Mike and I hauled protein supplement to the canyon last weekend and had to chain up again. It snowed clear to the river and greasy mud coated our tires. Without chains, it was nerve-wracking, swooping downhill into slick corners and churning uphill fearing we'd end up going backwards.
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| Chains on, heading down river |
We are resigned to chaining up. Chains are our friends, they allow us to do our work. But what if I could pop them on and off with a magic wand, instead of laying under the truck getting cold and filthy and scraping our knuckles? Now that would be useful!
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| Reminders from friends |
The sun leaves us by four o'clock and in the many hours before bed, I sense darkness pressing down on the bottom of the canyon. A few weeks ago I put out candles and a wooden wreath and music box sent to us years ago by friends in Germany. The warm light of the candles sometimes makes me feel like there's a grandmother rocking in a chair nearby. In the narrow hall I hung the faded thee-kings banner made out of red felt by Mike's mom in the 1960's. After studying old stories about these travelers, I drew a placard and pinned it to the banner. It says, "Do NOT to go back the way you came." That feels like useful advice when I think of climate change.
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| Zeke's 3 yr b-day gift in Quito, Ecuador |
I love how people come to us in the dark of winter across time and space through memory, stories, objects. Sitting atop a high kitchen cupboard, I overlook the largish ceramic cow gifted to Zeke by friends in Quito on his third birthday. Then the Christmas lights go up and I see cow again, and think of friends Anne, Anne-Luisa and Denis. And I think of how after a year at the equator we arrived home in Joseph, cow miraculously emerging from a suitcase missing only the tip of one horn. It is useful to be reminded that we can be fragile and strong at the same time.
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| Punch and Maggie, W. River bar, early December |
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| Mike and Dave pull in with a load of hay |
After we unloaded the protein, I checked the cistern; no water was coming in. Our spring heroically managed to keep a pinky-finger sized trickle flowing through eight months of severe drought. Now it seemed the low flow had not been enough to keep the line open, and the long pipe up to the spring had frozen. I filled two five-gallon buckets from the river and carried them up to the porch.
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| Mike tarping hay in weaning pen |
That evening I dipped hot water from the big pot on the wood stove and washed dishes. When the dishes were done, I suggested Mike wash his hands in the dishpan of warm rinse water. Then I wrung out a rag in the used wash water and wiped splotches of dried mud off my coat from when we put the chains on that morning. Finally, I rinsed out the compost bucket with the dirty warm water. It brought back memories of the cow camps where we lived and worked without running water. I thought to myself, well, that's one useful thing I know how to do, live in a dry camp.
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| Trailing stragglers back from Hall's |
Near the shortest day of the year, I'm feeling less certain of the joy of turning from darkness toward light. Solstice used to promise hopeful signs of growth and vigor, but now in our bones we still feel the zenith of summer, its brittleness and thirst.
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| Valley Solstice |
The next morning I hiked up the draw to recon the water line. Every so often I lifted the black plastic pipe, feeling if it was empty, or heavy with ice. Near the mouth of the draw, I found where cattle had knocked the line apart and a stream of water the size of two thumbs was running out onto the ground. Not only was the line thawed, twice as much water was flowing down from the spring. It is useful to check your assumptions. Sometimes they are wrong and could cause you to miss out on a hot shower in the near future.
From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef
