Climber Gardener Mama

Nope, not composted yet. 15-month-old Gus assesses the manure pile as La Panza the layer hen heads for the coop and Jack the donkey supervises - photo by Emily Wolfe

Out the kitchen window, 40 mile-an-hour gusts rip dry, brown leaves from the cottonwood branches. Beyond them, snow covers my garden. The oven has warmed the house, and steam rises as I rake a fork across golden strands of spaghetti squash. 

We’ve already finished our zucchini, delicatas, and fall-planted greens. We put up tomato sauce, pickles and dilly beans; froze applesauce from the fruit we picked from the yard; and ground herbs into chimichurri and pesto.

The spaghetti squash, which I roasted face-up with salt, pepper and Montana-grown safflower oil, is so good I eat it straight from the pan. So good I feel like I’m stealing the remains of summer from my family. But with my husband Pat gone hunting in eastern Montana, our toddler Gus napping, and our almost-5-year-old Eloise doing yoga with Rocky the Monkey on Cosmic Kids, there’s no competition. It’s just me and my dreams of warm garden soil and dry rock. 

Looking east at the snow-lined gullies of the Bridger Range, I think back on my 20s, when I’d drive south to climb desert cracks every fall. How after Eloise was born, she and I spent all our free time at crags near home in Montana and around the West—her napping in a little tent while I tried to find myself again in motherhood. And I think about how since Gus was born, I found that same peace in the garden.

Eloise, age 4, gets ready to plant greens, while her brother Gus eats an apple from the yard - photo by Emily Wolfe

Some days this past summer I’d weed while Gus toddled between the peas, beans, strawberries, raspberries, asparagus and apples, picking as he went. On others, he’d roll around in the compost heap while I got stronger turning it over by hand. It was a break from my never-ending to-do list, even with the never-ending to-do’s of pests and weeds. Like a chill button for my nervous system.

But climbing.

So much of my heart and being remains wrapped up in climbing. In grasping onto tiny parts of this planet and hanging on with everything I’ve got. In that ephemeral moment of balance high above the valley floor. In deference to weather and awe of wildness bigger than me.

My solo climbing has evolved over the years from free soloing to hanging on a rope scrubbing lichen to my current program of short rope-solo sessions (pictured here) on the way to daycare pickup - photo by Emily Wolfe

 Part of me mourns the loss of freedom that motherhood brings. I miss being able to spend a month in Indian Creek, climbing until dark and eating canned beans or tuna for dinner. I miss the simplicity of living outside, trying hard, and spending time with friends. 

But I also value the things I’ve accomplished and learned since having kids. I’ve established new routes at nearby climbing areas, grown fruit and vegetables to feed my family, and written about the local food system in Montana. I’ve learned that agriculture can help revitalize the planet, and I’m just beginning to consider how, as I’ve done with climbing, I could use food to connect with people I wouldn’t otherwise meet. 

Although I’m not climbing in the desert, life feels momentarily simple again on this chilly fall afternoon. Pat’s on his way home with a buck he harvested. The kids are still quiet. And at some point this fall or winter, the sun will dry the rock enough to climb.

I used to say I sprouted out of my dad’s garden in Vermont, and if I hadn’t grown and birthed both of these children with my own body, I’d swear they grew right out of our rich Montana soil - photo by Pat Wolfe