By Ammi Midstokke
There was a time in a previous life when I traveled to faraway places, because my only real responsibility was a basil plant I could easily replace. The wide, wild world of Patagonia and the Himalayas and the Alps awaited me, and Greta Thunberg hadn’t yet dismantled the guiltless glamor of air travel.
Then I became a parent and I had to have a real job and live in the same place like a grown-up. I hear the nomad life is en vogue again among parents, but it wasn’t an option for me (single mom and all that). I needed to find a place where I could meet the needs of my wild-wilderness heart and still show up for work on Monday.
Having grown up off-grid and bordering state land in North Idaho, I was remotely aware of the abundance of public lands here. We harvested moss to stuff between the logs in our cabin and picked enough thimble berries to make pies so sour, only cups of sugar could help. Our creek water was “clean” because no one lived above us to contaminate it—although I just assume we got immune to giardia as the thing dried out every summer and we never filtered a drop of it.
It was not until I returned to North Idaho as an adult that I had the opportunity to explore a backyard as rugged, majestic, challenging, humbling, and untamed as any other place in the world I had been. Only now, these places were accessible within a few minutes’ drive to a trailhead.
Photo courtesy of Lindsey Zembower
As a working parent on a budget, the country to which my child and I had access allowed us the most fantastic family adventures I could have hoped for. We traipsed to Harrison Lake for alpine scenery when my kid’s legs were too short for long distance. We hiked into Caribou Lake when it was frozen over and camped in the snow. We summited peaks together, splashed in crisp lakes, saw fish and bears and mountain goats and a world of wonder that shaped our lives and healed unthinkable wounds.
We went hunting for mushrooms and huckleberries, learned how to orienteer with map and compass, and explored the streams and lakes of the Panhandle National Forest until our two-person family grew to four and we just got a bigger tent. The foundation of our new family was built on stewardship of the lands and resources we use, and a recognition that we are of and reliant upon nature.
The memories made through the connection to these places remain the silken strands in the tapestry of our family. They are the stories we share at the dinner table. Accessibility to and preservation of these lands is how we cultivated our values of conservation and our reverence for the wild places. Which is exactly why a framed map of the Kaniksu National Forest, replete with pins in the places we’ve been, still adorns our dining room wall.
Ammi Midstokke is the Literation columnist at Out There Outdoors. She considers public lands her backyard. She hopes you do, too.
The post Lands of Wildness appeared first on Out There Outdoors.
There was a time in a previous life when I traveled to faraway places, because my only real responsibility was a basil plant I could easily replace. The wide, wild world of Patagonia and the Himalayas and the Alps awaited me, and Greta Thunberg hadn’t yet dismantled the guiltless glamor of air travel.
Then I became a parent and I had to have a real job and live in the same place like a grown-up. I hear the nomad life is en vogue again among parents, but it wasn’t an option for me (single mom and all that). I needed to find a place where I could meet the needs of my wild-wilderness heart and still show up for work on Monday.
Having grown up off-grid and bordering state land in North Idaho, I was remotely aware of the abundance of public lands here. We harvested moss to stuff between the logs in our cabin and picked enough thimble berries to make pies so sour, only cups of sugar could help. Our creek water was “clean” because no one lived above us to contaminate it—although I just assume we got immune to giardia as the thing dried out every summer and we never filtered a drop of it.
It was not until I returned to North Idaho as an adult that I had the opportunity to explore a backyard as rugged, majestic, challenging, humbling, and untamed as any other place in the world I had been. Only now, these places were accessible within a few minutes’ drive to a trailhead.
Photo courtesy of Lindsey Zembower
As a working parent on a budget, the country to which my child and I had access allowed us the most fantastic family adventures I could have hoped for. We traipsed to Harrison Lake for alpine scenery when my kid’s legs were too short for long distance. We hiked into Caribou Lake when it was frozen over and camped in the snow. We summited peaks together, splashed in crisp lakes, saw fish and bears and mountain goats and a world of wonder that shaped our lives and healed unthinkable wounds.
We went hunting for mushrooms and huckleberries, learned how to orienteer with map and compass, and explored the streams and lakes of the Panhandle National Forest until our two-person family grew to four and we just got a bigger tent. The foundation of our new family was built on stewardship of the lands and resources we use, and a recognition that we are of and reliant upon nature.
The memories made through the connection to these places remain the silken strands in the tapestry of our family. They are the stories we share at the dinner table. Accessibility to and preservation of these lands is how we cultivated our values of conservation and our reverence for the wild places. Which is exactly why a framed map of the Kaniksu National Forest, replete with pins in the places we’ve been, still adorns our dining room wall.
Ammi Midstokke is the Literation columnist at Out There Outdoors. She considers public lands her backyard. She hopes you do, too.
The post Lands of Wildness appeared first on Out There Outdoors.