My spectacular friend Shelley and her darling daughter Emma joined me on a simple and sweet adventure north and west of the castle to the tiny (and I do mean tiny) burg of Hill City.
Another friend of mine, Ione, is in the process of renovating an old store and bar there. Ione wasn’t there, but she told me where to find the key and turn on the power. I guess it was last open consistently in the 70s although it looks like it was used at least partially in 1990 – as there are signatures on the wall of the bar with that date.
Ione had said that walking into the building was a bit like stepping back in time. They had just shut everything down and locked it up 30 some years ago. The tiny post office in the corner of the store is a testament to that. Truly,it looks like the post master went home from work one day and never came back. Postage meters sit on the counter. Mail remains in a sorting station. The boxes, complete with combination locks still in tact, still have the assigned names taped to the back.
I’m still doing some research on Hill City and will post more, along with the pictures I took, at a later date. It sits along a highway that serves and as the main passage way between Boise and the resort community of Sun Valley.Thirteen miles east of here is a small town called Fairfield. There’s a ski hill here too, along with several businesses that support the community along with agriculture.
It appears there were a couple of stores here at one time. None exist now – all boarded up. Ione plans on opening this place up as a convenience stop and bar to serve recreational travelers who are commuting between the resorts and snowmobiling sites during the winter, and bird watching, fishing and explorers of the summer.
Shelley and I took bunches of pictures of the building and its contents. I shot on film, so it will be a few days before I post, but I’ll share Shelley’s when she sends them to me.
We then made our way down to the Centennial Marsh. It’s a great place to watch birds and in the spring, the camas lilies are in bloom in an incredible shade of purple. More about Centennial Marsh.
Shelley and I covered all sorts of areas of conversation. I love spending time with her as we have a kindred spirit, I believe. We spread out a picnic near the marsh and while Emma made friends with a caterpillar and looked at the crystal blue sky, Shelley and I talked about truth.
It’s no secret “the truth will set you free” -- we’ve all heard it before. In the last few years, both Shelley and I have come to appreciate the truth in who we are and in those with whom we choose to spend time. For me, I have finally realized that I’m not interested in being anything but what I am. I’ve spent far too many years trying to live up to other people’s idea of who I supposed to be. I should be more accurate – I spent a lot of time trying to live up to the expectations I thought other people had for me.
Here’s an example. Growing up, what I “heard” my family telling me was that I fat and un-athletic. Now if you were to ask members of my family, they would tell you they didn’t say that. What I know is that is what I heard – not just from my family, but from television and other forms of media.
My sophomore year of high school we were required to take P.E. and within that class we had to run. One morning we had to run along the canal bank near the school. I remember loving how I felt while running. The wind in my hair. The strength in my body. The feel of my feet hitting the ground and then lifting up again to take another step. It felt amazing. Then I found myself passing another girl in my class. A thin girl. She was really struggling. In my head, in some distorted voice, I heard myself say, “This can’t be right. She’s thin and I’m fat. I can’t be doing better than her.”
I stopped and walked with her a while, but my body was screaming to run. So I ran and then later signed up for the cross country team. I was intimidated by the cross country team. They were champions and a close knit bunch. Besides, I still had it in my head that I was not an athlete. But I loved to run so much and I wanted to be part of this team. Within a week or two, I mentioned to my dad that I had practice and he said, “You’re not built like a runner.” Took the wind right out of my sails.
For some reason, I internalized that and quit the team. From then on I told myself, and anyone else, that I wasn’t a runner, much less and athlete. When we played soccer in P.E., I loved it, but did not pursue it. I’m not an athlete. Right?
Fast forward another 29ish years. After telling myself that for so long, I have become the story. While I’ve entered 5Ks and walked them with pride, I have realized that I entered those to prove something to everyone else, more than myself. It was a form of rebellion. “You keep telling me I can’t do this, so watch me.“
The problem is, it’s temporary. Once the races were over, I’d be in search of something else and when I couldn’t find anything I liked, I stopped doing anything physical at all.
Finally, I’ve realized that what I love is running. I have dreams about running – running along trails. Running along the roads. These dreams are reoccurring and for I while I thought it was my subconscious telling me I was running from something. I think now, I was just running in those dreams.
So you know what I’ve been doing? Running. Now, I can’t run much. Really I just shuffle, but I run. And it feels great. Amazing.
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