Staring at the mare, I feel something stormy and perilous; there’s a barely suppressed turbulence about this seven year old mare that warns “Watch out.” I peg her for a survivor not only well-settled in her ways, but quite clear on what she needs to do to stay alive. She’s managed by her own wits for a long time and is used to getting her own way, which is not a wonderful thing for the human who plans to ride her. What’s niggling at the back of my mind is that the only person she will really be able to trust is the first person who gentled her. And that person is a felon locked in the state penitentiary for a long time to come. Asking her to transfer that trust to someone new may be one ask too many. But what do I know. I’ve only ever had a few horses in my life, none of them mustangs. I can’t exactly hold myself up as a paragon of horse intuition. (more…)

The trailer rocks with another explosive series of clangs punctuated by one pealing whinny, as the horses inside stomp with impatience and their own worries. I back away. Put me in any city and I’ll hail you a cab in even the most dire of neighborhoods. Offer me symphony tickets and I may well be able to hum the opening bars. But I’m no expert with trailers and horses. What would make me happiest right now is not to set foot anywhere near the trailer. As far as I’m concerned, while these may be my horses, Carol seems eminently more qualified to handle them. Besides, it’s her trailer. “Go ahead,” I say, indicating the trailer now jangling as if possessed. “Be my guest.” (more…)

Despite the sunny weather and green pastures of late June, it feels like Christmas. My gift box is the rusty yellow horse trailer towed by a dented, aged, blue Chevy pickup that has just turned into our ranch headquarters. When the truck pulls to a halt near our barn, the trailer keeps moving, rocking side to side from the agitated stomping of what’s inside: my mustangs.

You’ll notice that I’m saying mustangs in the plural here, which is not a typo. That’s because on the day nine months ago when I first entered the Cañon City penitentiary gates of my own free will, I was overcome with remorse. How could I take just one horse, exposing him to manage the rigors of joining a new band on his. It didn’t seem right. (more…)

Thank goodness for the howling wind and ripping snow slashing across the fields. After all, it’s days like these that make splitting and stacking wood worthwhile.

We are still gnawing away at the pile of bucked logs that represent but a few of the thousands of beetle-kill trees removed from the ranch’s 360 acres of dark timber. I love splitting wood, or, to be perfectly correct, I love using our log splitter to split wood. It gives me kinship with the chipmunks who’ve been diligently storing seeds for the winter. Stacking the wood on the breezeway, knowing that at first drifts will pile up behind them, gives me a sense of properly putting by for the winter. Those stacks are better than a calendar. As they’re depleted they’ll no longer block the snow from the walkway to our front door. And that’s a sure sign we’ve built enough fires that surely spring will arrive one day soon.

I have a strong sense today of what the near future holds for me. First, some chapped skin from shoveling snow as my cheeks are scoured by icy particles. Then, a rip roaring fire as my reward. Last July I cut several armfuls of rhubarb, sugared it and cooked it down to a beautiful pink compote, then froze it all. Once I’ve thawed my fingers, I’ll be baking a rhubarb pie, to bring back the glory days of summer.

The poetry of wildflowers

“That does sound good, Al.  But you know what?”  Here I pause, to build the suspense.  “I’m going to have what I had last time!”  And Al, despite his 84 years, knows exactly what that is.  A cherry phosphate.

There’s a precise order to what follows.  First, he squirts a liberal dose of sweet, scarlet, cherry syrup into a tall glass.  Then, he ceremoniously brings forth the small glass bottle with phosphate from its hiding place and shakes a few drops into the syrup.  He peers up at me quizzically till I tell him to stop.  The more phosphate, the sourer the soda. (more…)