When friends ask me where I was raised, I am always met with a mix of reactions. When I tell them that I was born in this sleepy little valley, and lived my whole childhood in the same house... within walking distance of my grandparents, they look at me as if I were a throwback from some bygone era. I see a flicker of jealousy in their eyes at times... these ones who were bounced from house to house with parents who never settled down.

Perhaps that is why my memories are so strong from those years. I was allowed to dig my roots in, to come to know a place as if it were another member of the family. The house lived and breathed every trial and tribulation that my family had. The orchard that surrounded us with bare limbs in winter, blossoms in spring and fruit in the fall....was like a barrier that held out the world. I had a freedom beneath those branches that few kids now will ever know.

1977, I was six years old and full of impish curiosity. Any given summer day would find me running between the rows of apple trees, my German Shepherd named Chinook by my side. We would race up the slope to a place I called the "Little Hill" - because it was the first of three hills near our house in the country. From there my home looked like a dollhouse, with the above-ground pool dotting the front yard. I would sit in the tall wild grass and listen to the bugs hum in the evergreens behind me. Even then I had a sense of awareness to me. I breathed in the scent of newly budding apples... the way the orchard sprinklers sounded as they sprayed the deep green leaves. I would lay back and watch the bald eagles fly in effortless spirals overhead. I would dig my toes into the fresh dirt of the gopher holes.

We would stay there for hours... Chinook and I. She would curl up behind me, giving me her soft furred side as a pillow to rest on. My mother never worried about me. She could see me from the kitchen and living room windows, if I stayed on the front side of the Little Hill... and I'm certain I looked like a butterfly from that distance, flitting and darting around. The backside of the hill was a mystery to me though. My mother warned me not to stray too far... and I tried my best to obey. But it was such a lure... to stare past the line of orchard grass where the evergreens stood tall. Sage brush and wildflowers grew thick, but there were trails. Trails that were easy for my little feet to follow.

Every now and then I would dare a run down one of these paths, pantlegs brushing past the bluebells and sunflowers. I had heard my father speak of coyote dens on the Little Hill, and my mind was full of ideas on what I might find if I were to slip inside one of these burrows. My wild imagination meshed fairy tales easily into the real world... and I believed I might find treasures hidden there by a coyote who was dazzled by sparkling jewels. Perhaps he would let me in, and show me where he scraped the dirt to hide his small fortune. Maybe I would keep it a secret, and the coyote would keep me in wealth like a princess for all my days.

With these thoughts vivid in my mind, I would come to the end of the trail. The hill broke away to a sharp dropoff, leading far below to the other side of the valley. I would sit on the red rocks and look across at the river cutting a blue stripe down the middle. If there were coyotes, I knew why they had chosen the Little Hill to live. It was the most beautiful place I had ever seen....

....but I never risked staying long. Only brief moments when I would hover in that world where I wasn't supposed to be. I knew enough to stay back from the dropoff. No doubt that was the only reason my mother didn't wish me to go there... but in my mind, there were other magical reasons why. Perhaps there was a cave to another world nearby... perhaps she was afraid I might be wisked away. In my innocence, it sounded wildly adventurous. I courted all of my fairy tale fantasies there... beneath the sway of evergreens.

Chinook and I would break into a run through the tall grass once more, crashing back into the land that was approved for me. Apple trees shaded the sun and we ran in the cool shade, dodging orchard sprinklers all the way home. Perhaps mom knew of my excursions beyond the boundaries.... but she never said anything. She would simply smile as I would bound up the steps in the front door, holding a bouquet of bluebells, sunflowers, and wild asparagus as a gift from my little excursions.

In these small allowances, she fueled my passion for adventure... not in the ways of extreme sports and costly treks around the world, but journies of the heart and mind. Adventure of the spirit, and appreciation of the quiet places tucked up in the mountains, away from the rest of the world. Secret places, where evergreens whisper of Coyote Princes and their wealth of diamonds, ready to share with those who believe.