My sisters and I up in the Baldy Hills of Riding Mountain National Park, Manitoba, Canada.
I grew up in a handful of Canada’s National Parks across British Columbia, Alberta and Manitoba before my family moved to the city of Saskatoon in the beautiful province of Saskatchewan. My fondest memories belong to Riding Mountain National Park in Manitoba where my father was stationed for 5 years of service with Parks Canada. Our nearest town was Grandview, we lived on the end of a seemingly eternal gravel road. Unfortunately, my sisters and I were the first on and the last off the school bus to town, but on the other hand, we had horses, a huge garden and pasture, a barn with a glorious hay loft, an equally glorious horse trough we used as a swimming pool, tree forts, beaver ponds, wolf song pouring in my bedroom window at night, rabbit hutches and chicken coops. I had adventures, of the general sort and the exceptional sort, nearly every single day.
It was my delight to accompany my father on back country patrols by horseback or skidoo in these years. Sometimes when my mum was at work in the early morning (she was a nurse), I’d feign sickness or tell my father I was too tired to take the hour long school bus ride to town just so I could stay home with him and help him out around the station. You couldn’t blame me for fibbing; riding that school bus was torture. I usually immersed myself in reading for the hour long trip but was teased mercilessly by older kids who had fathers or uncles who poached animals illegally in the park. I was even threatened by a 16 year old boy one day; I was a skinny little runt of a girl in the first grade and when he told me he would set me on fire with his pocket lighter, I believed him and was terrified of him until he graduated and didn’t ride the bus anymore. When I pretended to be sick so that I wouldn’t have to go to school, it was almost truthful, in some ways.
On one such day, when I pretended to be sick so I could skip school, my father declared that he and I were riding into a remote campground past Birdtail Bridge to check on a group of hikers. I was very small, only six or seven, but I could saddle my horse with the help of the added height of a grain bucket flipped upside down on a stall floor in the barn. We saddled up, loaded our horses in the horse trailer and drove deeper into Riding Mountain National Park.
It was a beautiful indian summer day. The forest in that part of Manitoba is boreal; a pleasant mix of spruce, birch and aspen with a pleasing and isolated smattering of oak in some of the high places like the Baldy Hills. The road that lead into the park from Sugarloaf Warden Station was fringed by beaver ponds, thick woods and that long autumn sigh of Manitoba turning gold and settling in for a long snowy winter. I took it all in with young, fresh eyes as we drove. I didn’t ever get bored of Riding Mountain National Park. Not ever. Not even once. I think that’s one of the gifts of childhood. In our youth, we’re oblivious to politics in all its forms. We’re without the burdens that come with adulthood and without those dark cloaks thrown over our eyes and mind. Everything that our senses take in, at any given moment, manages to ring majestically, purely and freshly in our hearts and souls. There’s no dark, pessimistic mist clouding the way we perceive the world around us, there’s only the light, the texture of the light falling and the texture of the world beneath our feet and under our hands. We’re filled with faith. We punctuate all we say and do with that same burning glory the sun holds high up in the sky.
It was a beautiful indian summer day. The forest in that part of Manitoba is boreal; a pleasant mix of spruce, birch and aspen with a pleasing and isolated smattering of oak in some of the high places like the Baldy Hills. The road that lead into the park from Sugarloaf Warden Station was fringed by beaver ponds, thick woods and that long autumn sigh of Manitoba turning gold and settling in for a long snowy winter. I took it all in with young, fresh eyes as we drove. I didn’t ever get bored of Riding Mountain National Park. Not ever. Not even once. I think that’s one of the gifts of childhood. In our youth, we’re oblivious to politics in all its forms. We’re without the burdens that come with adulthood and without those dark cloaks thrown over our eyes and mind. Everything that our senses take in, at any given moment, manages to ring majestically, purely and freshly in our hearts and souls. There’s no dark, pessimistic mist clouding the way we perceive the world around us, there’s only the light, the texture of the light falling and the texture of the world beneath our feet and under our hands. We’re filled with faith. We punctuate all we say and do with that same burning glory the sun holds high up in the sky.
While I was lost in the texture of the world around me, burning bright with the possibility of the forest, rivers and animals we passed, we suddenly arrived at Birdtail Bridge. We unloaded our horses from the trailer and rode out into the bush, through trees, over tall grasses; in the distance something black was building in the sky, a tower of storm, still far enough away that the sun stayed golden, the breeze was gentle and the bird song consistent.
We rode for an hour or more. Our horses picked their way around fallen trees, over spring creeks and eventually we found ourselves in a clearing with a pair of tents and a few twenty-somethings in brightly hued polypropylene lingering by a quiet fire. My father talked with the hikers, asked to see permits, chit chatted about weather forecasts and reminded them to be careful with their fires. I had dismounted and was snooping around the clearing when a fellow strolled up to me and asked me if I was a good rider. I, of course, didn’t spare him a display of cheeky confidence and informed him that I was a wonderful rider. It was a fairly true statement to make. I was fearless and would try anything on a horse, I was usually successful with whatever I was attempting in the way that I rarely fell off. He looked at me, slapped his leg, laughed out loud and told me he didn’t think I could even get into the saddle by myself never mind gallop on a horse.
Around that time, my dad noted the incoming storm and told me it was time to go. I had on my mind to prove that fellow wrong and so I walked over to my palomino and climbed up and into the saddle like a wild monkey; I must have had a fantastic look of satisfaction on my face once I had both feet in my stirrups because that rotten fellow who had doubted me just smiled and waved goodbye. We turned our horses towards home and rode off. At about this time, I turned to my father and asked him if we could gallop. He must have known I had something to prove because he kicked his sorrel into a run and we took off like hell was coming hot on our heels, and in a way it was. The black storm that had been building was upon us and the wind tried to claw me off the back of my horse as we ran over hills, through thick timber, over fallen trees and across grassy flats. I had one hand on the saddle horn and the other on the reins. My horse sucked wind. I clung to his back like a burr. The rain came down hot and the hail stung my face as we flew. Looking back, it was a completely insane ride, especially for a 6 or 7 year old. My father must have had some confidence in me because he led our stampede back to Birdtail Bridge and never once looked back to check on me until we were seconds away from the truck and trailer. When he asked how I was doing, I grinned, wiped the water and ice out of my eyes and responded with something ridiculous but generationally appropriate like: cowabunga dad.
With the horses loaded, we hopped in the truck, put on the heater and took the road slowly back to Sugarloaf Station. Sometimes I look back at those five years in that national park and I wonder how on earth I survived. I certainly should have been run through by an elk, eaten by a bear, stalked and clawed to death by a cougar or bucked off a horse straight into a tree trunk. Nothing particularly tragic ever happened to me, by the good grace of God.
I will opine that my thirst for adventure and my predestined wild and mildly reckless attitude towards life was probably cultivated by the monosyllabic chant of tree sway, the black scars left behind by black bears on the white skin of aspens, the musty green odor of beaver ponds and the discoveries I made while living in that park.
In those five years I discovered death and life, the capabilities and cohesion of snow, fullness and hunger, numerous pails of unhatched frog eggs, the small and the large and everything in between. Looking back, I don’t think I ever really forgave my parents for moving us to the city of Saskatoon, for the sudden and swift elimination of space and immediate adventures. I understood why we moved and I am glad, in the end, that I was given opportunities to study music, art and to play competitive sports but I never really fit in anywhere after that. Even during my high school years, I was transient in social realms, moving in and out of cliques like a little storm cloud, preferring the company of trees, animals and the challenge of sports instead of weekend parties and the student representative council. I couldn’t get enough space. It wasn’t as easy to wander off into the silence of the forest; the city kept getting in the way.
I will opine that my thirst for adventure and my predestined wild and mildly reckless attitude towards life was probably cultivated by the monosyllabic chant of tree sway, the black scars left behind by black bears on the white skin of aspens, the musty green odor of beaver ponds and the discoveries I made while living in that park.
In those five years I discovered death and life, the capabilities and cohesion of snow, fullness and hunger, numerous pails of unhatched frog eggs, the small and the large and everything in between. Looking back, I don’t think I ever really forgave my parents for moving us to the city of Saskatoon, for the sudden and swift elimination of space and immediate adventures. I understood why we moved and I am glad, in the end, that I was given opportunities to study music, art and to play competitive sports but I never really fit in anywhere after that. Even during my high school years, I was transient in social realms, moving in and out of cliques like a little storm cloud, preferring the company of trees, animals and the challenge of sports instead of weekend parties and the student representative council. I couldn’t get enough space. It wasn’t as easy to wander off into the silence of the forest; the city kept getting in the way.
In the six year history of my marriage I’ve lived in Alaska, Northern California (briefly), the wilds of Arizona in the middle of nowhere on an Indian reservation and now here, in a small city in Idaho. When we moved here, I was ready to spend a portion of my life in civilization but now I’m ready to move on.
Perhaps the only reason I’ve been able to abide here, at The Gables, on the very edge of town, is because of the expanding view of foothills to the West. I can live on the edge of this town with the quietly hovering promise of a ranch in the future; the promises of space and the howling of wolves just outside my bedroom windows again.
My desire isn’t entirely selfish. Someday, if I should have a kid of my own, a feisty and sassy little girl or boy, I want my man to put that kid on a horse, take that kid out into those sacred middles of nowhere so that his or her senses can be imprinted by the textures of wildness, color and light; those fields of mercy, those mountains of God, those tall grasses that whisper alleluias to The Creator. I want to show them the small things, the huge things, the things that are extinct in the city places so that in the years to come, that kid will have an anchor, a compass, the steady swing of the arms of truth bringing him or her back to the basics as well as the honesty and the glory of space, time and time again.
Perhaps the only reason I’ve been able to abide here, at The Gables, on the very edge of town, is because of the expanding view of foothills to the West. I can live on the edge of this town with the quietly hovering promise of a ranch in the future; the promises of space and the howling of wolves just outside my bedroom windows again.
My desire isn’t entirely selfish. Someday, if I should have a kid of my own, a feisty and sassy little girl or boy, I want my man to put that kid on a horse, take that kid out into those sacred middles of nowhere so that his or her senses can be imprinted by the textures of wildness, color and light; those fields of mercy, those mountains of God, those tall grasses that whisper alleluias to The Creator. I want to show them the small things, the huge things, the things that are extinct in the city places so that in the years to come, that kid will have an anchor, a compass, the steady swing of the arms of truth bringing him or her back to the basics as well as the honesty and the glory of space, time and time again.
In the end, you can pour yourself out on the concrete of the city floor, but the black dirt that makes the foundation of wild spaces everywhere is better suited for receiving those pieces of your self and soul and giving something holy and tangible in return. The voice of God is in the song of the wild. May we all find what we’re seeking. In the end, may we all return.
*This post is dedicated to my dear friend Suzy Q who just this afternoon asked me to write a story about my childhood and then share it with her. I hope you like it, Q. xx
*This post is dedicated to my dear friend Suzy Q who just this afternoon asked me to write a story about my childhood and then share it with her. I hope you like it, Q. xx
I LOVE it.
You've lived some of my deepest dreams and some of these dreams I've lived myself the same way.
And you're so right about what's truly important.
x
D
I'm glad you love it, Doro. I hoped you would.
Oh my gosh, I love this story and I think you publish it as a children's adventure book:O) xxoo, Sal
And here I thought you chose the small house called Plume Gables because it was walking distance to the Harbor Frieght Tools Store.
All kids should have the pleasure of the open fields in thier lives. If I were King I'd make it so.
Oh yeh, you should wear your shorts like that more often.
I rocked my jean Erckle style "hiked to my boobs", at that age too.
A wonderful tale, written so beautifully, and with such character and spirit. I expect nothing less of you Jillian. It could be published…a collection of short stories—the tapestry of your life! xoxoHeath
Sean!!!!!!
Heather & Sal: Thank you:) xx
Altough I couldn't understand some parts, I could imagine you in your 6 years old, and I could feel the wildness of your life there!!!
I just loved the story Jillian!!
Thank you for sharing!!
I'm so glad I asked.
You never cease to amaze me
And keep me dreaming
your way with words equals your way with metal …
whether you write, and use letters
or solder&forge, using silver and stone
you create something tangible, visible, palpable!!!
"The voice of God is in the song of the wild". You've put my heart and longing in a sentence. A Saskatooner waiting for open plains.
My goodness. By the time I got to the end of your post, I was a bit welled up. I know you wrote this for you friend, but it sort of felt like it was for me too. This is what I've been thinking about non-stop for the past few days… but you have such an eloquent way of putting it. I've just moved to a city and i'm struggling with it… missing the mountains and the prairies. Missing the places I've lived in the past where sat on my back porch and watched the sun set over the peaks and where I walked through tall grass and sage and listened to the coyotes. I'm feeling very, very out of place here (even though I believe it's a nice city). Anyways, I loved your story and relate to it so much. I guess I'll spend the next few years yearning to be back in the country… hopefully i'll get back sooner than later.
I read this post like a short story, forgetting I wasn't turning the pages of a book, in fact I could almost feel the book in my hands and imagined flipping through the pages. Thank you for a wonderful story to kick start Sunday morning, and the grain of thought, too — we just moved to a city because of my partner's education, and although I'm loving it here, I wish my kid could have continued to spend her early years in the countryside.
WordSMITH.
Are you acquainted with the Australian aboriginal concept of dreamtime? Your dreamings come straight out of this dimension.
x
I feel the the same way about the natural world that you do, however my adventures a more tame. You really need to publish a book. Maybe a journal of short stories with your sketches and nature inspired jewelry.
oh gosh. I loved reading this. I think I shall read it aloud to my sweetheart, in just a moment.
adore you! and bless your sweet, sweet soul.
:::quick note:::
this was even more beautiful read aloud. eloquent.
if anyone happens to read this comment — find a loved one and read this story to them.
parts of your story spoke to my very inner being.
when i visit local cities, i *feel* the sudden elimination of space.
i feel my self draw inward for protection, viewing only through my eyes to feed what i see back into the shell in which i am sheltering.
i come back home to my dirt, to the foundation upon which i can pour out my innerness.
i feel my self come alive again, back on my 5+ acres of blessed alaskan soil.
thank you for your story.
x
Oh Oh Oh! I loved reading this. As I read I was remembering rides with my dad on our horses!
What a treasure! …
My crazy horse we named Nevada….because he looked like snow covered mountains. He used to love Dr. Pepper!
Loved hearing about your adventures…please write more about them. I feel refreshed just reading your post. I'm going to have to read it again!
Thanks & Blessings!
'He daily loads us with benefits'
R
That was so powerful, Jillian. Thank you so so much for sharing it with us.
xo
Jillian,
This post among all the others, those that share your life now and the one on the horizon, has really hit home for me. Thank you for sharing so candidly such an incredible memory and your roots.
Such vibrant writing!
I am all stirred up; looking out my window right now into the North Idaho wheat fields, imagining wild and wide-eyed children running their horses and laughing into the wind.
Thank you.
Michelle
I never forgave your parents for making you move either! I was devastated to lose my bus partner. Oh that bloody bus was awful wasn't it? I remember my first day on it was in Grade two and I stupidly sat next to Pam Hayward cause she was the only one I knew and I ended up getting sick and asked her to move so I could throw up and all she said was, "So? As is I care!" – and I promptly threw up all over the bus floor!! People still bring that up every now and then!! You would have been sooo proud of me though whe one time the boys in the back were being particularly violent and threw a text book at the back of my head and I whipped around and stared them all in the face (which was usually NOT allowed) and told them all to "F— OFF!" Hahaha – they just stared at me and didn't say a word!!! Oh boy – thank goodness my ride was only about a helf an hour – long enough though!!!
Beautiful.
Riding Mountain just established an artist's residency program…in case you're looking for something to do next summer: http://www.artscouncil.mb.ca/english/artsdev_grantorg.html#deepbay
Such a beautifully told story. I look forward to when you gather all of your stories into a book… I will read it over and over and over again.
You have summed up my feelings of what I would like for my wee ones perfectly, what a lovely and touching story…this comes on the weekend of my father's memorial and touched me so. thank you
ahhh that photo, little plume! too cute 🙂
I concur with every swirling word.
love-love!
I am absolutely welled up after reading that…I have always lived in a city, though at the edge of a large urban forest. Something pulls at me for the wild. Driving through the rural roads of central Pennsylvania today, each barn and field we passed tugged at me, calling me to go run with the horses grazing there. Though I don't know where life will take me, it definitely won't be in a city forever.
Thank you so much for sharing of yourself and your life. It makes and indescribable impact.
I'm going to gobbbbble up that little jillian.
jsl
i love you and think you are brilliant in every way – this was a great story. miss you.
xo
ps – the wee flegel in my belly has been dancing up a storm recently. weirdest feeling EVER 😉
jillian: never stop writing. never stop sharing your words with us. thank you THANK YOU for sharing.
Jillian,
What a beautiful memory!
I loved visiting your family at Riding Mountain when we were kids. Also a good memory. I remember how you loved horses and were very proud to show them to us. 🙂 Fun times.
i don't have reading finish the story just half but it was too spleddid for the half and the too amaze you written little novel i thinks and have a part i should to mention a 16 years old boy that kind of awful little boy i can felt how you felt . when you just a little girl ….. but now it seems a bit kid just a kid ?! the boy TOO HATEFUL .
Thank you all SO much for taking the time to read this blog entry — I know it's a long one. Thank you for your encouragement when it comes to publishing a book! Thank you for sharing your own experiences and dreams!
Thank you, Jenn, my dear friend, for reminding me of the time you threw up on the bus! I remember how every time we drove down a hill the cornflakes and milk would slide to the front of the bus (I kept my feet up and out of the way of the slosh). If we could survive the Grandview school busses, we can survive anything.
Love to you all and thank you so much for taking a moment to comment.
xx
I love how this world works sometimes. When I first read this wonderful story I had just return home from visiting a friend in Manitoba and oddly enough we had gone for a fishing/camping trip in Duck Mountain Provincial Park, hiked Baldy Mountain and even visited Grandview. I could picture this story so well!