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. 

2018 in review

Community.  Deeper than the physical towns of Dawson Creek or Chetwynd, 2018 fostered connections and cemented sense of place.  The workplace was my first community, and point of contact in Dawson Creek.  Taking a sabbatical abruptly tore me out of that supportive environment and I was relegated to isolating online studies.  As I’ve so often done in the past for social, mental, physical, and ultimately athletic support, I leaned on my sports teams and clubs. 

Too scared and injury receptive for game play, I continued to practice with my indoor soccer team, and enthusiastically rejoined them on the outdoor pitch for the summer.  It was another hard-fought fun season with most games carrying on to Boston Pizza for “pizza and pop” where we compared bruises and recounted stellar and botched plays.  The progressive party concluded as we walked each other home. 

The beginning of 2018 presented an unusual opportunity: free lifeguard training.  I attended “tryouts” and was one of 24 accepted from 49.  It wasn’t an exploration I’d seriously considered until it was right in front of me.  Confined to studies by day, it was satisfying to physically work towards something, with what quickly became a close-knit group, in the evenings and eventual weekends.  By the end of our National Lifeguard course in May, I was one of about a dozen to successfully complete the course.  But I still wasn’t an employed lifeguard.  A wet, and then dry interview still awaited where I continued to (out)compete with my cohort for a spot on deck at the local pool.  I have savoured the new working environment – the learning curve has been steep, but I feel well supported and cared for by my fellow guards and swim club teammates.   

My sabbatical was mostly successful.  I received good grades for all the courses I was registered for, but fell short the ultimate reason for the sabbatical, my goal: completing my Registered Professional Forester designation.  Invested since 2015, it’s a goal I feel a sick, perverse even, loyalty to complete, and it’s been fraught with roadblocks, ditches, and fiery dragons.  It’s felt like each step I take forwards, my professional association is waiting in the bushes to kneecap me.  This coupled with general work dissatisfaction and career disappointment has had me deeply questioning my long-term role and plans in the natural resource sector.  Perhaps it’s the notable, uncomfortable even, lack of community at my day job that’s adding to my uncertainty.  I can’t wait to leave at the end of the day and be in familiar embrace of one of my athletic communities.   

Scared? Do it anyways.

My first swimming medal is misleading.  And I’m thrilled to have received it.  Not because I trained hard and outswam my peers (full disclosure: I was dead last), but because I was scared to race and did it anyways.

I was nervous, terrified even, of competing in a sport I haven’t been doing that long, don’t think I’m that good at, and would be subject to the judging eyes of spectators, coaches, officials, and my teammates. 

Yes, I’ve competed in various individual and team sports over the years, but the newness, my lack of confidence and overflowing self-doubt plagued me as I packed my suit, snacks, and sandals for the day: my start resembles a controlled bellyflop, my turns are a comic work-in-progress, I am an older athlete, there were few to none registered in my division. 

But I dutifully drove to the pool in a torrential rainstorm that mirrored my roiling guts.  I asked my coaches and teammates dumb, obvious (to them) questions in an attempt to still my nerves.  Yet I marshalled for my event near tears with nerves, with my swim bestie, an athlete half my age, confidently adjusting her cap beside me. 

I settled down when I stepped on to the blocks.  I’d dove off these during warmup.  I have practiced starts dozens of times in my home pool.  The familiarity was comforting.  First whistle.  Second whistle.  At the horn, we were off in to the glacial-temperature water.  And I swam hard.  Like I meant it, like I wanted it, like no one was watching. 

I touched the wall and looked up at the clock – 15 seconds behind the fastest swimmer, but TWO WHOLE SECONDS off my previous personal best time.  

Showing up, racing, and finishing was alone a feat worthy of celebration, but a personal best time - that validated receiving a medal.