The Black Canyon on horseback

We visited one of Dee's oldest friends today, and visiting his ranch brought back such a rush of memories. Besides farming, Ron also runs a pack horse service, mainly hauling gear into the Black Canyon of the Gunnison for fly fishing and river rafting outfitters. The fishermen and rafters drive to the rim on a 4x4 road, then hike the last steep mile down to the river. All the gear (rafts, food, tents, cooking gear and so on) is taken down to the river on the backs of horses.

Years ago, on another road trip that led us to this part of Colorado, Dee arranged for me to ride down into the canyon with the pack horses. I rode a cute quarter horse mare, and the cross-country ride to the rim was a blast.

DW met us at the rim in one of the ranch trucks, and that's when we learned that the outfitter cancelled the trip. So we tossed the gear into the back of the pickup, and we all rode down to the river on horseback. The guides rode the pack horses; I can't believe that was comfortable, but they didn't seem to mind. When we rode back up to the rim, Dave and I drove the truck back to the ranch. The guys turned the pack horses loose, and they headed back to the ranch at a fast lope.

Even though I had my own horse back home, and rode nearly every day, this was a thrill for me, and it will always be one of my favorite memories.

Especially seeing my non-horsey husband on horseback. That's something I'll never forget!

Garden art, winery style...

Today was another bottling day at DeLille Cellars. We were just about through our lunch break, when one of the guys rolled out on a forklift and deposited a heap of barrel staves and hoops on the ground near the table. He said we could take any or all of it home today.

I looked around and no one was making a move, so I didn't hesitate:  I asked if I could have the hoops. We drove the MX-5 today, but I managed to get 5 hoops and 5 barrel staves into the trunk. Plus the 6 bottles we got for our work on the bottling line. Not bad for a roadster!

. . . . .

As soon as I saw the barrel hoops, I thought of the gorgeous winery gardens at Camaraderie Cellars in Port Angeles.

We were last there in the summer of 2012, and I'd really like to make another visit this year, sample more of their wonderful wines, and spend some time in the gardens. I wonder if they do winemaker's dinners; I'll have to check that out.

Winemaking isn't Don Corson's only talent: he's also responsible for the beautiful gardens that surround the winery tasting room, and the varied garden art and structures there.

Under a large canopy is this chandelier made from barrel hoops. It's wrapped with mini Christmas lights, and has a beautiful large blown-glass globe in the center. This will be the inspiration for my own barrel hoop chandelier.

This "room" is beautifully landscaped, with plenty of comfortable seating. Windows from an old house form a windbreak along one side, without blocking the view into another part of the garden.

At the other end of the garden is a smaller room, with a fence made from sticks woven through uprights.

I love the table in this intimate room:  it's made from a huge slab of stone, set on pedestals made from cedar tree trunks.

The gate to the winery is made from barrel staves.

And before I forget... Camaraderie Cellars makes first-class red wines. You have to drive a bit to taste them, but this winery is worth the effort. And if you love to drive the back roads, you'll feel right at home.

Old gardens...

I love everything that is old; old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wines

Oliver Goldsmith, The Vicar of Wakefield

When we bought our old farmhouse nearly thirty years ago, one thing that delighted me was the mature rhododendron garden that wrapped around the patio. There were two dozen bushes in all, plus azalea bushes, more than I've ever seen in one place. Since we moved into our little farmhouse in October, it was a long wait until April, when they started to bloom.

Memory is a funny thing, because when I think back I remember them as always being large and lush. But then I come across an old photograph and realize they were once just normal size.

I love tangled cottage gardens, so over the years I encouraged the rhodies to grow bigger and bigger, and in their old age now, they're practically trees, soaring way over my head. They make our outdoor living area private and intimate, and for a couple of months each spring, give us non-stop color.

I still don't know what any of the varieties are. But that doesn't really matter.

Homegrown racetrack

From the archives, May 2005 | A decade ago, we were avid mountain bikers. One of our favorite places to go was Moab, the center of all things slickrock and an amazing place to ride. Our group of friends rented a house in town for a week, and did nothing but ride bike.

Moab also had the benefit of being close to "our" uncle (he's Dave's uncle, but I claim him, too), who lives in western Colorado. When we could, we'd take a couple of days off and go for a visit, or see him on our way home.

When Dee wasn't working as a postmaster, he raised Thoroughbred racehorses. On a remote part of his farm he had a track bulldozed, just a short jog from the barn. Each morning, the trainer would ride each horse from the ranch out to the track for a workout. One morning Dave and I drove out a bumpy dirt road to watch the gallops. We climbed up one of the adobe hills, and pulled up a piece of dirt. This gorgeous, big Quarter horse was dwarfed by the adobe cliffs behind the track.

I loved this grey gelding, and wish I'd taken him home with me.

A logical cat

When we bought our small farm, there was a rustic, hand-made bird feeder mounted on a post in the garden that bordered the patio, the perfect spot for watching birds.

My youngest cat agreed. Tigger was always my hunter, and loved having five acres to roam. I never caught her off the property, so I never worried she'd get herself into trouble. I'd find her in the orchard, crouched completely still, waiting to catch a mouse. Or hanging out by the chicken coop, watching the baby chicks. She even managed to catch a Stellar jay, quite a coup for such a small cat.

One day I came home from work, changed clothes, and grabbed my gardening tools. And then I spotted Tigger. My clever cat figured out a way to get 6 feet off the ground, and up into the bird feeder, where she waited patiently for the birds to come to her.

Consider the logic, if cats have such a thing. Did she sit on the patio and watch the birds fly in and out of the feeder, then decide that was the perfect place to lie in wait? She was a very smart cat, and I don't doubt it for a minute.

I came across this bird feeder today. It was brought crashing to the ground in January 1994, when a major windstorm snapped the top of a huge cedar tree. I put the remaining pieces in the barn, thinking I'd rebuild it. And never did. But now, maybe I will, and put it back on a post by the patio.

And remember my sweet cat.

Trail dog

Dogs are our link to paradise. They don't know evil or jealousy or discontent.
To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden,
where doing nothing was not boring... it was peace.

Milan Kundera

I've felt really nostalgic the past week or so, seeing blogging friends posting photos of their dogs, and remembering how much I loved sharing my life with a dog.

Storm was our second dog, and our last dog (at least so far). He was a rescue dog, as most of our resident four-legged creatures have been. He came to us in early winter, after our Norwegian Elkhound disappeared one night. When I put up a note at work, a friend asked if we were interested in adopting a Siberian Husky that they had rescued. D fell in love with this big furry dog at first sight, and we took him home. We figured with 5 acres, if Bjorn ever found his way home, there was plenty of room for two.

We soon figured out that while kind and gentle with people and cats, Storm had a different perspective on farm animals. The first time we let him run in the front pasture, he chased the geese. The geese could look out for themselves, however, and the gander chased Storm off. A month later we were working in the front pasture, and suddenly Storm just took off, heading for our neighbor's place. By the time Dave got there, Storm had jumped the fence of their goat pen and had one of the goats pinned. So from then on, he was on a run unless he was in the house with us. We were disappointed. We wanted a farm dog, one that could stay outside while we were at work, keeping an eye on the place.

If we couldn't trust Storm off-leash at home, how would he behave when we went hiking? There was only one way to find out. We chose a trail off Snoqualmie Pass while there was still snow on the ground, and off we went. We kept Storm on a leash for the first mile, then unclipped the leash. We figured he'd either run off, or he'd figure it out and stay with us. We held our breath as he ran ahead of us about 30 feet, stopped and sniffed the snow... and came right back to us. We hiked for hours, and this dog knew his place was a few dozen yards ahead of us, and he kept a careful eye on us, never getting out of our sight. He became the perfect trail dog, and we never left him at home when we went hiking.