WRITER'S CORNER

AL REINER PHOTOGRAPHER 60

Winter 2023

www.steamboatspringsphotosalreiner.com alireiner@comcast.net 970-232-0621

Art with Altitude

WRITER’S CORNER THE HILL

By Win Dermody On a perfect day with body fresh—it wouldn’t seem so hard It’s just another trail you say—we’ll take it yard by yard.

We’ll smile and laugh and pass the cup—and share it all around We’ll bag this simple woodland trail—and camp on higher ground.

But those of us who’ve passed this way—more than a time or two Know that only greenhorns—could really take this view.

And so it came to pass this day—now pushin’ on toward dark We knew we had a heap of work—this day it weren’t no lark.

We’d ridden long and hard this way—fifteen miles or more Our bodies ached, our thirst was great—our hunger even more.

To add to this, the grade was steep—and rocky part way too I watched those pack mules stumbling—and I hoped we’d all pull through.

Those steeds they were a sight to see—their eyes they were a blazin’ Their muscles strained but they pressed on—by God they were amazin’.

At last we topped that damned old hill—with no strength left to spare If I’d a been the praying kind—I’d sure a said it there.

But now beside the campfire warm—with food and drink to fill My mind is still a buzzin’—with thoughts of that old hill.

A sterling tale of man and beast—to tell in years to come I reckon you’ll forgive me—should I enlarge upon it some.

The sinews in our hands were taut—and seats so saddle sore The rain was beatin’ down so hard—it chilled me to the core.

The horses too were weary­—their necks all soaked with sweat They longed to roll in pasture green—but they weren’t done just yet.

As dark came fallin’ with bed roll callin’—we stepped off the trail The rain came down and drenched the ground—by God it was a gale.

Into the muck and mire we rode—brave horses all with heavy loads Their hooves sunk deep into the ooze—they struggled to break free.

Art with Altitude

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MY FRIEND JOHN

By Orval Bedell

When hunting season rolls around As hunting seasons do A friend of mine whose name is John Gets in an awful stew He whets his knife and oils his gun And sharpens up his ax And hurries around from dawn till dusk He just can’t seem to relax He sets up camp out in the hills And splits a pile of wood And digs himself a garbage pit As all good campers should He builds a table and a bench or two Then sights in his trusty gun Then takes a hike for an hour or two To see where the deer might run Tomorrow is the opening day The gang will still arrive He looks at the hills and says to himself “It’s great to be alive.”

When they come driving into camp There is Mike and Bill and Lynn He knows their hunt this year will be The best it’s ever been As they sit around the fire that night Each one must have his say Of the deer he’s killed and the shots he’s made And the ones that got away 62

Winter 2023

John hits the sack and is soon asleep To dream of the coming day In his dreams he shoots a dozen deer But they all twelve run away He’s out of bed at 3 a.m.

All dressed in his warmest clothes He pulls his parka over his head To protect his ears and nose He knows they need a hearty meal But he’s not sure how to cook So he mixes this and stirs in that As it says to—in the book His cereal tastes just like glue And the eggs all run together The cakes are so tough—cooked so brown They are just like harness leather The bacon’s burnt—the coffee is weak There are ashes in everything He calls “Come and get it while it’s hot Here’s a meal fit for a king.”

They all take off at the break of day To look for a deer to kill One down the creek, one up the draw And the others across the hill When they come dragging in at night With tired and aching feet Bill kids the rest about their day For he has got his meat.

The second day both Mike and Lynn Come in to brag a lot

Of the deer they killed and to rib poor John For he has yet to get a shot They laugh about his ancient gun The one his father had They offer to buy him glasses If he thinks his eyes are bad But Johnnie takes it all in stride For their jokes are all in fun He says if he kills a deer at all It will be with his ancient gun He thinks of the place where he ate his lunch Of the stream and the waterfall Of the speckled trout that jumped for flies And the sound of the blue jay’s call He remembers the squirrel that came down the tree And scurried around by his feet And the “whiskey jack” that shared his lunch And scolded for more to eat Today must be the final day For their time will soon be gone They talk of their deer and the shots they made That is—“everyone but John” They offer to help him to get his deer But it bothers him not at all He says if his luck is bad today He will wait till another fall.

Art with Altitude

He has hunted all day, when he sees a doe But he knows that her young is near He would rather go home with nothing at all Than to kill a mother deer Then he sees some deer across the draw There must be two or three And one has a rack the looks to him Like the limbs of an aspen tree He takes a quick and steady bead He tries for a vital spot The deer falls dead, his luck is good He has fired but a single shot He rushes up to see his kill His face is one big smile He lets out a yell like a wounded bear You could hear him for over a mile He laughs aloud and talks to himself Like a man who has lost all reason But he should, for his deer is by far the best That’s been taken in all the season He will show them now—those ornery guys He will brag of his hunting style He will tell them enough when he gets to camp To last them for quite a while.

But we know when the season is over And all the gang have gone That “hunting” was only half the fun— The other half was “John” Art with Altitude

Winter 2023

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FEELING HIGH

A HARSHER GLORY

Is this a dream is it real The peace and the quiet that I feel

This land Where time-blasted rocks Thrust up from the cracked yellow dirt Into a parched blue sky, This land of trees twisted by dry winds Bark scored with centuries of lines, Flowing into the nowhere of a sundrenched desert, It calls me.

Standing by a red cliff, I look to distant blue mesas, To the road before me rippling with heat Until through the hot waves And time I see Coronado still traveling the long plain Searching for the lost cities of Quivera Greed and god-driven alike behind him.

The sun burns white On their helmets and their spurs And dances on the dark sweat Of the stumbling horses.

By: Elaine Dermody

Can I paint a mental picture of all the beauty here I’m sitting in the grass and the lake is quite near The water is green and small fish are swimming around Occasionally a fish jumps or a bird chirps that is the only sound The green yellow marsh grass is everywhere The peaks reflecting in the water are beautiful beyond compare There are small pine trees and rocks of every shape and size The bright red ground cover is truly a feast for the eyes

By Polly Holyoke

Silently they pass into the desert, Leaving a slow cloud of yellow dust To sift through mesquite leaves And settle on sharp yucca stems.

I know in my dreams I will stand here by the cliff When the sun turns the mesas Blood red with its setting Just as Coronado still journeys This sun-seared land,

Every now and then a gentle breeze will blow And the water ripples creating a completely new show The air is fresh and blue is the color of the sky There is no doubt about it I’m feeling really high

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Art with Altitude

God and gold long forgotten For a harsher glory.

As I will stand Even when the moon rises Over the mesas And turns tree and rock cool silver, Even when the gray coyotes gather From the shadows of the desert Crying the song of their living Into the timeless night.

THE WEST

PHOTOS COURTESY OF SAMANTHA DECOSTA

Wild Blooms Wilderness Water, Woods, Wildlife Roaming Wanderers Welcome

Authentic Form

Haiku by Suzi Mitchell

THE WEST

Haiku by Katie Kiefer Still—wide open skies Open my heart to the view Always calms my soul

WE NEVER KNOW

From Marjorie Perry’s Poem Book We never know the joy of it Till love has turned to hate Nor heed the crimes that we commit Until it is too late We never miss the sun so much As when it has gone down Nor know the bliss that’s in a kiss Till we have felt a frown.

The empty areas where loved ones past From being idle, ache We never know we’ve got a heart Until it begins to break.

Art with Altitude

by Samantha DeCosta

AS A FIFTH-GENERATION Colorado farm girl, I have always been inspired by the scenes and people in the agriculture industry. Agriculture in the West can often be one of the most challenging ways of life. High mountain ranchers like the ones featured in this series truly embody the grit and determination it takes to thrive as a producer. These photos were taken on working cattle ranches in Routt County during their busy spring season. Most of my work is centered on folks like these ranchers, as I find them to be some of the most interesting people you will ever meet, and it often translates into a photo.

The West is often romanticized in art, and I love when I get to capture it in its most authentic form. I love that being a photographer allows me to capture real moments in time. SD ELEVATE THE ARTS: See more of Samantha’s photography work at: samanthadecostaphotography.com

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