Musings from my morning walk in Grouse Creek

I must’ve hiked in the Rock Quarry in Grouse Creek hundreds of times. The first time I came to Grouse Creek was when I married my husband, and he took me there. The sandstone dugouts and formations were used to quarry stone for the 1910 house that belongs to my husband’s family, and the bigger house, they used to own when my husband was a little boy. The stone was used to build the school, and the church that was torn down in about 1983. When I first hiked to the quarry, I thought it was the highlight of an otherwise drab little town in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t know then, that the town, the church, the school, the people, the landscape, and the lifestyle would dig deep into my being and become a part of me. I didn’t know then, that I would eventually write three novels set in the town. (More to come—hopefully.)

This morning I hiked to the quarry once again and thought about the times I had hiked there with my children when they were only three and seven—and that was 27 years ago. My husband had taken a teaching job, teaching students from K-10 with another Carol(e) Warburton—not me—believe it or not. She is older than I am and taught with my husband for one year before moving away from this town. I already had a teaching contract, so waited until the next year to join my husband and take over for the other Carol(e) Warburton. (She doesn’t have an “e” at the end of her name.) I inherited her PO box because I had to wait for one to open up, so for the five years we lived in Grouse Creek at only twenty-eight years old, I got her AARP mail and everything else that the postmaster couldn’t forward. Now I get AARP mail legitimately.

The school kids called me the new Carole Warburton, and they called her the old Carol Warburton. Now here we are back. Mick is feeling the difference of his years this time around. Youth does have advantages when it comes to challenges and energy levels. But then again, I’m reminded of the many sturdy and courageous men and women who have at one time or another called Grouse Creek home. The town and the landscape and the difficulty of living seventy miles from a real grocery store, doctors, and other necessities make a difference. This morning as I made my way to the rock quarry, stumbling over stones, cactus, brush, and climbing up hills and through washes, I thought about one amazing woman, over ninety years old who just led this hike with two primary age girls in tow. Now that is brave.