gathering, we shared a special bond. The performers on the trip mentioned us as they introduced songs. We shared private jokes with the poets. When we got home the Facebook “friend requests” flew. Pictures were posted and our new friends “tagged”.  In three days, we created a bond – one I don’t think will be easily broken.

My new friend Silky

Will I go on another trail ride? Absolutely. Next time I might even try to ride a horse!

Trail Ride Day 2: May peace be with you

I found myself wanting to disconnect today. I’m not entirely sure why.

Let’s look at the reality. I was in a field approximately 4 miles from home. In my neighborhood, that’s practically next door. We had many of the luxuries of home – it’s not like we were truly roughing it. My phone had plenty of service. There was a porta-potty with a sink in it for Pete's sake. I could have gone home if I needed anything.

But it felt like we were in the middle of nowhere.

Maybe I was too tired as I hadn’t slept well. My sister’s claims that  her bed roll was really thick and comfortable turned out to be a lie. So I slept  on a hard surface and I’m too old for that, it appears.

It was  so entirely peaceful in that field. The creek (ok: canal that sounded like a creek) bubbled in tune with the breeze that blew in from the hay field next door. At  night, the full moon lit the way from the campfire to my tent. Had I not known better, I would have thought I was 100s of miles from home on a range far, far away.

Day 2 meant heading through the desert to a local tourist spot. In the distance, I could see the power line that follows the highway, but I chose to ignore it. While the day before I had three cameras for recording the events, Wednesday morning I just rode in silence. The horses were interesting to watch.The wheels of our reformed Dodge-towing-porta-potty crunched over the lavas with Richard guiding the horses with only the slightest of motions.

I watched the riders on horseback – how they paired up, how they treated the horses, how they went off trail. It became clear which were the experienced horsemen and which were not.

As we rode through the desert I was able to just. “be here” – just as Richard had instructed his horses. Be here. Every so often I felt obligated to connect electronically. Part of my role here is help generate “buzz” for the event and the Lost –n-Lava Cowboy Poetry and Music Gathering that follows. I’m also a Facebook junky and sometimes I need a fix.

For the most part, I’m proud to say, I was able to breathe in the sagebrush and fresh air. As a writer, I kept thinking I should be able to come up with a word more original than peace. I couldn’t. The day was peaceful.

We spent some time at Mammoth Caves, which is just off Highway 75 north of Shoshone. There is simply no way to describe this collection in the museum there – artifacts from nearly every era of recorded history. The cave is deep and fascinating on it’s own.

We took the long way home and came over the butte and steep hills. Again, it felt like we were a million miles from home, yet, in the distance I could see the dairy and knew I was really close to reality. It was hot – as we came through the last field and neared camp something happened that made all the heat and dirt worth while. The trail boss allowed my son to ride his horse.

He’d been asking all day, but a long trail ride is not the best place to start riding. Anything can spook a horse and the lava beds provide no soft place to land.The dirt of the canal bank offer a safer landing.

C.J.s smile could not have been any wider unless he had surgery. He sat up straight in the saddle and listened carefully to instructions from the cowboys riding next to him.

This little boy who usually won’t do much outside of playing video games had to coaxed off the horse.

“This is better than Disney World.”

We spent another night around the campfire with songs and stories from the performers in our group. My girls and husband joined us for dinner and roasted marshmallows in the moonlight. I sat with friends old and new and counted my blessings.

One of the musicians that joined us on the trip. Monlight Ride… is my favorite…

The moon was often covered with clouds as one of the musicians strummed a song called “Moonlight ride”.  The stars were out. The fire crackled and I snuggled with my kids and swayed to the music.

If ever there were peace in my life, this is it.

Trail Ride Day 1: Be Here

At 6:30 in the morning, my nine-year-old son can’t stop talking. I’m guessing that means he’s excited. I've been afraid he’d be bored out of his mind. At this point, I think we’ll be OK.

We check in at the fairgrounds. My chariot awaits. Built on the chassis of a 1974 3/4 ton Dodge pickup, this wagon will provide a “real, smooth ride” – at least that’s what our drive, Richard, “Dick” Barney assures me. He’s got the bench seat covered with what appears to be a Holstein cow hide. At least I’ll feel at home.

This appears to be a loosely organized group. We had been told to arrive at 6:30, but others were told 7 or 7:30.  The “cookies” are here already with a Dutch Oven full of sausage gravy. There’s a bag of biscuits nearby. A good sign, I think.

Somewhere around 8:30 the party leaves. As it turns out, we are the only ones with a wagon.Everyone else is horseback. Looks like there is a good mix of beginning and experienced riders. A retired teacher. Several members of the band in town to provide entertainment for the week. My new friend, Lanita. Another photographer. An EMT. There’s a couple from Montana and one of the cowboy poets brought in for the Lost – n- Lava Cowboy Poetry Gathering to be held this weekend.

We have 10 miles or so to go today. Dick figures we’ll cover 2 – 3 miles an hour. We weave through town with the help of local law enforcement holding back traffic on the state highways that run through town.My ride is amazingly comfortable. I had planned on walking part of the way – but at this point, I see no reason to leave my perch atop the Holstein hide.  CJ starts out up here as well, but like the gentlemen he’s quickly becoming, he moves to a camp chair on the wagon in order for Evelyn, the band’s photographer to ride with us.

The weather is cool. Thank goodness. The lava rock is pretty unforgiving as it is. When it’s hot, it’s miserable. Even a few drops of rain join the wagon ride. Dick calls it a “4-inch rain – 4-inches between the drops.”

Cj is stretched out on his perch. Perfectly happy. Excellent. Not one complaint.Even better. I offer to have someone drop him off at school. “No, thank you!.”

I asked his teacher if he could afford to miss 3 days of school.She said yes. “He’ll learn more on that wagon than he would sitting in my class.”

Just over a mile into the trip, we stop for a quick break. People use the bathroom. Cj learns his fist lesson. Cowboy boots have slick bottoms for a reason. As he tries to hope off the rebar that makes up the step up to the wagon the lug soled boots he’s wearing get caught. He falls. In front of everybody.

“That was a bad idea,” he laughs as hops up and brushes himself off. The crowd releases a collective sigh of relief. No one wants to spend three days with a cry baby. He didn’t fall hard and was fine.

He then learns the next lesson of the trail. Cowboys give ya shit. The more shit they give ya – the more likely it is the actually enjoy your company.

C.J.is asked to help distribute water and pop at the next break. The trail boss comes up to the wagon and looks at C.J.

“Are you Lil’ Mary?” 

C.J. has a confused look on his face. “No. I’m C.J.”

“Well, Lil’ Mary is the person who helps all around the camp and you look like Lil’ Mary to me.”

My heart stopped. My son doesn’t handle getting teased well. I prayed he wouldn’t explode.

“It’s a good thing. C.J.,” I said. “He’s just asking you to help.”

Still unsure, C.J. handed out the drinks dutifully.

Later Dick explains cowboy lore to him. Legend has it there is a person, usually a kid, who helps around the camp, cleans up and is the “gopher” – that person is Little Mary. If they’re calling you Little Mary they’re seeing if you’re a team player – that you aren’t afraid of work. You’re earning they’re respect and trust. It’s a compliment, really. 
C.J. is ready for the work. 

The damp sagebrush releases its fragrance. There are still a few bright yellow wild flowers in bloom. Juxtaposed with the deep burgundy of the lava and the dark blue of the stormy sky, it’s beautiful out here. Breathtakingly simple and quiet.

Just before 1 p.m. we roll into camp. We’re north of the city of Shoshone, just a few miles from my house. The clouds have rolled back to reveal a searing sun. It’s hot. Too hot. And not a bit of shade to be found. We’re on a large ranch. Orginally the plan was to camp in the shade near the ranch house, but an over-population of mosquitoes made that option null. The dry spot will offer little shade, but much relief (we hope) from the angry mobs of insencts.

It is blissfully quiet at camp. Some folks are on a trail ride. Others are napping. Soon the camp will come alive with tall tales and music but for now, we’ll wait out the heat of the sun.

I watch Dick manage his horses. He and his son Eric remove the harnesses and bridles and brush the sweat away. Eric takes them down to the creek for a drink of cool water. I’ve been fascinated in how Dick manages the horses. He talks to them like I imagine he speaks to his grandchildren. Very calm. Quiet. Simple, direct commands and encouragement They’re two Percherons. He says the breed originated in France.

“They’re from France, but sometimes they like to think they’re from Russia, “ Dick says with a smile. As in rush-a.

Silky is a dapple gray lady. She’s the leader. Anxious to go and always at the ready. Joe is a “bay” – a dark, reddish brown male. Dick says they have distinct personalities.

“She’s a happy camper. He’s just campin’”

Throughout the ride he has to coax Joe to keep up.

“Come on Joe, help her out.”

“If you work with her, she’ll help you out.”

He uses a willow stick to gently nudge Joe’s behind. “Joe – she’s doing all the work.”

Silky, on the other hand, remains a step ahead. Literally chopping at the bit.

Dick has to remind her to slow down. Save her energy.

“Silky ,slow down. Be here.”

Be here. He’s reminded his horse to be present.To enjoy the journey.

Perhaps that’s good advice for all of us in this face-paced world. Look at the world around us. Enjoy the view. Be a part of the journey, not just the destination.

Slow down
Be here.