As kids, we were routinely locked out of the house when our mother needed some well-deserved down time — which usually consisted of her reading her water-logged Bible in the claw foot tub, in our one bathroom house. We never knew how long it would be before outside time ended, she had a habit of stirring in more hot water and Revelation had fallen into the water a long time ago. It was our job to entertain ourselves on an eight acre acreage, complete with an abandoned barn, a forest, a creek and a pond, flanking the aptly named Bear Mountain.
Our knocks and urgent hollering fell on deaf ears, in event of emergency we were without a doubt, on our own. After we wrapped our minds around things, we embraced the predicament we found ourselves in and lost ourselves in the voracious landscape and our imaginations. We could conquer this infinite passage of time — together. It was us against the elements, for perhaps eternity — there was no way to be sure.
Funnily enough, we never saw a bear, perhaps our heads were too caught up in our games to notice any curious onlookers. Perhaps we were too loud. Or perhaps our free-spirited, free-roaming dog, my dad found in the “unwanted” section of the newspaper —free to good home— kept them at bay. Shamoo, came with only the name, a half-bag of kibble and his thick white coat, full of the mysteries and adventures his happy grin only began to allude to. He traversed the perimeter of our property (and well beyond) alerting predators of his and our presence.
While there were places and activities forbidden to us, the rules were stretched or forgotten altogether when we ventured outdoors unsupervised. Our imaginations grew as we created portals into another world, one where only we existed, outside of the rules, outside of reality. We climbed tall ladders into high hay lofts, we rode dirt bikes at break neck speed we spent whole afternoons capturing and releasing creatures. While it was expected we had common sense, common sense was best learned by making a myriad of mistakes. Left to our own devices, it was up to us to learn and appreciate our own limits.
Given a brief introduction to knife carrying safety, my brother was set free with his first Swiss Army knife— never whittle towards yourself or run with an open blade. The instructions seemed straightforward and the knife made sense for reaching the next level of outdoor enjoyment. Sharp weapon-like sticks and rudimentary carvings were already in the works. It wouldn’t be long before we were blazing trails with machetes. When my brother fell, doing something he shouldn’t have, he lodged the knife deep into his hand between his finger and thumb. “Don’t tell mom,” he said. Those words were a pact we all deeply understood.
While we enjoyed tattling on one another at many points in life, the wilderness built within us a camaraderie like no other. The fresh air that filled our lungs, ran through our veins and fuelled our hearts, coursing through us all — we were different outdoors. It was us against everything and we most definitely would respect the pact, by not telling mom. We learned wound care that day, and a deeper respect for sharp objects.
Due to our apocalypse-fearing Christian upbringing, we often played an enchanting little game called, “End of the World,” where we imagined we would soon be the only people left on Earth, or need to go off-grid for any variety of reasons. Whatever the situation, it was pressing that we sharpen our survival skills. Imagine our dismay, when we learned a compass comprised of a magnetized needle and a leaf in a bucket of water could not save our mortal souls. It didn’t much matter we could survive the rugged terrain, bellies full of the sourest huckleberries. We could catch fish in buckets and we discussed the nutritional value of grubs and insects, only one of us brave enough to try. We had nothing but time, the wilderness and each other and so we practiced well.
A friend from work mentioned she had removed a book from the school library shelves, titled Schoolyard Games, a how-to type of book, circa 1980. One of the chapters boasted a fun little game where children throw pocket knives at the other participants to avoid boredom and of course, increase knife skills. Thinking fondly of my own childhood, and us throwing sharpened sticks at eachother, I suggested she re-shelve the book (to no avail — though probably for the best).
I couldn’t help but smile to myself, as my brother presented his own children with their very first pocket knife, during a family camping trip. I even got to listen in as he explained the simple rules for the miniature blades. I watched as they carefully realized what potential lay in their palms. “Enjoy.”
Now we have the most incredible opportunity watching our own children from our windows — giving them the illusion of aloneness — as they scale tall hills, use sticks as swords, catch frogs, gather insects and test their own limits, right at the foot of the same Bear Mountain. I watch as they increase their familiarity with the wild, one tiny step at a time. I listen intently though for worrisome sounds, not quite ready to draw myself a bath and lose track of them altogether, one foot in the 90’s, one foot right here. If ever I am lucky enough to overhear the phrase, “don’t tell mom” used by my own young children, I will try my absolute best to smile.
