Going into the bush for my late father

I was drawn to forestry for the obvious benefit of being paid for spending time outside, for contributing to a landscape and an ecology bigger than I can grasp.  And I attribute my outdoorsiness to my mother.  

My mom, Brenda, was a natural and multi-sport athlete at a time when it was uncommon for women to not only pursue, but to excel, in sports.  She talked about the hikes and campouts she did as part of school groups - the adventure, scenery, and camaraderie of being on the trail in trying conditions with friends and classmates all sounded amazing and something I HAD to experience first hand.   

I wasn’t as naturally sporty as her or my younger sister, yet I wanted some of that outdoorsiness too - to have a common-ness, a point of connection, a similar lived experience to her.  We did the usual family camping trips when we were a younger family.  I specifically remember her as the master of building fires in the early mornings and those fires serving as a place to gather, be warmed, and to socialize and cook over throughout the day. 

Forestry is traditionally a male dominated field, and I now contemplate that perhaps I was also looking for strong male role models, specifically father and brother figures and substitutes.  When I was 12, my father died from cirrhosis of the liver, a side effect of a life of addiction.  My estranged brother enthuastically follows his self-destructive, substance-abusing footsteps in what we now know as an attempt to cope with sexual abuse from what was a trusted family friend.  

I have lived more than two-thirds of my life without stable male figures present in my immediate family.  A handful of uncles, and cousins lived geographically distant and, while they are great humans, we never cultivated that day-to-day intimacy of living closely.  

Summers, and by extension my chosen seasonal forestry employment, are a longing.  They are an attempt to reach back and connect with my father and brother.  In his premature death, my father was unable to pass along the usual camping and bush skills.  Oscillating between drunk and jail, my brother couldn’t, and still can’t, fill in either. 

Instead, as an adult, I listen to tales of my girlfriends being taught to hunt, being told to always carry a lighter, how to paddle a canoe, observing the passage of seasons on the land.  And I drink in these stories with equal parts memory and mourning for I am reliant on their stories for shaping them into the friend and fellow adventurer I now have in them.  I depend on others to pass on those lived experiences to me.  As if I can pretend I was there too.  That I was taught those things.  That I already knew.  But I did not.  Amongst their stories, I felt exposed, a father-less imposter literally out in the wilderness.  

Forestry field work and bush camp were rich experiences that filled some of those knowledge and skill gaps from my youth.  I learned to drive quads, build tarp saunas, cook over coals, change a tire in the POURING rain on the side of a bush road, shotgun a Lucky, start a pump, shoot guns, and differentiate between grizzly and black bear prints. 

I stop a country mile short of saying I found myself in the woods.  Rather, I let those huge, harsh, and unforgiving landscapes smooth the unpredictable edges of my grief and yearning.  I welcomed the company of my coworkers, weirdos and those on the fringes of society, into the expanse of my inexperience and giddy eagerness.  

Relationships that started as coworkers, easily morphed into trusted and lasting friendships.  Maybe it’s the nature of the work - the long hours, multi-day, ahem week, shifts, or back-to-back deployments that seemingly never end, the shared misery and physical discomfort of living and working so proximate to the moody elements - combined with the geographic remoteness of the work that expedites and cements relationships.  

It worked and continues to work on me.  Coworkers past and present, that I’ve spent any amount of time in bush camp with, are some of my treasured and dearest friendships.  Nearly everyone else was just so damn capable and confident and open and it’s yet another reason why I just can’t seem to leave this industry, this line of work for anything else.  The sense of care that everyone made it back to camp was foreign to me.  We genuinely looked out for one another and I relished that sense of personal security and group stability.  Hours from cell service and urban settings, I found a community, an industry, and essentially an identity that allowed me to learn and hone the bush skills the supposed-to-be close males from my immediate family could not teach me. 

My father died too young for me to have a fulfilling and genuine relationship with him or for me to absorb the usual father/daughter lessons.  My brother is deep into unresolved trauma and a resulting addiction that leaves little room for meaningful connection.  

Through my efforts to find a replacement for the roles I felt a father and brother should fill, I of course, came up short.  But not empty.  It turns out I wasn’t interested in replacing them or the unreliable childhood memories I hold.  No, rather finding ways to honour the space and roles I feel my father and brother should fill.  I do this by going into the woods. 

2020 was an absolute circus, but I thrived with a lot of help from my friends

 

As I look forward to the New Year of 2021, I need to reflect on what will soon be the Old Year (and thank F, aimiright?!?).  

I started 2020 newly single and subsequently about to leave the country, funemployed, and living under someone else's stairs Harry Potter style, minus the magic wand.  That's completely untrue - single Sheri DEFINITELY had a magic wand whose powers dimmed the lights for the entire subdivision while in use.  

Leaving the country for nearly two months certainly aided in the process of getting over a boy.  I embraced the balm of space and time and let equatorial sunsets, ocean waves, new travel buds, and the best damn cousin in the whole world distract me from mourning my old life and moving towards one whose shape I could not yet see.  That act, that conscious decision, to let the people that loved me to care for me cemented some feelings of place and security in the town I now think of as home.  

I've been reflecting on home and place and belonging in a landscape for a while now.  No breakthroughs or deep realizations, but a strong confirmation that community matters A LOT to me.  Community as a synonym for town, sure, but more intimately as a collection of people that care for and take care of each other.  

Turns out I'm a social introvert that NEEDS human interaction and touch.  Having physical contact in the forms of hugs from friends and regular massage taken away for months was gruelling and when I felt the loneliest and lowest this year.  Touch, and not even in a sexual sense, is near impossible to replicate and something I find so soothing and comforting.  

Community takes many forms for many people - book clubs, sports teams, coworkers, housemates, family, many besties.  My community, my network, my support is multiple sports teams and clubs, a gaggle of diverse girlfriends, a cousin bestie on speed dial, and coworkers I deeply trust and respect.  It took time and effort to build this for myself in Dawson Creek, but the love, support, and returns I've received have been deeply nourishing in what should have been an isolating and lonely year. 

I strongly credit the role physical activity and conscious exercise played towards positive mental health this past year.  Frequent power walks around town for groceries, dog walks, errands, or just simply to leave the house and get out of my head.  Leisurely bike rides around Dawson Creek's gravel and paved side roads.  Hiking the trails around Tumbler Ridge  At-home weights and HIIT videos that I did "together" with my friend across town.  Swimming.  New sports of curling and cross country skiing.  As an athlete, I know how to care for my physical body, so that's what I comfortingly returned to and simply hoped my emotional and mental health would follow.  It mostly worked.  Most of the time.  

So while 2020 was not what or where I thought it would be, I am still pretty damn proud of a handful of accomplishments: 

• Bought my first place
  
  
• Solo two-night backpacking trip in Jasper
  
  
• Received RPF designation
  
  
• Recerted NL

  

My star of 2020 - Millie. How single people without pets in this pandemic year made it remains a great mystery to me.  She ensured I never slept in, let me hold her as I wept for times past and uncertainty ahead, and is stellar company. 

So, even as I am finishing this year much as I did last - no husband, no job and no f-ing kids - it's in a much better state and headspace. 

I hope 2021 sees you enveloped in community and love - whatever, and whomever, and where ever that means to you! 

Reviewing 2019 - mostly highs, then a walloping heartache

2019 was all-round a solid year. Notable highlights included:

• My mother visited after a six year hiatus. Mind that it was to help open a new Save On store, but the effort and her presence was appreciated. I was on strike from going to Alberta until some immediate family visited me here. While I do not want my brother to visit and suspect my sister never will, I will now dutifully return to my hometown in the spring. I was thrilled Mom was able to take in my year-end swim meet, even if she was too tired for me to properly show her around the rest of my life in Dawson Creek.

• SO MUCH HIKING!!! From Toad River to Mount Robson and numerous trails in between around Tumbler Ridge, I covered hundreds of kilometers this summer with an ever-changing crew of soccer team mates, friends, and coworkers. They even politely listened as I identified and rattled off random botanical facts.
  
• Swimming as part of a triathlon relay team in the local race. Our entire team bested their time expectations and enjoyed the race-day atmosphere. Unfortunately I was soured against training with the summer competitive club in the future. Largely ignored during practices with no technique corrections given, I dutifully dragged my race-anxious self to the required number of meets and puked my nerves out. I’m well aware that I will never be a provincial champion, but I was still paying to be in the pool and wanted to benefits of being coached.
  
• QUIT MY JOB!!! More specifically I quit a barely-qualified, disengaged supervisor who set poor time management objectives and even worse attendance expectations. I readily took a pay cut, returned to seasonal employment, and joined a high-functioning emergency response agency.
  
• Many, many hours at the pool. As staff on deck as part of a fun, trusting aquatics team, and in the water training alongside my lane besties. 

Lowlight delivered early December:

• Ending an eight-year relationship. Because kids. I would rather jump off a bridge than contribute to overpopulation. It still stung to abruptly have a treasured confidant, adventure buddy, and lover be no more.
  
  I had a lollipop moment after I told one of my girlfriends. She simply texted, “I got you” and again whispered it in my ear as we hugged goodbye for the night, tears streaming down my face. That simple phrase allowed me to re-focus on who I still had and wanted, needed even, to be part of my child-free life. My girlfriends, teammates, lane buddies, co-workers, yogis, dear friends near and far, and even some of my family. 

Like stepping on a ground nest

I practiced saying it in my head. Then I made myself whisper the words so I could hear them beginning to take shape in my mouth. Once I could confidently utter the sentence, I progressed to rehearsing aloud. Feeling them exit between my quivering lips at conversational volume:

Dan and I have broken up.

One gut-retching, emotionally-charged, life-altering declaration.

A great match for a while, we knew our relationship was a ticking time bomb, and we were destined for failure. Most of the time we could ignore the lingering dealbreaker hanging over us. On Sunday, Dan had reached a threshold where he can no longer deny his desire.

Kids. Parenthood. He desperately wants it. I vehemently do not.

Being with Dan for eight adventure-filled years was great, nearly effortless, and deeply comfortable. I am, and for a while, will miss him. In time I will be ok again, but I need to grieve. To grieve someone who is still alive.

The Wasa Effect

Wasa Lake is not my home.

I didn’t grow up there, but there is something deeply homey and comforting about visiting.  For as long as I can remember, my Auntie Shauna has either lived there, or is plotting to return.  Visit, and it is easy to see why.  It is where she spent her formative years, where she is from, and where she is still strongly connected to the land, lake, and the people.  Shauna’s place is one of the few structural constants I’ve had since I was old enough to know place.

We moved a few times within my hometown, Red Deer, each time seemingly marking a family milestone.  My parents separating.  My father’s death.  A Remarriage.  Another divorce.  By the latter two, I was out of the house and off to university, never to return full-time to my hometown.

I didn't develop that sense of security that I could fully unpack and feel “home” or settled.  I quickly learned that attachment to a place, especially a physical house, was futile.  Even when we were in one place for a while, our house was rarely our own.  We shared it with a courier business, and later parts of another family after my mother remarried. 

I never felt that feeling of home in a house, yet I still feel intrinsically tied to the prairies.  To a larger landscape.  I have been grappling with sense of place, and how and if one can truly belong in a greater geography.

On the grander scale, I am vehemently a proud product of the prairies even though I am not tethered to my hometown.  I have always felt at ease on, and connected to, the prairies.  My current town of Dawson Creek is embedded in such similar and familiar physical surroundings as central Alberta.

Both are characterized by extremes: harsh winters, chilling winds, long winter nights, short summer nights, and wide open skies.  Those wide open skies that display winter’s misleadingly blue skies when the thermometer flirts with 40 below; the skies that build epic summer thunderstorms, then release intensely and move on; the skies that shine and support diverse primary industry - Central Alberta and northeastern BC as working landscapes rather than wilderness.

Wasa sits midway in the geographic expanse of my childhood, bookended by Red Deer and the Sunshine Coast.  It makes me deeply homesick for a place that isn’t my home.

Shauna's log cabin with the red tin roof, roomy front porch, dodgy wiring, and windows some brave Alaskan vagabond chainsawed out of solid log walls.  I can’t remember which relative pointed out the white building, the old Wild Horse Lookout, poised on the mountainside, but from the northernmost beach, I still look for it and am relieved that it’s there.  Even though I have yet to hike up to it. 

In my memory, little has changed since I was young.  Except the septic system has gotten worse. Guests now must dutifully trot down to the provincial park’s long drop toilets to poop, and sneak into the campgrounds to use the newly installed solar showers.

These minor inconveniences pale in the effort to get to Wasa.  Now I am now a 12-hour-no-stops drive away.  And it’s in the same province where I live.  It takes more planning, more time off, more money to get there. I suppose it always took effort, but as a child I was immune to the work my parents, and later only my mother, put in to going somewhere.  To leaving.

And yet, it’s always been worth it.  Even against the backdrop of family drama and veiled conversations it’s a place to exhale, recharge, and take in the interesting objects and stories from Shauna’s life of social justice, travel, and activism.  At Wasa, the furniture is worn and comfortable, and invites lingering and conversation.

Perhaps it’s the simple act of returning to somewhere cozy and familiar that I find so reassuring. Going to Wasa is revisiting an effortless and a deeply happy part of my childhood.

And I love how that feels.

Unhappy Mother's Day

These days are hard. Not because I don’t have a mother, no. My mother, Brenda, lives on healthy and well, and I am very fortunate to be her daughter.

I grew up in her single-mother household and saw her work so damn hard for us ungrateful, demanding, and selfish three kids. I didn’t know then it wasn’t normal for parents to work in excess of 12 hours a day. For weeks, then months, then years on end. How she still attended our band recitals, sports competitions, and even had time to pursue her hobby and passion, gardening, is beyond me. She must have had some arrangement with the universe’s timekeepers, because otherwise I truly do not know how she did it all.

No, today isn’t hard because I don’t have a mother. It’s hard because it also serves as an anniversary of my brother’s car accident. An alcohol-fueled accident involving just his vehicle that was in all likelihood an attempt to take his life. It’s a powerful reminder of the role and relentless grip that addiction still has on our family. We had hoped it would have ended with our late father’s passing, but addiction and mental health is a wicked beast.

Today is hard because it marks another milestone. It’s almost a month until Father’s Day, and I no longer have a father.  I have not celebrated a Father’s Day since I was 12.  More than the absence of my father, it was hard seeing my mother unsupported by an immediate partner.  Perhaps seeing this lack of close companionship in her life forced me to lean on my other communities early on in my own life.

Sports, band, part-time jobs, church all become parts of a network that made me feel safe, valued, and challenged.  Of course I felt those things at home from my mother, but it still felt somehow incomplete without a pair of parents sharing the roles and responsibilities of raising three very different kids.  I no longer say it’s a deficit or an absence I feel everyday. Rather, it creeps up at inopportune and unsuspecting moments.

So long 33, hello 34!

Well, 33, you’ve taught me a lot. I stepped out of my comfort zone multiple times, and have been richly rewarded. I suffered defeat in the professional sphere that’s added to my uncertainty of remaining employed in the forest industry. More of that later. Or not – I’m still coming to grips with the possibility of a soft exit strategy from an industry, and ultimately an identity, that I’ve proudly worn for more than a decade.

My birthday has long marked a transition point. It’s the start of summer season, the shedding of winter’s cool and dark embrace, a return from foreign travels. From student to worker, from unemployed to frantically refilling my bank account, from office to field, as if the entire bush is open for business on May 1.

Summers have always meant work. Silviculture workers are not afforded the luxury of “summers off”, “holidays”, or “a week at the cabin”. Rather, my birthday marks the start of a condensed season of intense physical effort to collect data, wrangle contractors, and maybe even sneak in a lucrative fire deployment. I push my body and demand it relearns how to penetrate thick alder, swim through aspen and cottonwood, traverse over slash taller than me, and delicately dance with devil’s club.

And I lose. I fall. Over and over and over again. My body telling the familiar tale as bruises, cuts, and grazes cover my limbs.

This year feels different. That familiar longing has waned, my desire drained. Perhaps what was once a novel and desirable way to spend summer has now become mundane. Former excitement and anticipation have been replaced by familiarity and predictability.

Too scared to outright quit – for now – I have relished in my after-hours life: The soccer games that carry on til late. Book club gatherings that pass in what seems like minutes as we alternately howl and then cry over the events in the pages and each other’s lives. Intimate live music events that stir the soul. Intense off-mat conversations at the yoga studio. Raucous apres swim socials that shut down the restaurant.

Ultimately it’s community and rich relationships that have held me as I contemplate next steps. I don’t have an end destination in mind, but I am thrilled to share the journey with so many supporting friends, co-workers, and teammates.