Downhill skiing is one of the things I gave up when I moved to the shore. Partly, it is an hour and a half drive to the hills not 45 minutes. Mostly, I am deathly afraid of falling in a way that I get hurt. And I was never that good a skier.
I used to love standing at the top of the hill, looking at the snow and the water and the land in between. I loved the times that I could carve curves down the hill, under control. I miss it. But not enough to think I am going back.
Cross country skiing is easy here – when we get enough snow, which we did not this past winter. Just down the road is Greystone, where the owners encourage the public to ski, walk, run, bike their trails. Other years, I could put my skies on across the road and ski a half kilometer north and climb the hill and travel the groomed trails. Such a gift.
My snowshoes did not move out of the basement this year, but they also get good use here. Another neighbour welcomes visitors on the trails they cut. A short walk to the road allowance that leads up the hill and the conditions, most years, are perfect for snowshoeing.
Kayaking got easier when we moved here. In the past, when my husband and I could go together, we would load the kayaks onto the truck and head for a local lake. Most often, we would go to the small lakes beside Participation Lodge. There was a narrow stream between two lakes where lilies graced the surface and minnows swam.
But, the last two years on the farm, Paul could not get into a kayak. I hesitated to go too often, and when I did, I would tell him when I would get back, assure him I would be fine. He worried. Here, I put the kayak in the water just a few meters from the house.
The first couple years, he could come down and sit on a chair near the shore. He could watch me head down and see me when I came back. Even last summer, when he could not walk that far, I would tell him which way I was going, and he could watch me come and go from the house. The kayaks are ready to go this summer.
A weekend neighbour always went for a jog before walking the dogs. I noticed that this spring he takes a long walk with a back pack at the same time of day. He’s given up jogging but not the exercise. Jogging is not something I had to give up because I never started. Just did not enjoy the bouncing and the jarring of knees and ankles.
Leaving the farm, I gave up a lot. Mostly work and equipment. I was not keeping up with the maintenance of two barns, a shed, two houses, and acres of land where elm trees fell and butternuts dropped large limbs. I gave up two tractors, but kept my lawn tractor. It was my dad’s, and I hate pushing a lawn mower. It does feel a bit silly driving around our lot here, so I offer to cut neighbours’ lawns whenever I can.
I thought I would lose more of the rural life when we moved off the farm, but there are few houses on the inland side of the road. The flat area one step up the escarpment was cleared for farming at one time, but has now grown up in hawthorn and birch, apple and cedar. And there are a few stands of mature trees, oak and ironwood and beech, maple and ash, majestic white pine.
The hill itself may have been logged once, but is now full of old trees. And wildlife. Haven't seen or smelled much evidence of skunk, but beaver and porcupine, fox and coyote show their presence. And bears.
Growing old – I will be sixty-five this year – and changing life patterns means giving up some things I love. But not everything.
It takes courage to face the challenges that aging brings, that change brings.
But even as I reflect on letting go, I am aware of how much more still comes my way.
Cathy Hird lives on the traditional territory of the Saugeen Ojibway Nation.
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