The Climb

There was a magic in the canyon that only those of us who lived there, or spent time there knew about.

That magic draws unfortunate people in, as well as wonderful people, but it seems to pull the extreme polar opposites of societies “norm”.

It has been exploited and developed since I lived there and mostly rich people with giant houses trampling what I’m sure was an Indian burial ground live there now.

But I loved growing up in my canyon. I would not trade it for anything. I would not trade the abuse, the isolation, the strange fear that always loomed, the gangs that hung out, or the danger I was constantly in.

I died many times. I should have anyway. I would never trade the wild mushrooms and onions, the camping under the sky alone, riding my neighbor’s wild horses bareback just to prove that I really was a dirty little Indian.

There was probably only one childhood better than mine…

I was alone most of my childhood and spent much of my time in my head in my own world in that magical canyon, but there are few memories I have where my siblings are involved.

This is one of them.

Lower’s Hill

The trek was made whether it was covered in ice or sun beams. The hill was torturous. And winding. And it was never ever ending. Not to mention it was a very long journey just to get to the bottom of the hill. The beginning of worsts…from our back yard we could see the base of the hill. It was across a field. A lush field, not of hay or yellow stuff. But of wild growing green stuff. Flowers, and bunches of aspen trees, and clover all over. To the left of the green field lay an old barn, and farther on, a white house. To the right of the field lay the owners of said field and the occupants of the brown house. To get there quickly, we would have to jump the fence, brave the dogs, and the neighbors in the brown house who are horrifying, and the older neighbor boys in the white house as they throw plums at us and hope we didn’t pass out from loss of blood. We were more than likely cut from the fence and now had rabies. I have many scars from that fence.

We learned early on that it is best to take the long way around. To go out the front door, yell down the road to Becky, veer left, head to canyon road, take a left, and follow the road, pass by the tree where that kid exploded his head cause his motorcycle got to close and lost control, pass the skunk trail, pass my secret entrance to my briar hut, walk a bit farther… till we arrive at the base of the hill.

But before that adventure can begin, we must go hunt for gold.

We had to be So secretive, and VERY protective. There was no such thing as all for one and one for all.

I was not the kind of Indian that stayed put for long. I was a hunter/gatherer. A nomad. I knew that was what I would be when I grew up.

So, I was gathering all the time. I knew the value of a penny. We were poor. I was aware of that. I was fine with it as well.

I would look in driveways, and in gutters, and I can promise you that we had the cleanest couches on earth. We had incentive to keep them clean. We were always looking for coins. My dad was very good at emptying out his pockets onto his desk when he got home from work though, so it was rare that money would fall into the cushions. One thing he was Not so good at, was counting the coins. He would just dump them in a pile on his dresser and would sort the better ones into a bowl later on. So…when they were occupied, I became very good at sneaking in a stealing just enough change that he wouldn’t notice it was gone. Steal from the rich…keep for myself. I got caught once, and got spanked. SO worth it though. Just you wait.

I did that often enough, I would get a good chunk of change.

We also had quite an extensive chore list daily, and that allowed us $8 allowance monthly. Lemonade stands, and full mini restaurants with fries and shakes and such things provided us a bit more income for the reason behind this all.

We would gather our goods for a few days to a week, sometimes two depending on if there was a drought. And when our sandwich baggies were good and full, we would council and set a time.

We would then make our voyage.

Both of my parents worked so there was usually no fear of hearing my moms whistle when we were halfway up the hill and having to run full speed back home to a sure grounding. If we planned well enough, we might even have enough left over for a bike ride down to the 7-11 for a slurpee. But, that needed to be planned a bit more. That was a few miles away, and in city area. Scary.

I digress.  Our journey has begun and it has been skipping and laughter until now.

We are at the base of the hill. No point in bringing our bikes for the short ride to the hill. The hill is a monster. Satan’s mistress. And if we left our bikes at the bottom, Becky’s older brothers (who my sister and I totally had uncomfortable crushes on) would come spray paint them and her mute mentally-unique brother (who carved at us from across the room with a butter knife and flashed us FULL MONTEY more times than I can remember) would burn them in a huge pile. It happened.

We take our deepest breaths. And climb. Don’t misunderstand. This hill is a paved road. So, we are merely walking upward. But it is quite long for our tiny legs, and it is winding and cars don’t see around the corners and they LOVE to go very fast. The cars. Not the legs. The legs loved to take Forever.

About two minutes on the beast and we are all out of breathe. We know that the top of the hill awaits, and that a drinking fountain of youth is just past the most perfectly wonderful glass door. We are nearing the top, and I have raccoon eyes. Everyone has lost 12 pounds.

We need sustenance.

There it is! We can hear the cows in the near distance. We try to pretend we don’t know what is about to happen to them. It makes us feel like minions of the beast we just climbed…knowing what we are about to do.

We push through the smeared, dusty, grimy glass doors and then wait. And wait.

 Wait in line at the fountain of JUSTICE and ACCOMPLISHMENT….I will gladly go last. I know what that means. More water…longer. Yum.

We each have our clear plastic sandwich baggy of change and everyone there knows who we are by name. The Pease’s were well known anyway because we always folded our arms when we walked around at Church and for some reason, people thought that we had a perfect family because of that. We were all good in our own respect. But we were TERRIBLE together.

Waiting in line at the counter. I can smell my mouth watering. That alone is worth it. Tannin has his already. He is back at the drinking fountain filling up for the trek back. Holly’s fingers are strumming the counter….

Brant.

I step up. Put my baggie on the counter. Smile tentatively. The graying woman smiles back with her graying smile. She counts up my change, and tells me how much I have and what 'poundage' Im allotted. Then asks me what kind I would like.

“Peppered” I respond. Only peppered. It was the best. Some people have wuss mouths though, and its not their fault. So, I don’t judge them. They did not judge me for loving Peppered.

The woman bends over into a big cooler, pulls out a handful of twig like sticks of natures candy…helped slightly by man.

She places it on the scale. It is under the weight limit!!! YES!!!

She reaches down to grab more peppered and with one shoulder forward and one shoulder back, I say with Entirely too much confidence for the occasion, “Stop! Make the rest original.”

I thought I would give it a try, but it is like taking a step back to boring land once you have been granted a pass to cool town! Brant had taken the last of it though. So…no original for me. I thought I would try to be boring like them. Nah. I was happy with being a bad ass 8 year old and loving my peppered beef jerky. She weighed the rest of the glorious meat, tallied up my winnings, made the sale… and with a heart full of confidence and gold,  and I took my reward.

With a grin on my face, my long mud colored golden glazed curls bouncing down my back, and the sun glowing on my copper skin, I quenched my remaining thirst, and pushed through the glass door, in slow motion of course. I was ready for my happy jaunt back down the mountain of doom and through the fields of mordor. I would do it today. I would venture hrough the Field of Green, dodge the Plum Bombs, weave in and out of the Half Wolf Dogs vicious teeth and saliva, smile at the neighbor as he yelled at me, and high jump the hell out of that Fence!

And no one was going to stop me, because I had the worlds best jerky in my back pocket.

I had lied, and stolen, and been beaten by siblings, plums, and weather to obtain this jerky.

I did it on a weekly basis. It was the highlight of my youth.