Articles by Ruth Rudner

Check back each month for a new article from Ruth Rudner.

The Writing on the Wall
Nur Mut, Johann, someone had painted on the rock wall. "Only courage, Johann."

Gimpelwestgrat.  Writing on the wall is about 3/4 of the way up the middle route, at a slight jog.

The writing on the wall was slightly above me to my left, at the point the route required letting go of handholds to leap up over a small crack to a good ledge some inches above to the right. It was not far, not long, not even difficult, but letting go to jump upward scared the hell out of me.

A Visit to China
China is utterly fascinating, terribly rich, terribly busy, terribly big. There are too many people, too much traffic, too much pollution. On streets planted with trees in an attempt to get some oxygen into the desperate air, bicycles pulling carts loaded as heavily as an American pick-up, bicycles carrying families of three, scooters, motor bikes all travel alongside shiny, expensive cars.

What I Said To The Bears
I walked down the trail talking to bears. It seemed the only thing to do. I tried singing, but after a while I ran out of songs. Or rather, song. I can only think of one song when I sing to bears, a song from a musical called Crosstown Bus written by a dear friend.

Coming Home
Montanans, understandably, are tired of snow. It has been snowing or raining for most of the past nine months. While New Mexico dries out in severe drought, and Arizona is on fire, Montana is drowning. Creeks and rivers overflow their banks. Roads are closed. Towns are flooded.

So What
My first lesson in slam poetry, the art that –as Smith wrote in The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Slam Poetry--"resurrected the spoken word literary tradition." I have never been to a poetry slam.

Lion
Lion died. The vet came to the house at 11:30 a.m. in late October. One minute my beautiful little cat was alive. Then he wasn’t.

Beyond Pie Town
The population of Pie Town is under 200. But it provides a break in the trail for hikers on the Continental Divide, most of whom find their way to the Daily Pie Café. David and I stop at the Daily Pie on our drives from Albuquerque to Arizona’s White Mountains.

The Cow, Part 2
Things happen when you stop trying to make them happen. Maybe letting go simply allows the Universe to work. Disappointed at not coming through with Bette’s bucket list request, I gave up the idea of finding a cow knowing I’d done what I could. But I phoned one more person. Just in case . . .

Looking for a Cow
I’ve spent the day looking for a cow. A dairy cow. But this is the West. In The West, we grow beef. Wild beef. The kind of beef you have to search days through wilderness to round up. We don’t fool around with dairy cows. Sure, we need ice-cream out here, but when we want to grow cows our land, we want something with meat on its bones, not caramel swirls in its cream.

The Necessity of Wolves
Wolves are a dividing line. On one side are people who believe wolves belong in the ecosystems where they evolved; on the other, people who hate them.

Looking into Mexico at Sunset
The Sierra del Carmen is streaked rose and mauve by late sun. Two hundred feet below me, dividing line between that wild range and me, the Rio Grande runs a muddy green.

On Not Flying In A Balloon
My brother, Larry, lectures on cruise ships. He has for years. Totally surrounded by water, he is truly happy.

Big Bend National Park
“We drove miles across the endless Texas desert, the only vehicle on a road striping through sand and cactus and greasewood for so long that I forgot we were going somewhere.”

Birthday Hikes
A birthday hike through wild country seems a proper celebration, the reassertion of our beginning as beings of nature. 

Fundraiser
I used to care about politics.  For all my life in Montana, I felt committed to one candidate or another.  I sent money.  I wrote an occasional op-ed piece. 

The Sandhill Cranes in the Backyard
This morning, out of a storm grey dawn, there is a crimson opening in the sky. Sandhill cranes fly across the crimson, dark forms against flame, a grand avian celebration of the dawn.

Jaguars
Earlier this month, after a great deal of effort on the part of several conservation organizations, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service announced its decision to designate habitat critical to the survival of the jaguar, and to develop a long-term recovery plan for this endangered animal.

Blog for 2010
At the start of 2010, I’ll substitute a sporadic blog for this monthly article. The blog will focus on the connection – the personal connection -- between nature and writing. Other subjects may jump in, although I really think the two categories contain virtually every subject.

Vancouver Island
The Nuu-chah-nulth Trail crosses a large bog before winding into rainforest. Bogs are subtle.  Not for them, the drama of oceans and mountains, of high cliffs or roiling streams.  Because bog soil provides little food for plantlife, whatever grows here makes up in adaptation what it lacks in spectacle.  Stunted shore pines, backing away from the boardwalk trail protecting this fragile habitat from human feet, scatter themselves across the open landscape.  Sphagnum moss spreads across the bog like carpet. 

Protecting the Land
There are hitches to protecting what you love. For instance, once in Central Park, trying to protect my dog from the insane kick of a woman-one-ought-never-tangle-with, I ended up in an actual physical fight. My friend Graham interceded and nobody died. (I did try to talk to her first.) Another instance, joining with thousands of people in voicing the opinion that the air and sound pollution of snowmobiles has no place in Yellowstone’s winter has resulted in numerous court cases, and, for now, a cap on their numbers and how they’re used, but not a total ban.

Bear Wallow Wilderness
We chose the steeper of two trails for our first day’s hike. It seemed the quicker route to the gorge a couple of miles below the junction of the trails. Although both trails descend about three miles through pines and fir, the steeper one-- the Reno Lookout Trail-- looked shorter on the map. It stayed on the dry side of the canyon while the Cienega, which we intended hiking the next day, follows water much of the way. The trailheads are three miles apart on a forest road that gets use on weekends when people desperate to leave the heat of Phoenix drive to these northern mountains. Weekday traffic is sparse. It was Wednesday.

Sitting by the Gaina
An old woman leads her cow across the bridge over the Gaina. A Holstein. A milk cow. Moving from one side of the village to the other, toward pasture, or away. There is no way—on this bank where I sit-- for me to know whether she is going or coming. Perhaps direction is irrelevant. The earth is circular. Life is circular. Spring always returns. We, too, if you consider reincarnation. At the very least, we move from spirit before we are conceived to spirit when we die.