About the author
I’m twelve here. I love the way I’ve rolled up one leg of my shorts. And I had to look close, but I believe that’s a potato lounging on the beach on my t-shirt. I do remember this particular magic show.
My brothers and I had practiced our “tricks” for several weeks before the performance and made little posters advertising our show, hanging them up all over the house. Bryson, to my right, and Tyler, to my left, are the brothers I lost in the accident.
For more about my ancestry, my Navajo third great-grandmother, my connection to an ancient, noble (and scandalous) English family (or were they?) click here.
An Idyllic Childhood
I was raised in northeastern Utah—not far from Skinwalker Ranch, if you’re familiar with the History Channel Series The Secret of Skinwalker Ranch. It’s a place well-known for its mythology and mysteries and paranormal activity, perhaps explaining my obsession with all things curious.
However, my most vivid memory is the amount of free time I had, since I grew up during the era before iPhones and internet. I rode my bike everywhere: to my best friend’s house on the other side of town, to the only swimming pool, and of course, to the library.
I loved having time for entertaining my thoughts and imagination. And as a result, I always had something going on. I was constantly creating games of make-believe and recruiting my younger brothers, as well as the other neighborhood children, to take part.
A Tragedy
Tragedy struck when I was twenty-four years old. I lost both my parents and two of my brothers to an accident when their car lost control on a mountainous snow-covered road. My parents were in their early fifties, my brothers nineteen and twenty-one.
The five years that followed were dark. An optimist by nature, I never imagined I could feel so low. My grief consumed me, and I was afraid I’d never find the surface again. To accentuate my despair, it seemed everywhere I went I was recognized as “the girl who lost her family in that horrible accident” since the tragedy had received statewide attention. I know people meant well, but the constant reminder made healing and moving forward nearly impossible.
Restored by the Mountains
My husband and I knew a move was essential. I needed a fresh start. Somewhere uncharted. A place where I didn’t know anyone and nobody knew me. So we relocated to the Four Corners region, the place where Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah touch. The place we’ve lived for the past decade plus.
I snapped this photo of Telluride, Colorado while riding in a Gondola connecting Telluride with its neighboring Mountain Village. I thought the black and white seemed appropriate.
Victorian Towns
I’ll never forget my first visit to southwest Colorado’s San Juan Mountains. Instantly I fell in love with the well-preserved Victorian towns nestled deep in the valleys, awestruck that such places existed in the twenty-first century, entire towns registered with the National Historic District. It all seemed so fairy-tale like.
Soon my grief lifted. In a gentle and nurturing way, the mountains healed me. Discovering the stories of the people who had lived here before revived me. And then, when my children became a little older, I started working on a story.
This is my daughter admiring the impressive bay window of an abandoned house in the ghost town of Animas Forks, Colorado, elevation 11,200. Prospectors set up shop here in the 1870s.
At its height the town had saloons, stores, assay offices, boarding houses, a mill, and several hundred residents, many who left during the winter months and returned in the spring.
The town was abandoned in 1920. Today it is a tourist attraction with several well-preserved buildings and part of the Alpine Loop, an unpaved sixty-five mile, four-wheel drive backcountry road full of spectacular sights: waterfalls, mountain vistas, and bighorn sheep.
And I fell in love
I loved the entire process of writing a novel, the taking thousands of fragmented ideas and piecing these ideas together, the working with my imagination while simultaneously drawing upon my education. I loved plotting, where anything felt possible, as I immersed myself in research. I loved the moment my characters and settings began breathing. I loved the countless edits. And quickly I discovered that when I was not writing, I no longer knew what to do with myself. I yearned for the moment I could return to my desk and escape into the world of my story.
I found my path
I’ve included the neighborhood children here. It looks like a nail-biting game of button, button, who’s got the button, with all eyes on my late brother, Bryson, wondering if he is the lucky receiver. But knowing me, I probably spun a variation on the classic.
On the house you’ll notice the faint shadow of our backyard weeping willow. So many hours I spent reading away a lazy summer afternoon under the shade of that tree, watching the long, slender branches swaying in the warm, desert breeze. In the background I love the relics present from another era: the silver trash cans, the yellow tractor sprinkler, and the red plastic tub, our recycling bin before curbside service was available.