The Lull of the Land
I'm happy to introduce a guest post today from a dear friend of mine. Just as the characters in Love, Carry My Bags were drawn to the Pacific Northwest, the land lulls in real life. Enjoy.
My name is Kim Struthers and I have known CR for almost 30 years. We first met as teens and she has remained a valued friend despite the ups and downs of our respective lives and the considerable distance between us. That distance grew even greater five years ago when I moved from Vancouver, BC, back to my hometown of Smithers, about 1100 kilometers (or about 700 miles) north of Vancouver.
Smithers is a beautiful little town (pop. 5,000) nestled in a mountain valley. While it has many things to offer, I believe those who flourish here are those who carry-on a boisterous love affair with the great outdoors. It’s hard for me to explain to my urban friends how good it is for my soul to live here. Every day I wake up and see mountains in almost every direction that I look. There are rivers and lakes here too but it is the mountains that draw me. In the summer we explore them by hiking and biking and in the winter we play on them with our snowshoes and snowboards.
These three short pieces will hopefully convey this connection that I feel to the land and provide you with a glimpse into my life. I hope you enjoy them.
Migration
The rush and tumble of mountain streams as they cascade off an ancient glacier.
The wide, gorgeous sky, pouring down with brilliance.
The mountains beckon, the wind whispering an invite to scramble their secret pathways to the top.
My ancestral road snakes along, each kilometer propelling me home to a future full of my past.
Was my northern migration a foregone conclusion?
Has the desire been lying dormant in my veins and limbs, a generational and geographical time-stamp upon my cells?
What activated this preservation of the past, this body memory that ensures I’m attuned to the beacon’s signal?
What I do know: the imprint of this land lies upon me like a lover’s hot hand,
Its brand on my most intimate, most primitive, of parts.
I abandon resistance and let magnetism take its course.
My inner compass finds its true north.
Hill Trail I
We snowshoe up Hill Trail, each step breaking through the soft spring snow. It is silent, save for our efforts, as we move up and into the past.
Something cracks my genealogical genetic code, awakening my dormant DNA that has lain quietly, suspended in the blood that courses through my veins. But it is now starting to hum as each step takes me back, a journey of lifetimes, to walk step in step with all those who have come before.
The burnt trees stand like mute sentinels, a silent forest of ancient ghosts, guarding us on our journey. They are story trees, these forest fire totem poles, each knot a seminal event, each broken branch and jagged top a testament to their fiery ending. Burnt boils scar them like adolescent acne, belying their age and wisdom. Their silvery-grey bark like boar hide is cool to the touch rather than warm with lifeblood as I expect. Even now, decades after the fire, we can smell the burnt wood if the wind is right. I feel safe, sheltered, protected by these ancestors who witness our journey and usher us forward into the past.
Hill Trail II
We ascend from the frozen snow-covered marsh, moving up through the trees and into a strange underwater world of snow. We are surrounded by giant white mushrooms and pine snow horses, their heads bowed in silent reverence. Huge trees like snowy kelp wave in the wind, dancing in the ocean’s fluid current. We stand on the snow ocean’s floor, lulled by the soothing movement, looking up through the silvery light, cocooned in a bubble of silence and snow.
My name is Kim Struthers and I have known CR for almost 30 years. We first met as teens and she has remained a valued friend despite the ups and downs of our respective lives and the considerable distance between us. That distance grew even greater five years ago when I moved from Vancouver, BC, back to my hometown of Smithers, about 1100 kilometers (or about 700 miles) north of Vancouver.
Smithers is a beautiful little town (pop. 5,000) nestled in a mountain valley. While it has many things to offer, I believe those who flourish here are those who carry-on a boisterous love affair with the great outdoors. It’s hard for me to explain to my urban friends how good it is for my soul to live here. Every day I wake up and see mountains in almost every direction that I look. There are rivers and lakes here too but it is the mountains that draw me. In the summer we explore them by hiking and biking and in the winter we play on them with our snowshoes and snowboards.
These three short pieces will hopefully convey this connection that I feel to the land and provide you with a glimpse into my life. I hope you enjoy them.
Migration
The rush and tumble of mountain streams as they cascade off an ancient glacier.
The wide, gorgeous sky, pouring down with brilliance.
The mountains beckon, the wind whispering an invite to scramble their secret pathways to the top.
My ancestral road snakes along, each kilometer propelling me home to a future full of my past.
Was my northern migration a foregone conclusion?
Has the desire been lying dormant in my veins and limbs, a generational and geographical time-stamp upon my cells?
What activated this preservation of the past, this body memory that ensures I’m attuned to the beacon’s signal?
What I do know: the imprint of this land lies upon me like a lover’s hot hand,
Its brand on my most intimate, most primitive, of parts.
I abandon resistance and let magnetism take its course.
My inner compass finds its true north.
Hill Trail I
We snowshoe up Hill Trail, each step breaking through the soft spring snow. It is silent, save for our efforts, as we move up and into the past.
Something cracks my genealogical genetic code, awakening my dormant DNA that has lain quietly, suspended in the blood that courses through my veins. But it is now starting to hum as each step takes me back, a journey of lifetimes, to walk step in step with all those who have come before.
The burnt trees stand like mute sentinels, a silent forest of ancient ghosts, guarding us on our journey. They are story trees, these forest fire totem poles, each knot a seminal event, each broken branch and jagged top a testament to their fiery ending. Burnt boils scar them like adolescent acne, belying their age and wisdom. Their silvery-grey bark like boar hide is cool to the touch rather than warm with lifeblood as I expect. Even now, decades after the fire, we can smell the burnt wood if the wind is right. I feel safe, sheltered, protected by these ancestors who witness our journey and usher us forward into the past.
Hill Trail II
We ascend from the frozen snow-covered marsh, moving up through the trees and into a strange underwater world of snow. We are surrounded by giant white mushrooms and pine snow horses, their heads bowed in silent reverence. Huge trees like snowy kelp wave in the wind, dancing in the ocean’s fluid current. We stand on the snow ocean’s floor, lulled by the soothing movement, looking up through the silvery light, cocooned in a bubble of silence and snow.
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