I was thirteen years old when I first met Bud and Norma. My parents pulled our Dodge Ram Charger down the dirt drive into their yard, sending five-foot-three, rosy-cheeked Norma running out of the house - her long, thick, black hair flying behind her like a wild woman. She squared my Mom under the cottonwood tree, bracing herself like backwoods folks do when strangers roll in, “Who are you?”
Read MoreLoners live on this land. Last spring, a yearling deer was born in the damp, brown-needled duff on the forest floor. Her mama taught her to survive on this acreage where there is food, water, and friendly humans. I frequently watched the pair from my living room window that first season, grazing grass in the yard.
Read MoreIt is 24 degrees this early morning in my Southern Oregon backyard. It’s not that cold compared to what my friends in Alaska just endured. Three weeks ago, it was 75 degrees colder there than in Oregon this morning. Can you imagine?
Read MoreI wish everyone would call a time-out, sit around a nice bonfire, and sip Pedicularlis Wine. It’s hard to get too wrapped around the axle when the nectar of that burgundy flower flows, calming nerves and mellowing the mind. Years ago, shortly after I moved to this Southern Oregon valley, I went to a barn party down the road at an organic farm. Pedicularis was there, transformed by the hands of a master herbalist, from a flower into a delightful, delicious, decadent wine.
Read MoreOctober is the busiest month of the year. Geese announce the coming change of season as the crops ripen - all at once. Fat tomatoes hang heavy on the vine, pleading for my attention. I will get to it one of these days. I feel like the squirrels corkscrewing up and down the fir trees frantically gathering goods that will get us through the winter.
Read MoreIt’s the first warm evening of the year. A big white round moon dominates the twilight, pink-brushed sky. I walk into the backyard to close the chicken coop for the night, and the big fat orb above catches my breath. I sit down, right there in the dirt, and can’t tear my eyes from her. Tonight she just quietly stares back and reminds me of a time when we could gather with friends and think nothing of it. Like that night ten years ago…
Read MoreThe dishes drip-dried in the rack. Dad sipped wine at the shoreline, sitting on a big round rock relaxing. Our group survived a huge lake crossing earlier in the day, and we landed at this camp exhausted, tired, and ready for a break. The murmur of route planning wafted down from camp as the three of us sat watching the light show. Mirrored lakes reflect sky colors so beautiful they have no names.
Read MoreThe canoe glides across liquid glass, casting chevron ripples in our wake. The warbling song of a Loon pierces the near-total silence of the late morning as I dipped my paddle methodically into the water, leaving it trailing behind me. A flick to the right rudders the canoe in the direction of a distant island across the lake. A feeling bubbled up and settled down in my body. I belong here. Here in the wild on Planet Earth.
Read MoreMy friend Sherri walked up to the old rusted red Subaru Brat overburdened with a 16-foot canoe strapped to its roof and said, "Sweet, how early are we leaving?" I knew right then she would be a friend for life. There is something liberating about leaving a house full of stuff behind and carrying everything you need to survive and be happy in a pack. Or, in this case, several packs tightly wedged in our canoes.
Read MoreEvelyn picked me up in her dusty red Toyota Prius, and we added a few more digits to her 250,000+ mile odometer. At the border station between Oregon and California, a guard stood idle in a green uniform. I looked at Evelyn as she slowed down, "Uh…I brought oranges. They were probably grown in California.”
Read MoreI noticed a few other folks come in the door and thread through the space in front of the bar. They mentioned something to a couple of friends then left without getting a beer. One by one, the bar emptied, and locals flowed out the door like a dam broke.
Read MoreI rolled out of my sleeping bag, still in my clothes, and pulled on a pair of brown hiking boots while my friend Katy hollered, “C’mon, get up. The fish are biting!” My first thought, How the hell does she know that standing outside the VW van? Katy is magic like that. We loaded backpacks with rope, food, a couple of thermoses full of hot chai tea, filet knives, and a cutting board, and some extra layers of clothing. It was early July, 2011 at 11 pm, and the sun was sinking below the mountain to the west of fish camp.
Read MoreNo one should be up this early. Even the rooster is still in bed and hasn't made a peep. I pull on a shirt, not realizing it's inside-out, throw on yesterday's shorts, tie my shoes and stumble down the path leading to the driveway. If I don't walk now, I won't walk at all. The forecasted high today is 111 in this valley and 115+ in Grants Pass, Oregon. The 10-day forecast then "cools" down and hovers at 100 degrees for the foreseeable future. They tell us this will be the hottest day ever recorded in June on the West Coast.
Read MoreA small town fiasco leads to a big misunderstanding when friends make a quick stop off the interstate on a cross-country drive.
Read MoreElvis has a big mouth. This guy wakes up the sun. If I were dead in the ground, that shrill incessant tin can voice would roust and send me reaching for daisies to shove in my ears to drown him out. When he was a little squirt, I adored that sound. He was so cute and unusual. A brand new exotic thing to focus my attention on. A shiny new chicken to love.
Read More"Carl, this is nuts. The water's really high." I felt a twist in my belly, knowing full well the man possessed some magical power making it impossible for me to ever say no to him. Being the only woman in the group and the newest at kayaking, I had something to prove…mostly to myself.
Read MoreElevator jazz assaulted my ear as the phone pressed against it. An occasional disembodied syrupy voice interrupted, "Your expected wait time is two minutes." I was borrowing my neighbor's landline since the cell service in this valley is non-existent. A man with a thick Indian accent piped through from somewhere far away, "Hello and thanks for calling Frontier; how can I help you?"
Read MoreLast summer, I enrolled in an Essay/Creative Nonfiction class with Gotham Writers, a New York City online writing school. Half a year later, I can safely say it changed my life. Then I found Medium, which led me to my second impressive writing teacher, Shaunta Grimes and Ninja Writers, an online writing group that offers classes, calls, and writer support. I thrived in these classes and groups. But by week three of my publishing class, I felt a knot in the pit of my stomach.
Read MoreThe warm, low-angle light of the setting sun blasted through the windshield, blew through my sunglasses, and pummeled my squinting eyes. I glanced down for a reprieve from the glare and noticed the red needle on the gas gauge kissing E.
Read MoreMy first rejection as a writer came from a Reader’s Digest editor. I was eleven years old, living in the Rocky Mountains west of Denver. My English teacher, Mr. Upzack, sent a note home asking my parents if he could submit my homework assignment to the publication. It didn’t go well. The following year we moved to a homestead in northwest Montana, and I learned to play guitar on my mother’s 12-string Epiphone.
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