The Pendulum

Preparing for and taking the first steps of any adventure are pure moments.  All your energy and focus leaves the mundane path of daily life and for a short while you can be alone with one goal.  Everything else is superfluous to the transition.  Nothing else matters except getting where you need to go.

It’s freeing.  It’s addictive.  It can be as simple as a taking off on a long distance trail run or as complicated as moving halfway round the world.  It's becoming a parent, a partner for life, or the million other things that lift you out of your comfort zone and drop you somewhere new.  

A year ago we drove onto the ferry from Bellingham to Ketchikan.  I’ve covered that trip in an earlier blog post.   This is purely a reflection of where I am at twelve months later.

Ever since I was a child I wanted to live in Alaska.  I assumed I would even though I was growing up in rural Scotland, then California, then Scotland again - and several places within the country, then Washington state.

And now here we are.

This has been a year of high highs and low lows.  Alaska doesn’t come easy.  But then neither did rural Scotland or remote Washington State, or even California.   Living at a remote hatchery simply intensify these feelings, make them more extreme than they need to be.  When your life exists in a world of such limited radius it can be hard to see beyond your borders and not sweat the small stuff.  It's easy to let your internal pendulum swing too far and to lose your balance.  And it's in the void created by this over-swing, that the worries, the doubts, the anxiousness creep in.

 I’m glad I have the knowledge and life experience that allows me to recognize this, however sometimes (okay, a lot) I let myself get dragged down by minutiae.  It’s as if I’m watching myself through a window worrying and wearing myself down, while I’m banging on the glass telling myself to pull it together, that it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things, but the glass is soundproof.

I worry about people, the hatchery, how my family is adjusting to the move, whether or not the salmon will come back, if I’m good enough to homeschool my children, that I won’t be able to run or ski in the mountains ever again, that I’ll never kayak well enough to leave the bay, even trivial things have seemed large: that I won’t get a deer again this year, that we won’t get a halibut.  The list goes on.  There's been some other stuff I've HAD to worry about, things I'm not willing to talk about, not here not now.  But most things that have kept my mind whirring are those which worrying about won’t change, things that are out of my control, many of which in five years, or even a few months down the line, won’t matter.  But I've spent many days tied up in knots and had many sleepless nights over the past year.  I'm tired, my body hurts.  My spirit has been bruised at times, even fractured.

Steve deals with life in a linear pattern.  He has his goals and works towards them.  If he encounters a problem he deals with it then, not before, and moves on.  He sleeps well at night. 

I on the other hand like to have all my possible problems, and solutions for them, worked out ahead of time.  Just in case.  It feels like a safety net, but in reality it’s a weight around my neck.  There is a Swedish saying: “Worry gives small things big shadows.”  And so many things in my life are in the shade because of this.  Right now I’m working on being like the midday sun in a desert – ruthlessly shining on my worries, driving the shadows out from underneath them.  Reducing them to what they really are; the small stuff.

This is all a long-winded way of saying I’ve had a stressful year.   But with many, many enjoyable moments too: I’ve discovered I love homeschooling, I get to travel on floatplanes, I’ve met many lovely and interesting people, my family is close-knit and doing well, the wildlife is spectacular, I get to see more bears in an hour than most people see in a lifetime, seals, sea lions, humpbacks, orcas, wolves, otters, eagles, loons, and of course the splendor that is a salmon run.  I've seen four seasons of soggy southeast Alaska.  I’m finally living here.

And this is also a way of saying I wouldn’t have expected anything less.  Having moved so many times I know that the first year is always the hardest.  I get frustrated when I see people give up and leave places after only a few months, before they have given themselves and their new environment time to get to know each other.

Or when people give up on what they want because it’s hard.  Of course it’s going to be hard.  Everything worthwhile is hard and often it’s two steps forward, one step back.  The easy trail never leads to the mountain peak and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise – the ones that do have never left the five mile interpretive path, trust me.

As we move into our second year here I am using my awareness of my weaknesses, along with my life experiences, to rebuild my strength of character which has in the past given me the courage to take on all sorts of adventures.  And I know there will be many to come.  My determination, which has been both a blessing and a curse in my life, will be an ally in keeping my pendulum swinging freely, but not too far in any direction. 

We’re where we are supposed to be right now, of this I’m sure.  And I’m looking forward. 

I just have some small stuff to put to bed.

Just a memory

Sacrifice

“For something to be born, something has to go. That’s balance. It’s tough and you’d better be tougher.

“I’m not talking about when you give up something in order to make another, better, thing happen and it’s all roses and bluebirds from then on out.

“I’m not talking about giving up your life’s dreams so your kids can have the future you mapped out while you live through them - and not regret your choice.

“It’s not about cutting out the things that make you happy but are killing you, so you can live a long, long life. The whole time wishing you could still drink, fuck, numb or gorge yourself without making your way to an early grave. No, you have to crush the need completely. You have to gouge out the want.

“True sacrifice is when only death can kickstart something else into life.

“Death of an ideal, a love, a life – you choose, fill in the blank. Death is death. There’s no grey area here.

“And there’s nothing pleasant about it. Utterly destroying something will hang over you like weighted chains. It’s not nearly as freeing as we’re led to believe, this is the truth. When you excise something so deeply there will always be pain, guilt, what ifs – like you’ve cut off a limb but can still feel its presence.

It’s how you use these feelings.

“If something is sacrificed then you better damn well make sure that sacrifice was not in vain. That is your responsibility. Otherwise something died for no good reason.

“Take those feelings, twist them round. Make anger your strength, fear your ally, turn hopelessness into the rival you want to beat. Make something priceless out of them.

“Life follows closely in death’s foot prints – understand this, it’s the least you can do.

“Don’t screw this up.”

The King and I

This blog could have been about my nascent love affair with King Salmon.  About how I set out with safety and good sense in mind - "Lex you can go up to your neck, as long as you can cast, because I trust you, Jake, you can go up to your ankles.  Wait, the fish are coming in, dear god are we sure these are salmon, not sharks, they're huge!  Okay, everybody drown, it doesn't matter, just catch a fish!!!"  Or something like that. 
But this post is about something bigger, and something I feel honored to be part of.  It's about who rules us, who truly is king.  And the Chinook is just a courtier amongst royalty.
For the past few days you can feel the tension building.  Actually tension is not the word, but I'm not sure what the right one is, probably something fabulous in a foreign language - but a feeling similar to waiting for a thunderstorm to break or for the snowstorm to hit or even for a spring seed to break the soil.  And it's been building up to the chum salmon run. The biggest and most significant run in the area. I've only been here four weeks and already I feel it; I'm listening to the seasoned staff, to the fishermen, watching the weather and the water, reading about other salmon runs, waiting with butterflies in my stomach.  Trying to work out when they will arrive.  I'm willing them to arrive. I have an irrational fear that this is the year they won't.  And this is something to bear in mind, are we changing things so much that someday there won't be salmon runs?  At all?  Because so many depend on it.
The chum are what bring the bears to the beach.  Already, out of nowhere, there are bears around everyday.  They just know what's about to arrive and how it will prepare them for the winter.  Although I'm used to bears, what I'm used to is seeing them run from me on the trail, or break into my garbage (pepper spray story), but this is different, the bears are just here, existing alongside us as they wait for this fish run to arrive.  They act as if they own the place.  And they too have the feeling and it's awe-inspiring to see them have fisti-cuffs as they start to mark out their space in anticipation for what is about to happen.  It's also an exercise in bravery in when you see a bear walking along the beach, you know you are going to meet it at the road and you take a deep breath and keep on walking - because that's what you have to do, because that is life here.  And you meet, and it's okay.
The eagles feel it too, and I'm sure a multitude of other creatures which aren't so visible, but are part of the giant picture.
And that's the gist of it.  There is a giant picture and we are only one small part. 
The hatchery here is set up to augment the salmon runs so there is fish to fish in the waters around here.  It is a valuable asset to fisheries in Southeast Alaska and I'm proud that we are part of it.  The salmon, if you look at it, provide so much at the end of their life-cycle to helping others carrying on.  It's symbiosis defined, it helps you realize just how everything works to keep things moving here on our little blue planet.  Death sustains life, life gives way to death and then carries on as a result - in my mind it's the beautiful game defined. 
It's so beautiful.
And knowing, that when the hatchery releases the millions of fry out to the ocean, we, the fisheries and the environment are reliant on these salmon going out to sea and making it back to spawn is bigger than there are words for.  How many businesses can you think of that rely on a fish to make it work?  For a fish to make it's way back from the deep ocean, to the stream it was spawned, to give up so much to provide for so many. 
Yeah.
That's royalty.  There's the king.

Alaska or Bust, Literally

It was enormous.  A monstrosity.  All the other tents spoke casually of leaving no trace on the Pacific Crest Trail, or allowing their owners a decent night's sleep while clipped in to a rock face.  Our tent screamed WE CAR CAMP WITH TWO KIDS AND FOUR DOGS!!!.  It outsized all the other tents so much we renamed it "Denali".  It blotted out the view, it blotted out the sun.
I was mortified, embarrassed that we didn't have a Big Agnes tent you had to collapse yourself like a folding knife to get into.  Oh the shame.
And this is how our ferry trip to Alaska began.  It went downhill somewhat from there before swinging back up, like an upside down bell curve.
We had left Tonasket the moment the school year finished.  It was important to me that the boys didn't have to wait around another day in an empty house.  All our furniture, along with Steve, were already at Neets Bay, and we had been camping in the house for three weeks.  Our hearts had already headed north, it was time to go.  So we said our goodbyes to Ursa's grave first thing in the morning, I picked them up after classes ended and we were gone.  Our goodbyes to friends already spoken over the past few weeks.
The trip over the North Cascades was beautiful and uneventful - until we started heading down the pass.  First the ABS light came on, worrying Jake with it's binging.  And shortly after a grinding noise began in one of the wheels.  Assuming it was the wheel bearing but unable to do anything about it I just gritted my teeth, said everything was fine (which is was, at least the brakes still worked....) and kept on driving.
The noise got worse and worse and by the time we pulled in to my dear friend Jenny's house I was feeling a tad frazzled.  All the frantic moving, packing and cleaning and now a breaking down truck that had to make the ferry to Ketchikan - my brain was full.
We limped to the airport to get Steve,  the screeching of the wheel dampening our joy at seeing him only a little.  "What have you done to the truck?"  was pretty much the first thing he said to me, and I don't blame him.  It sounded like we had strapped squirrels to the wheels and they were screaming every time we ran over them.
My only goal at this point was to get onto the ferry not matter what.  Utter focus.  We had one more restful night at my friend's and then it was only twenty miles to the dock at Fairhaven.  Some goodbyes with dear friends and we made it.  The sound of the dying squirrel wheel amplifying as we drove inside the belly of the ship.
Valium.  This was my trick for keeping Vlad the Vizsla calm on the journey.  It worked like a treat over the mountain pass.  Instead of his usual "I may be sick" heavy breathing he was in a place of utter peace and calm, possibly for the first time in his hyperactive life.  At this point, stressed by the truck, overwhelmed with the leaving of the Okanogan Highlands and the impending arrival in Alaska and horrified by the way our tent stood out like a lone massive mountain amid foothills, I was wondering if I could join him in his happy place.  But my better person won out and I put on my brave face.  At least temporarily.
Ever since I was a little girl I have wanted to live in Alaska and here I was, on my birthday, as a grown mother-of-two, finally making this dream a reality.  We had a lovely meal in the dining room and settled down in Denali for our first night on board.
It had been my idea to tent it on the deck rather than get a cabin.  When Steve was booking the ferry, which travels up the inside passage from Bellingham to Ketchikan and beyond, I said something along the lines of: "We don't need a cabin, we are Alaska tough, we can sleep on the deck."
Something should have clicked when our little gang of nearby tenters included an Australian girl, a young guy from Colorado heading up to Juneau to become a pilot and a bloke from the Midlands in England.  Clearly the real Alaskans had more sense than to sleep in a thin piece of fabric duct taped to the deck of an large boat.
I woke up thinking I was Dorothy in her house in Kansas about to be blown into Oz.  That night the wind, to quote Robert Burn's Tam O'Shanter, 'blew as 'twad blawn its last'.  Blasts buffeted Denali smashing its sides into my head and body as the boys slept fitfully between us.  I honestly had to remind myself that our combined weight was probably that of a small horse and no way would the tent be lifted up like a balloon and dumped into the sea.  Later, when I had recovered my sense of humour, Steve declared it was windier on his side, he was wrong, let me tell you.  I was the one who sheltered the entire family from the gales.  I saved us all, I'm sure of it.  But I'd had enough.  "I don't care how you do it, but I want a cabin.  Now."  Poor Steve, he even went down to ask if there were cabins left (no, there were not), and sensibly didn't bring up that tenting on the deck had been my idea all along.  He's a clever man.
At about 5:02am I finally got back to sleep.  And at approximately 5:03am the captain came over the tannoy:  "Sorry about the early morning wake up call, but there are some killer whales to the starboard side of the ship."
My immediate thoughts were: "I hate killers whales, I hate ferries and I particularly hate the captain's calm soothing voice."  My second thoughts were: "Suck it up buttercup, there's orcas out there, get your ass outside."  My third thoughts were:  "Which side is @%$#ing starboard?".
I searched for my glasses, which I didn't have.  In my disorganized full-brain boarding condition I had brought nothing sensible up from the car deck.  I then searched for my contacts.  And by the time I could see further than my hand the whales were gone, but all was okay, I woke up to this:

My black mood lifted like an early morning fog dissipating into the sunshine.
I was further heartened to see that we were one of the few who had made it through the night on deck.  Most of the other tenters had given up during the gales and moved inside. We followed their lead, packed up and agreed to sleep on the floor in one of the viewing galleries.  Best decision ever as the following night we all slept like the dead, even though I drifted off with a creepy man standing at the end of my air matress (no, not Steve).
The rest of the trip was, pardon the pun, smooth sailing.  The Alaska Marine Highway is there to provide a service to the communities which are dotted along the coast, but it's also stunningly beautiful and the wildlife came in out in force to greet us.  Along with the orcas, there were pods of dolphins, seals of course and whales, humpback whales, the captain had to swerve once to avoid hitting one which breached and dove right in front of the ferry.   We must have seen three, I had no idea there were still that many whales in the ocean.
We arrived in Ketchikan early on the Sunday morning, our ferry dwarfed by the cruise ships already in dock.  A few hours in town and then onto the float plane.  The man at the office said he'd asked the pilot to take us the scenic route, but the turbulence was too great.  It was apparent shortly after take-off that we were indeed going the scenic route as we rollercoastered up and down over the most stunning scenery imaginable.  The good thing about small planes is you can see the pilot not panicking.  And if he wasn't panicking then technically I didn't have to either so I just nonchalantly maintained a death grip on my seat and shut my eyes like that was how I always travelled in planes (which it is, fear-free flying is not my specialty).

Who was panicking was Vlad the Viszla, and Mei the Mutt and Jack the Jack Russell were also a little stressed about the flight.  Bug the Border Terrier is too old and senile to care about bobbing around 1000s of feet up in the air.  It added to my tension, especially since I could see Steve holding Vlad down - I had visions of him freaking out (no, again, not Steve) in the plane and killing us all.
By the time we arrived, safely and professionally despite my terror, at the hatchery I was done.  Thankfully the awesome crew here at Neets welcomed us warmly, which added to all the good parts of the journey and helped me put aside the more difficult ones. 
We had arrived.

Beer Bottles and Signs

Tucked away on the top of the bookcase in our bedroom are two Alaskan Brewing Company ale bottles.  Almost 20 years-old now, the labels are so faded it's hard to tell what the picture is on them.
But I can tell you.
In the background are snow and tree covered mountains which shelter a log cabin.  And in the foreground is a floatplane moored to a dock.
Steve and I drank these when visiting my parents in California.  We'd travelled, as we did each year, from Scotland, and at the time were just starting out together, and kept the bottles as a reminder of what we wanted out of life.  So much has happened since then - the death of my mother, the birth of our sons, three homes bought and sold, emigration, the thrill of career advancements, bitterness at job losses, brief homelessness, loss.  Hopelessness and joy, heartache and celebration, fear and strength.  I think most people can relate, we're not unique.
But one thing remained constant throughout all these years, a desire to live somewhere like the illustration on the beer bottle.
And now it's actually happening.  And it came out of the blue.  We're moving to a remote bay in southeast Alaska, accessible only by floatplane or boat, so Steve can manage a salmon hatchery there.
I have to keep repeating this to myself.  After the year from hell it's sometimes hard to accept our fortunes have change so dramatically.
Going from a holding pattern to having goals again has turned my mind around and I feel strong, warrior strong.  I know we have made the right decision.
In our previous two trips to Alaska, I felt almost disappointed.  I'd assumed I would arrive there and that would be that, I'd never leave.  But neither place we visited felt quite right for us.  The people were great, the scenery stunning, but...but sometimes you just know.  Both times it felt like Alaska was saying not now.
This sounds trite, but every time we have made a move we have looked for a sign.  Hoping for a good one like a rainbow or something seemingly twee like that.  Once, and I kid you not, we were en-route to a new home and a crow fell stone-dead out of the sky right in front of our car.  The place ended up not being the right fit for us and we quickly moved on.
Signs are simply a way of getting your head to believe what your heart already knows.  And arriving in Ketchikan on the clearest of days, in one of the wettest parts of the US, was a good omen.  Flying north we could see clearly what we were getting ourselves into, ocean alive with seals and sealions, endless mountains covered with trees and snow.  Steve spotted a bear and her cub, the snow was dotted with mountain goat tracks.  Getting out of the little float plane at the dock  I was immediately reminded of the beer bottles.  It was a dream, for whatever that's worth, come true. 
Yes, there was rainbows.  I knew it was right.
Trust me, I don't expect every day to be beer bottles and rainbows.  We've lived in so many places we're experts on the challenges faced when adapting to new environments and communities .  But this is what we are good at, this is our strength.  And maybe Alaska wanted us to wait until we had gone through some really, really tough times to make sure we were ready for what she is about to offer us.  We long ago decided not to take the comfortable path in life.  And this seems like the next logical step.
But it's not easy leaving the Okanogan Highlands either. 
We have lived in some incredible places, both in Scotland and the US. Beautiful places.  The kind of places people want to visit and are on postcards and calendars.  I well up with tears sometimes when I think about friends I can no longer just be with, without having to talk, just enjoying their company and listening to what they have to say.  We are very, very lucky people.
And Tonasket has been even more than that.  We have always been searching for the right place for us to stay forever.  I know I personally want to find the place where I would be happy for my bones to bleach when I'm finished this life's adventures.  So far each time we've moved on, that's it - I leave part of my heart and take away memories, but look straight ahead, never thinking about turning back.
But, if I had to come back to somewhere it would be here, in the ponderosa pine, the sagebrush, the snow and the wildfires, with the bears, moose, lynx and wolves. With people who take time to enjoy the truly simple life and don't worry too much about what the rest of society wants us to do.
And two of the best dogs a person could hope to have in their pack are buried under the thin, sandy Okanogan soil.
But for now, it's all about heading north. 
That's where life's compass is pointing.
It always has.

Fairy Tale

“Can you tell me that story now, Mom. Please?”
“There is a planet, hanging in space, hanging in the balance and waiting to be found wanting. Part land, but mostly water, it could be described as beautiful, complicated, both fragile and resilient. It is a bit of a mess these days.
A long time ago it worked. Life wasn’t necessarily easy or even very long, as it still isn’t for so many of this planet’s inhabitants, but there was an understanding between all the creatures and... life lived, died, disappeared and reemerged. Existence went on, even if individuals did not.
Then one group of beings decided they were better than all the rest. And agreed among themselves they had the rights to comfort, safety, obedience, long lives and dominance over all others. They no longer hunted for their food, they demanded it grew right where they were. They began to get soft and lazy with pudgy minds and, losing their connection with the rest of what lived on the planet, they broke away. As they took over, some of the other species hid in another part of this world, now forgotten.
These soft, lazy broken creatures created ways to make things simpler for themselves, while making it difficult for everything else. Their single-mindedness rivalled that of a weasel about to kill a rabbit. Utterly focused on one thing, themselves, they lost their place in Everything.
After a while they began to notice they didn’t always get things right and, as they were not bad just lost, they tried to fix things. But they were too far gone. Too split from what made them part of Everything and, on some level, they realized this didn’t make them happy. Whole industries were created to make them happy – entertainment, pharmaceutical (that means medicine), therapy. Still they were not happy. They argued whether they should save the plants, or the animals, or themselves. Puffed up with their own self-importance different groups made big claims as to what the solutions were. But not enough looked to the rest of the planet for advice and those who did often didn’t want to go back to that visceral way of living (What does vizzsherall mean? This means using your instincts rather than your mind) – they had lost their stomach for it. They were weak now, thinking only with their minds. Hardly any suggested just stopping what they were doing. Bigger new ways of fixing things, better ways of living all were suggested and argued against.
The broken ones invented new gods, made grand plans, they discovered new ways to fight with each other and nothing was fixed. Some decided that world peace was the solution and would fight to the death with anyone who didn’t agree, but peace was never part of how this world first worked. It was life and death, just on a less personal level than war and anger.”
“What happened to this world Mom?”
“It’s still out there, battling on.”
“I feel sorry for it.”

Finality

“When something is gone, and I mean completely, irretrievably gone, there comes a calm, if only for a short time before all the other emotions kick in.
“Stay in this moment as long as you can. It is a gift.
“Of course the most obvious example of this type of finality would be death, but in truth it could be the end of a relationship, a loss of a job, the collapse of a dream, the implosion of everything you believed to be true - whenever you realize you cannot change anythi...ng or fix anything.
“Because there’s nothing left to fix.
“But on the other hand you can’t break anything further either. What it is, is just what it is. It’s the simplest, quietest, clearest moment you will ever have. Nothing else matters and nothing is all you have.
“Nothing absolute.
“It just is.
“You’ve become a bystander. What you feel or need no longer really matters. Your part is over, you’ve done your bit. You’re on the outside now. You don’t even get to look in at the window, the curtains have been drawn.
“Life carries on regardless, but before you’re swept back into its current, savour the peacefulness that comes with finality. And know there’s strength in your helplessness. Think of the desolation after the worst storm you can imagine. Nothing will ever be the same, but something will take root and grow – you just don’t know it yet.
“It’s okay. You’ll be alright”

Be Careful About Hope and Why

“Be careful about hope.
“The thing about hope is this: It’s all well and good when what you’re hoping for is realized, but when you hope and hope and what you hope for never arrives, then it can catch you, drag you down like prey and eat you from the inside until you’re not much more than a husk.
“Hope is what keeps you running to the phone with your heart in your mouth every time it rings. Hope is what forces you look deep into someone’s eyes to see if love is still there.... Hope is what gives you that gut wrench of excitement when a glimmer arrives in your life, only for it to be torn away like a sail cloth in a storm.
“Hope is another way of saying desperate.”
“Sure hope is fine if it all works out the way you want, but most times it’s better just to let go. Letting go is more freeing that hope and does just as much good. It doesn’t mean you have to stop going through the motions, it just means you’re no longer tied to jumping through hope’s rings. You’re standing on your own two feet and taking control.
“And if what you hope for does happen, well then you can have unfettered joy. Joy that doesn’t ride in on the back of hope, but stands alone as one pure moment of unexpected happiness.
“Best just to throw a cold bucket of reality on hope’s fire.  Carry an ember with you if you must, but move on.”



Halfway through the word antelope, in a deserted campsite in northern Colorado I stopped writing.
We'd been travelling for a few weeks and I had been keeping a diary of all that had happened since we left Tonasket and headed through Idaho, Montana, Wyoming then Colorado.  And then I realized I wasn't really interested in writing about the daily sights, sounds, life-as-we-know-it kind of moments.  I was more interested in writing about the spin-offs.  The emotions, the tangents created when my mind goes off in several directions at once in response to some event.
And from then on, throughout the whole of our journey through the western states of the US I didn't pick up a pen, or type anything more than Facebook updates.
So much has happened, terrible things, in the past few months.  One of our beloved dogs went missing and we found her body six weeks later, we were under serious pressure to find a place to live back in the Okanogan Highlands before school started and the winter arrived.  We had a really odd car accident and then a spin-out on the ice, Steve's grandma died, and on and on.  Things really piled up.  But 2014 is now over.  We have a place to live for the winter, right next to where we were living before, talk about coming full circle, life is settling into a pattern of school, skiing, Steve searching for a job and all is calm.
And out of all the sadness, in fact a way of filling my mind so as not to think about things too much, I started writing a book.  The difficult times may be over, but I'm 20,000 words in and committed to it. In fact I love it.
Good things arising from the ashes of the bad.
The Hope Speech above is a part of the book and I'm going to add another piece of writing from the first draft called Finality.   And then another one about choices.  I think this is the way my blog will develop rather than talking about day to day living.  It'll will be more about what I'm taking out of life.
And perhaps these kinds of lessons are things I can actually hope for without fear of Hope failing me.

Plan B

To say 2014 has not gone according to plan would be the understatement of the year so far.
In February my husband was laid off from his job.  This happened at a time when we had just, I mean just, recovered from his previous layoff three years prior.  We had recouped financially, put the short sale of our beautiful cabin behind us and started looking for a new home to buy.  We had turned down other job offers to stay put in the Okanogan Highlands because we were happy and settled.  In short things were going pretty damn well.
And then this.  And on top of this, the owners of the property we have been living in for the last few years needed to put it on the market and we were now in no position to buy.  First joblessness, then homelessness in the foreseeable future.  I developed the remarkable talent of stuffing down my rising panic into some place deep inside my body and just learning to roll with the punches.  I believe it's true that you get stronger from what life throws at you, and I think we're living proof of that.  Although it didn't come easily.  For a while I got really bitter and angry.  Angry that for us things just kept going from difficult to even more difficult.  Bitter that other people were out enjoying what they wanted to do in life and that just wasn't happening for us.  At one point, as I was on day two of making the house look spotless so the real estate agent could take lovely photos to help sell the house out from under us, I  reached the point that I no longer cared about trying to help people, do nice things or make the world a better place.  And then the very next day someone did something so unbelievably kind and generous for us I snapped out of it.  No matter what, I am a person who genuinely wants the best for other people and will work towards making life better.  It's not their fault the owners of this property need to sell up, it's not other people's fault things are going well for them while our life is falling down around our ears, and I am not going to compromise my moral makeup of believing the best in people and life and risk turning into a resentful, twisted person.  It's not who I am and no matter what I am going to continue to be as kind as I can, honest, respectful and helpful.  I will trust that there is a reason for everything and be optimistic for the future.
For a long time we were aimless, job offers came and went, some jobs couldn't be taken as another more financially rewarding one was waiting in the wings, and then that amounted to nothing.  We didn't know if it was worth continuing to throw money towards rent when our financial reserves were dwindling and the house could sell at any point.  What we did know was we could not continue to live void of forward momentum and had to decide a path to take, whether it was the right one or the worst decision we could make.  We just had to do something.
And so we have.  We have bought a 20ft trailer and at the end of June we are moving out, putting our stuff into storage and embarking on a road trip with two children and five dogs - as I said, this could be the worst decision ever.  We intend to visit Montana, Wyoming,  Colorado, Arizona, California and Oregon before heading back up to Tonasket for the start of the school year.  We will then be desperately looking for somewhere to live for the winter and Steve should have a few months employment with a fishery he has been working with temporarily for the past three months.
That's our plan and we're sticking to it.  Hopefully.  Unless it all goes horribly pear-shaped.  Beyond this we have nothing.  There are a couple of irons in the fire, which may come to something.  We'll see.  We are being forced to live in the moment and take each day as it comes.  We moved over from Scotland seven years ago with a very healthy bank account, a good job and high hopes.  Now, as a result of personal choices, a plummeting economy and being on the wrong end of impersonal business decisions, we have nothing.  Just a little savings, a truck and trailer, children and dogs, love and good humour, and a will to believe something good shall come out of this.  I've already found a home for my sheep, my chickens are going to a friend.  Packing and planning have begun.
Wish us luck, I think we're going to need it.

Making Tracks

It's been a dry winter so far.  Enough so, that even though this is only my third winter here, it's felt wrong and I have been more and more tense as each clear day arrives.  A pressure, like that before a thunderstorm, has been building up in me.  I've been keeping it under wraps, so as not to snap at my family, but each day I stand outside and ask: "Why, why don't you snow more?"  It's felt as though the early snow on the ground has been left to taunt me.  I've been taking it personally and, until today, I have been really quite cross with Winter.
As usual I've been checking and double-checking the NOAA weather forecast to see what could be in store for us, and this week seems to be our best bet in ages for the 'chance of snow' and 'snow likely' forecasts to actually come true.
So I took advantage to run a loop on the state land across from our house before the storm came this morning.  Within a quarter mile dozens of ravens and a bald eagle rose from the ground and wheeled around me.  These birds are often the first indicator of a predator's kill and their presence must always be respected.  Sure enough deer parts were spread out over the ground, although my senses told me they were the remains from a hunter rather than a cougar or other big animal.  I felt unfazed and carried on, feeling guilty that I had disturbed the birds.
As I climbed the hill, what little snow we have got deeper and the quad track I was following disappeared.  But the hill was crissed-crossed with many, many coyote tracks and I made my choice to follow these to see where they led me.  The coyotes headed out of the state land and onto private property so I turned and followed the whitetail deer tracks which led back down the hill.  So engrossed was I with following these tracks I didn't notice the camouflage tent until I was almost upon it (well, it was camouflage).
It unnerved me.  And I veered away quickly, afraid almost to look at it,  so nervous that any noise my dog made caused me to flinch and my stomach lurch.  It seemed so odd the tent was there.  We're well out of the main hunting seasons and it's below freezing most of the time, so not exactly camping weather.  Once I was far enough away, I took stock of the situation and reminded myself there was no fire, no signs of life and no human footprints.  And I took comfort in my bear spray and the skinning knife attached to my running belt.
Then I got angry.  Here I was contently following animal tracks, but I was relieved that I had not seen any human tracks.  Even if I had come across bear, moose or cougar tracks, while I would have been on alert, they would not have instilled the same fear that I sometimes get from human tracks.  It is so frustrating that, especially as a woman, the biggest threat to my safety out here is from that of my own species.  It's wrong.  And there is nothing I can do about it except be aware, prepared and keep my 'spidey' senses on high alert when out alone.
I looped round and met the old road that cuts through the land and headed back down towards my house.  Some ravens had returned to the deer carcass but the eagle had not returned.  In its place a flock of small birds, no doubt too afraid to eat when it was there, had joined the feast, and I felt less guilty about disturbing them earlier.
And I'm glad they all had a chance to eat when they did.  Shortly after I returned home, the winter storm came, and I'm sure the carcass, the tracks and perhaps even the camouflage tent are beneath the snow now.

Running So As Not To Sweat

It took less than five minutes before pain took over my fingers.  Despite two pairs of gloves the cold had worked its way in and I could feel my hands starting to harden like blocks, getting almost unbearably painful before becoming numb.  The skin below my eyes tingled as the sweat lightly frosted on the rims of my sunglasses and stuck to my face.
"Turn around at the cattle grid".  I told myself.  My husband and I had agreed to run/hike or ski at least a mile every day for the month of December, to keep ourselves motivated and avoid the steady piling on of pounds which accompanies the quieter months away from running and biking events.
The cattle grid turnaround marked our 1.3 mile minimum and I could easily have justified heading home from there, despite four miles being my goal for the day.  The 15 degree temperature was augmented by a north wind and although it was subtle, it brought a biting wind chill.  I have run in temps as low as -1 F but never had I felt as cold as this.
At the cattle grid I pressed on, knowing I would be unhappy with myself if I quit.  I've been told numerous times that I have a determined streak, and while I take it as a compliment, I am cautious about this quality being altogether good - many times through life I have gone determinedly in the wrong direction, ignoring my gut instinct and blinkered from good advice.  And many times I have ended up not where I wanted to be.  However I listen more to my instinct these days and I was questioning whether it was the right decision to carry on.  I was beginning to sweat and I was concerned it would make me colder.  My running slowed as I tried to prevent more moisture building up on my skin. 
"What's the point?"  I asked myself.  "I'm going to be walking if I go any slower, why be out here?"
A raven flew low in front of me, followed by two more.  Glancing to where they came from I saw what looked to be a discarded roll of carpet which the ravens had been picking at.  I felt angry, not just at the people who had thrown it out there, but at the birds for wasting their energy and time on something which could not keep them alive.  "What's the point?"  I also asked them.
I reached the two mile mark and turned around, happy to be achieving the mileage goal but unhappy with the workout, this was supposed to be a tempo run, where I kept my speed up and worked hard - and here I was running so as not to sweat.
Occasionally people also say: "What is the point?" to those of us who opt for the harder route in life rather than the easy path - whether through tough sports, living in harsh environments or stepping back from the culture of comfort the western world enjoys. What is it about - for want of a better phrase - 'living on the edge' that is so worthwhile when people have to struggle to achieve it.   Sometimes, like on this run, I ask myself the same question.  But in this case I was also asking myself why I was allowing myself to give in to the fear of what would happen if I got too cold, for not allowing myself to take the risk and find out - I was only two miles from home for God's sake, live a little.  I already know why I choose the harder routes and I'm not sure it's something you can explain to someone who doesn't already understand.
I reached the point where the ravens were massing and stopped abruptly.  I realized what I'd thought was a roll of carpet was actually the carcass of a deer, its skin rolled back and its flesh and bones exposed.  The ravens were not wasting their time and energy, they could clearly see what I had not been able to at first and were filling their bellies with meat, keeping themselves alive.
I started to run again, only this time I didn't worry about sweating.  I flew.  My hands dampened and instead of freezing like I anticipated, warmed up.  My fogged-up sunglasses slid down my sweaty nose and my whole body tingled with warmth.  I felt alive as I reached my driveway.
Do I feel better than those who choose not to put themselves in hard places, or even harms way, to achieve meaning in life?  No, we all have different strengths, needs and limits.  Just like we all have our demons and dark sides.  Some people find life's beauty in art or music, or their raison d'etre in good food and great company.  None of us are the same.
Do I personally feel a better mother, wife and person after making myself physically work hard, to triumph over my inner doubts, to not give up?  Do I feel alive and fulfilled after being the deep, dark woods fighting fear, fatigue and the little voice in my head that says 'just quit'?
Yep, works for me. 

Be Careful What You Wish For

I always expected I would arrive in Alaska and she would welcome me with open arms and I would know, immediately, I had landed exactly where I was supposed to be.  I think in my mind there would probably be a small angelic choir heralding my arrival, possibly rainbows and unicorns - you get the picture.
It wasn't quite like that.
In fact as we prepared to leave Anchorage airport for the second time in a month I felt, well, a bit disappointed that it had not lived up to my ideals.
Now before I go any further, this is not a blog hating on Alaska, it's a blog about misplaced expectations.  If you are from Alaska or know it, please feel free to facepalm, roll your eyes and say "duh" - my friend from Barrow has already laughed and said: "Shona, you have only just begun to scratch the surface of Alaska."  I know I sound ridiculous, so no snidey comments okay?
In my head I have always seen the 49th state as a wilderness full of rufty, toughty characters living off-grid, miles from their neighbors and eating mooseburgers for breakfast.  (Alaskans, this is where you should start with the facepalms.)  And I know there are many places there where that is the life.  But not the two places we had the opportunity to move to. 
Alaska is vast ("duh")  and is therefore very varied (roll eyes).  And it really is wild.  Both places we visited for my husband's job interviews, Kodiak and Valdez, seemed like little communities holding onto the coast, banding together, closely together, because everything else out there really is OUT THERE and is ready to chew you up and spit you out if you are not up to standard or show the proper respect. 
As someone who spends a lot of time out in the hills, often alone, I was afraid of being out there on my own, I wasn't confident that I was ready for what Alaska could throw at me ("duh").  And I was also aware that moving to either of these places meant moving to town because there didn't seem to be anywhere except town and wilderness - it was a dramatic divide, no 20 acres 14 miles outside town like we have here - and I like living outside of town and out of pissing distance of my neighbors, even if my neighbors were going to be the people we met up there who were wonderful, real and kind, just the type of people I like being around.
It was at this point I realized the Okanogan Highlands were fulfilling most of my Alaskan dreams already.
Wild country - that box was ticked.
Cold, snowy winters - tick.
Bears, wolves, moose - tick (okay we may only have one or two grizzlies and Kodiak Island has something like 3,500 of the biggest brown bears in the world, but who's counting?)
Ice fishermen, dog sledding, grumpy old PTSD vets living in the woods, families living in the hills hauling their own water, trails, hunters, lakes, mountains, forests, good down-to-earth people - tick, tick, tick..
It became a lesson in be careful what you wish for and be grateful for what you have.
We came very, very close moving to Kodiak.   But in the end what held us here was the realization we already have what we want.  Right here, outside Tonasket, and it's home.
For now.  My children keep asking when we are going back to Alaska and I've been told Fairbanks would be a good match for us.  And Kenny Lake and Delta Junction....(Facepalm, "duh" and roll eyes)

Unfaithful

Is it possible to be completely in love and yet still not feel you have found the "One"?
I must be clear here, I'm not talking about my marriage.  I am, instead, referring to how I feel about where I am living and a guilty secret I am carrying around with me.
I have fallen head over heels for the Okanogan Highlands.  I've seen it through all its seasons now.  I have survived my first real winter, enjoyed every drop of Spring rain - knowing there would be months without it, breathed deeply the smoke from late summer wildfires and now I have the sense of full cycle that Autumn brings, that Winter is coming.  Again.
I have been befriended by many people who inspire me, strengthen me and add color and companionship to my life.   Who make me think, make me laugh, keep me going through the harder times.  My kids love their school and have been welcomed by the local children, my husband has once again established his Thursday night mountain biking adventures, something he enjoyed even when we lived back in Scotland.
The greater community is my type of people:  The kind who wave when they drive by - a simple gesture acknowledging another human being, the kind that are fiercely independent but at the same time look out for you and don't pass by you if they think you might need help.  Noone cares about what you wear, what you drive or even what you do for a living, they are interested in you as a person.  As I said, my kind of people.
I spend hours running on little-used trails in the mountains, learning about all the wildlife and plants here.  Eating berries as I pass by, meeting bears, moose, Bighorn sheep, coyotes, owls and eagles.  Sometimes I think: "Wow, it feels really remote out here."  And then I remember, yes, actually it IS really remote out here!
And occasionally, fleetingly, as I run I hear, and feel, a sound best described as a 'thrum', a drumbeat which I am convinced is the Earth's very resonance, her lifeblood.  I dip dampened fingers into the thin soil and suck off the dirt just to see what it tastes like, I run my hands through the grasses, leaves and tree bark in a silent greeting. This is the closest I have ever felt to just being part of the earth, part of nature, part of all of life rather than something separate, distant or superior.
And yet.....
And yet I am being pulled north.  At night I dream of Alaska, leaving here by foot, with the verges on the roadsides bursting into flames as I pass.  I read books about that country and listen eagerly to the stories my Alaskan friends have to share. I trace maps and follow weather forecasts from various towns up there trying to determine if this great place is the "One".  Everytime I see an Alaskan car license plate I am envious.
And for this I feel guilty, as if I am having a dangerous illicit relationship while a perfectly good partnership is being sidelined, one who has more than surpassed my expectations.
I throw it out there to the universe asking for help to figure out what I, and my family, are to do.  Should we plunge yet again into another adventure or are we - I - not quite grasping just what is being offered here.  All I get back is: "Enjoy the ride." 
So I will wait and try to be faithful.
Easier said than done.
I'm sure tonight I will dream of Alaska and the road will burn behind me as I walk north.

Views

Well I've done it.

I've figured out how to upload photos to my blog.  I'm a genius.
The header picture was taken driving up to our house from Tonasket, looking west over the Cascades. It's a view we never get tired of.

And some more:

The sign that greets you when you come out of the national forest onto one of the local roads.      
Pretty accurate.

Last year's Harvest Moon with Mt Bonaparte from our back deck.

Duncan, the 'monster' I wrote about.  For those asking for an update - he now has a hen girlfriend who he brings to the back door for snacks.   I guess it's his version of taking her out for a meal.

I'm sure there will be plenty more photos of this beautiful place to add during the coming year.

Emergence

In my dream last night we were fabulously wealthy, my hair, make-up and clothes were perfect and I was in a swanky London hotel eating a top-notch meal with absolutely charming company. I thought about this today as I slid on sheet ice trying to feed the animals, looking like someone you'd throw money to in the street and wondered 'what if'...Then I faced the mountains, the cold wind hit me and I listened to the songbirds which are starting to return. I know what I really prefer, I know what is truly the good life.
That said, a nice solid surface, such as a sidewalk, to walk on would be nice. 
We have been under snow for five months and now, with a freeze/thaw thing going on, walking on the ice could be considered an extreme sport.  To feed the animals I cling onto the shed, then the trees, then the corral in a bid not to fall over.  It's taking double the time to get anything done outside, but I'm not getting frustrated, one of the many things I have learned this winter is that all things pass.  My cabin fever did, just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore.
I have really struggled with the true winter here - for many people it will be second nature, but to a child of the rainforest (Scotland, Western Washington) I have found it disorienting in its white constantness, fierce in its coldness and the boredom that came with it almost drove me me daft.  I learned that my family doesn't do well staying inside quietly.  I learned knitting gives me road rage (although I am improving with that a bit).  We like to do, we like to move, make things, be outside, have projects - yet we didn't know how 'to do' winter here.  I wanted to go home to the familiar - rain, greenery, mud.  Yes, I missed mud.
Then we discovered cross-country skiing.  I had no idea that strapping two long planks to my feet could completely change my attitude to being here.  It was like a whole new world opened up to us, even our young boys took to it (okay, we bribed them with treats, but hey, they can go for several miles now).  I have taken to examining the snow daily for skiing purposes.  Is it sticky?  Is it icy?  Oh no, it's thawing - it can't go yet!
And yet it is,  the  yearly wheel is turning and soon we will have mud, lots of it.  Last week we had heavy snow, then a major thaw.  Local roads washed out by the sheer amount of water and our feed shed and corral turned into a lake of poop soup where the the debris which had been covered, quite conveniently, by the white stuff started to show itself again.  Spring cleaning of the area will take on an entire new meaning.
And I am starting to write again.  I am very annoyed with myself for not doing so over that past few months for despite my ennui there has been much to talk about - "find the orange man' game during hunting season, my addiction to star gazing, cabin fever (I am now an expert in this field) and the thrill of making all my own herbal skincare and medicines, the list goes on.  But I feel re-energised now and want to keep a log of our times here.
I think I also stopped writing partly because I struggled with the Blogger format and may move to Wordpress- it's all terribly computery for me, but I will persevere.  I will get pictures up and make sure I write regularly.
Just like the buds on the plants, the voles that live in tunnels under the snow,  I am emerging from winter with a new lease on life.

Monster

If the road to Hell is paved with good intentions then, quite frankly, I think I have the contract to tarmac a large part of it.  And, as a result of my deeds I have created a monster.
The rooster who now resides almost permanently at either my front or back door waiting for food is a prime example of my intentions going horribly wrong.  If he was a person, I would have been responsible for turning him from a capable, athletic man into a couch potato munching on Cheetos.
Sorry dude, I didn't mean for this to happen to you.
It began when Duncan (named after my father and brother) was ousted from top dawg position among the chickens by his son Johnny Rotten (yes, we also had Sid Vicious, but we ate him when he started living up to his name).  Of course we felt so bad for him (by we I mean me and my children, my husband is far to practical for what follows here).  Turned on by his own flesh and blood, hounded mercilessly away from his ladies who didn't give a hoot, or should I say squawk, what was happening to him.  It was tragic, terrible to watch.  So...
So we started luring him to us with scraps of food to keep him out of harms way.  It was like all his Christmases and birthdays rolled into one great fiesta.  He soon forgot his harassment but also forgot his ladies.  And his chickeness.  And his ability to forage.  You name it, he forgot it - except that house doors mean food.
 And now I can't get rid of him.  Currently it is pouring rain (far cry from the sunshine I last wrote about) and he is standing, soaked, at the back door, I can see his reflection in my computer screen and he's just staring through the glass at me, waiting.  If I open the door he comes in, has a drink from the dog water bowl and wanders around.  Fortunately he seems to understand basic potty training, I think, I hope - so far so good.
But at least he's small and manageable and easy to remove.  Once one of our ewes gave birth in a snow storm at 3am in record-cold temperatures (of course).  We were only alerted to the situation by her field mate frantically baaaaing to wake us and the little first lamb was already hypothermic when we got there.  Although we tried to warm him up in the barn it just wasn't happening.  So of course he became 'house lamb' for a brief period of time and I went a bit over the top.  Fortunately my husband put a stop to my overly-enthusiastic intervention after finding the little guy and myself curled up fast asleep in our bed.  I spent the next two days reinstating him with his mother, which, although hard work, was preferrable to having a sheep spend its life trying to get back into what he considered his rightful home.
Hopefully I have learned my lesson with Duncan and from now on I will be practical, sensible, definitely not well-intention, when it comes to the livestock.
We'll see.

Dominance

"This is not your country."  The words arrived in my head so unexpectedly and with such ferocity I had to sit up and take notice of them.
This thought came to me on a routine drive from Oroville to Tonasket, a few miles to the South.  I had been scanning the landscape lazily, as I always do, for wildlife or features I hadn't noticed before, but now I felt I had to take a deeper look to figure out why my mind was booting me out of my comfort zone .
The road falls in between low mountains, naked of trees at this level, but beautiful in the detail of the rocks.  I have grown to appreciate their bare bones - being able to see every crevice, rock formation and contour instead of imagining these through a layer of trees.  They are not dissimilar to Scottish hills, only covered with sage rather than heather and soaked with sun rather than rain.  Every crack and shadow highlightly starkly by its brilliance.
Then I realised it was the sun that was disturbing me, it dominates everything here for much of the year and has control of the landcape.  Twice in the past two weeks I have watched wildfires burning, one only a few miles from our house.  Seeing smoke as I came down the mountainside I thought: "Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore."
And yet while the sun dominates - perhaps because of this, I always back the underdog - I have been completely drawn instead to the night skies.
Since Montana has already taken the obvious moniker I have named this place "Biggish Sky Country" and after dark it really comes into its own.  It feels like you can see every star there has ever been and the Milky Way is like a highway driving through them.  Shooting stars and satellites appear almost every night, making the sky is alive.  Once we were trying to figure out what the glow on the horizon could be only to discover the Northern Lights were particularly active that night. 
There is not one dot of light pollution here.
And the full moon, oh words can't do her justice.  I've always appreciated the harvest moon, but here she hangs huge, pregnant and orange just over the mountains.  I am woken up in the early hours by her brilliance shining like a flashlight through the window.  I can't take my eyes off her when she is like this.
Beautiful.
Now, although the days are still warm, the nights are getting cold this high up the mountain and we recently slept out under the stars for the last time this year.  My boys stayed awake for ages watching 'sky TV'.  But I fell immediately into a comforted sleep only to be woken by the coyotes howling at dawn.

The End

Belle's life was ended by a vet she had never met, in a small town where noone knew her name, surrounded by an unfamiliar landscape she didn't get the chance to explore.  She was old, in pain and ready to go.  I, on the other hand, being human and selfish was not ready to let go of her and felt that the breath had been sucked from me and my heart would burst from my throat.
The other dogs viewed her body, sniffed and moved on.  Her son, Bug, rolled on his back for a belly rub.  They accepted the change from life to death instinctively and without grief - maybe they know something I don't.
Change is hard for me.  Which is an odd one as my husband Steve and I have forced change on ourselves from the time we met.  We have constantly been reshaping our lives, moving, making plans.  All of which seem to be leading somewhere we don't yet know - that place where we can say: "Yes, this is where I want to live out my days, this is where I want to be put in the ground at the end of it. This is home."
Putting Belle in the ground on the 20 acres of Okanogan Highlands that we have just moved to was unsettling to me.  Being from Scotland, and having lived in rainy western Washington state for the past four years I am finding the beautiful, remote mountainside we are living on so different than what I am used to.  The heat, the dry grasses and the thin film of dust which covers us, our two boys and all the animals isn't what I'm used to and I have not embraced these things yet.  The crickets drowning out the sound of the birds unnerves me. When we first arrived I dismissed the soil as too thin and rocky to suppport a vegetable garden.  I'm not sure this is where we are meant to end up and if we do move Belle won't be coming with us and we won't have her grave to sit next to or be able to press our hands into the dirt above her as if we could still pat her.
But when we dug down to bury her, I realised the soil was deeper and more fertile than I had believed.  Maybe something will take root here.
Time will tell.
I feel disoriented without my companion for the past thirteen years.  But I believe everything happens for a reason. Maybe she is teaching me that the only way to know you are found, that you have ended up in life exactly where you are supposed to be - is to first get completely lost.