Tracks In The Snow

This is my third winter in the cabin.

I’m not sure if the winter is more monumental then summers in passing. Dry bitter cold and loneliness or sweaty, sleepless nights and mosquitoes.


The walk down my driveway to my chicken coop is my rock.

I’ve walked down that driveway as the suns rose, throwing pink over the snow covered mountains. I’ve walked that driveway in peaceful contended quietness. I’ve walked it in the pouring rain and mud.

I’ve walked it screaming at the sky.

I’ve walked it in desolate tears and brokenness.


From my living room window at the top of the hill my view is priceless.

I get so caught up in it, that I forget how unique it is. I forget that normal people don’t keep a bucket to piss in their home. That normal people don’t fight freezing temperatures, splitting wood inside off of an old chair because it’s dark out and the eyes of a snorting elk are 15 feet from their front door. Normal people don’t sit up at night puking blood into a bucket next to their wood-stove from stress ulcers.

At the beginning of this, the cabin. I awaited rescuing.

Someone save me and finish this for me.


Then came the quiet, the loneliness. Nobodies coming. People promise me things, offer things and those things fall through.

I’ve come close to giving it up. To giving up.

This past year, 2015, I decided instead of waiting for a bushman to come rescue me, that I would become the “bushman”.

Flannel shirts were given to me. Not that clothes really matter.

I started letting go of peoples idea of me. I don’t care anymore.


I’ve met some of my older neighbors, and some newer ones. Earlier in December I met a man down the road from me three times my age. He is the epitome of not giving a single shit about what people think. I’ve taken that on and hold on to it. I’ve stopped letting the naysayers opinion of how I choose to live my life dictate my choices. I sense others’ disapproval over me. Like a sopping wet, heavy sleeping bag over my life. I chose where to step through the snow. I didn’t know that in that choice my tracks would be the only ones. Instead of waiting for the scent of pipe tobacco to come into my life on someone else. I light it into my own life when I choose to.

It’s not to say people haven’t come into my life.

They have. I know they will not stay. It’s not a sad thing, as much as it is a matter of fact. I think maybe for the lone she/man it will take a wicked person to put up with my stubborn self at this point. I’ve noticed my face change this year. At twenty-four I’ve seen what living this kind of lifestyle has done to my face. As if someone took a finger to my reflection and pulled back on my skin leaving trails of fine lines. Like the skin of a peach that’s been bruised. It is all of n o t h i n g.


Before all of this started I didn’t think this was how my life would be. I thought because I felt I was good that good would come. The one thing in life that is constant is that it’s always out of our hands.

I’ve never met a man that brought the same peace as that in which I found in the woods alone.

I am choosing to continue to make tracks. As slow as it takes, as hard, cold, lonely, grand and fucking beautiful. Maybe my life wasn’t meant to be shared. A woman should learn to live alone. To walk alone. To freeze alone. To have everything stripped from her life and be shot at again. This is the place where you stop caring about your bruised peach skin. This is the place where you unconditionally lift your chin and keep walking forward.

That is my new years resolution.





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