I’ve lived in northern Minnesota for 45 years, just 10 miles from downtown Cook. The 2020 census reported its population at 534. My journey before arriving here was a long one. In childhood, I was attracted to stories of “life in the country.” I grew up in a densely populated neighborhood not far from the city limits of Detroit, Mich. The small town of Center Line was slightly larger than one mile square. In 1970, its population hovered around 10,000.  A memorable feature was our U.S. Army “Tank Plant” surrounded by a very high stockade-style wall. We listened to diesel tanks racing round and round the test track, day and night, preparing to serve in the jungles of Vietnam. The big wall, designed to keep intruders out, did little to muffle the noise. Perhaps the incessant roar and accompanying fumes fueled my childhood dreams that one day, I would choose to live somewhere else, more bucolic, although I didn’t know that word when I was 10 years old. 

My imagination was influenced by books in which children lived on farms, or in the woods, or on the Great Plains — stories like “The Good Master,” “My Antonia,” and “The Yearling,” or biographies that could transport me from my crowded, noisy world to a place free of busy streets and ubiquitous chain-linked fences, woven with old food wrappers and other windblown trash. I loved reading about dogs and horses, and wished I could have one. There were times I wanted to be a veterinarian or a jockey, but learned that girls could be neither. 

After graduating from high school, I applied for college and was surprised to receive an acceptance letter. I had no firm goals and remember only feeling restless, like I didn’t belong. I concluded that I just wasn’t college material and after a few semesters I dropped out.  With three friends I’d met while organizing the campus lettuce boycott, I moved into an old run-down farmhouse fifteen miles from town. We’d be ruffin’ it, but it was surrounded by an abandoned peach orchard that, to us, looked like paradise. With the rent just $40 a month, divided four ways, we couldn’t pass it up.  My nurse’s aide wages at $2.32 per hour would easily cover my expenses.  My dream of living in the country was coming true. 

It was here that I planted my first garden and learned to can peaches.  We foraged for wild asparagus and morel mushrooms. We hung a rope-swing in the front yard from a giant oak’s limb and swung high. For nine months, we had a blast replacing broken windows, repairing kitchen cabinets, turning what remained of the silo into a shower stall and I got Manfred, a white German Shepherd puppy. 

Inevitably, the time came to move on. I loaded my car with a box of my favorite books, a few provisions, and my very loved and devoted companion, Manfred, and hit the road. I pointed the car west and headed to Arizona, to find my sister. 

I ended up living in Tucson for five years, working a variety of jobs until I met some remarkable people who presented me with an unexpected opportunity — to lead a newly created Free Clinic. I stepped into this purely on their encouragement. They saw something that I did not. Their faith in me overrode my insecurities and fed my wanting so badly to believe I could fulfill their expectations. That experience changed me forever and set the stage for my future. 

While in Tucson, I explored the mysterious and beautiful mountains and canyons of the Sonoran Desert. But plain and simple, the heat finally got to me. I found myself considering another opportunity I couldn’t pass up.  A co-worker invited me to caretake her cabin situated amidst the redwood forests of the Coast Range mountains north of Santa Cruz, Calif. So after almost two years at the clinic, with mixed pangs of sorrow and fear, I resigned my position and headed west again.

Susan’s tiny cabin was nestled on a mountainside at the end of a five-mile-long ,steep and winding gravel road. Life on Last Chance Road would present another list of important “Firsts.”  My first time living without running water and electricity! And life in a tight-knit, isolated community of 50 people who appeared to be an exotic mix of back-to-the-landers, artists, musicians, and recovering hippies. Ultimately, they were just all really good people, perched up and down the mountainside in their hand made homes. 

I grew my garden, gathered mussels at low tide, ate a lot of cheap vegetables from roadside stands, and learned how to split redwood shakes and fence rails to make the small amount of cash needed to get by. I hiked and read a lot and began to write poems. The giant redwoods and madrone trees stirred my soul in that short year at Last Chance and would instill in me an everlasting love for a simpler way of life. 

Following my sojourn in California, I moved even further north to a small town named Aloha, 20 miles west of Portland, Ore. I went there by invitation to join a different group of friends from my past. They were renting a farmhouse on the outskirts of town and assured me I’d have no trouble finding work. Their final words to entice me were these, “It’s really beautiful here!” 

I moved into their large house originally built decades prior for the hired hands. This family farm grew strawberries and sugar beets. In the past, it was twice its size, but now the farmer and his sons ran the entire farm themselves and rented out this house. At harvest time, he’d bring on a crew of skilled migrant laborers who hand-picked the berries and helped operate machinery to harvest the beets. A huge barn bordered our driveway. With the cursory Spanish-speaking skills I’d acquired in Arizona, I became acquainted with many of the workers who visited the barn often. This was my first glimpse into family farming and the irreplaceable role that migrant workers play in supplying us with food. It also refreshed my Spanish and rekindled my affection for the warm and friendly people who speak it. Then there were the incredible Douglas fir that grew so majestically across the landscape, snow-capped volcanic mountain tops, and lots of rushing rivers that characterized this part of our country. 

With climate change messing with weather everywhere, current reports out of the Great Northwest are often about high temps, severe drought conditions, and forest fires, unlike Oregon’s weather in the 1970s. Back then, the weather was cool and very damp. Precipitation occurred nearly every day from early September through May. For nine months straight, I saw drizzle, rain, drenching downpours, freezing rain, snow, and ice-storms. Then in June, summer would suddenly burst through. The sun kept shining for the next three months. Plants grew fast and with a fury. My first job was a landscape maintenance gardener, and I appreciated what I saw— job security! 

In June 1979, I got married. My spouse was from southern Minnesota. He was always talking about it fondly. I liked Oregon but after my first nine-month siege of gloomy weather, I doubted I could take another winter. When mentioned, we began discussing other options. He pointed to returning to the Midwest to be closer to our families. According to the United Farm Catalog, land in Minnesota was affordable and I’d often heard that the people were nice. Descriptions of lakes and forests, wildlife galore, and a lot of the state “still wild” convinced me to pack up once again. 

We landed at his parents’ home in central Minnesota, and with their urging, began looking at settling there. Land was very expensive. My father-in-law explained that “good farmland was worth it.” We knew it was beyond our means. And I didn’t really want to be a farmer. I asked, “Where are the lakes and forests?” All I’d seen in those past two weeks were miles of cornfields! “Ohh,” the family chorused, “that’s up north.” My response, whispered in my spouse’s ear, “Then, I want to go up north.” And so, we did.  Once here, I knew this was where I wanted to be. We found a 40-acre parcel and began to put down roots. With the template left behind by the first wave of homesteaders, one of hard work and ingenuity, I was among a second wave who benefited from their wisdom and good advice. I chose to stay here to raise my family. 

Decades later, I am still surrounded by wild country, still able to step into the darkness and gaze up at a bejeweled night sky, still lured by the calls of loons and geese and a distant lonely howl that never fail to delight me. I still look forward to a bountiful garden harvest with its first bite from a juicy home-grown tomato or that first buttery taste from a bowlful of “new potatoes.” 

And then there are the people. I’d never been welcomed by nicer people than the new neighbors I met here. And though we may not always see eye to eye, I’ve never been in need for very long before someone has been there to offer help. Despite lots of challenges and changes, after 45 years, I’m still here. After eight years and thousands of miles of searching, I finally found the place to make my “home.” And even during my restless moments, I’ve never gone very far or for very long. I love this place and the people who live here. Yes, this  is indeed, and always will remain my paradise, my home!