Deep snow, bears, intruders — nothing can pull me from my home in nature

This First Person article is the experience of Sarah Butson, who lives in Bragg Creek, Alta. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

Around midnight last June, I woke to a heavy thump on the wooden deck outside my bedroom window. 

Nights in the forest where I live are full of noises — owls hooting, coyotes yipping, lodgepole pines banging against each other in the wind — but this felt way too close. 

My eyelids snapped open. Another thump. I held my breath, my body jacked up with tension. 

A dark shadow rose up on the other side of the window screen, then dipped out of view.

One deep inhale and I twisted out of bed, sliding along the floor toward the window.

The shape loomed up again and then I smelled carrion. Bad, hot breath, the stink of dead meat. I was so relieved, I chuckled. It was just a bear — a mature one but only interested in the remains of winter birdseed on my deck. 

I opened my front door and banged and yelled until it ambled away. In the silence that followed, I felt jubilant. I did it again. I stood up for myself. I won't be chased from my home in the forest.

I'm a woman who lives solo on five acres outside Bragg Creek, a hamlet nestled in the wilderness park system of Kananaskis Country, roughly 60 kilometres west of Calgary.

Ten years earlier, I was living in Calgary when my marriage dissolved. I was 60 at the time and I was down on my knees with grief.

But I'd dealt with plenty of ruptures in my childhood in Ontario, and at that time, canoeing and camping in Algonquin park always kept my head bobbing when depression threatened. Later in Calgary, hiking and cross-country skiing in the Rockies helped me stay balanced amid the challenges of work as a psychologist.

Breathing in nature allows me to thrive. 

So, after my marriage fell apart, I imagined living in the forested foothills would bring me peace, even though the idea of rough living by myself felt overwhelming. 

I moved into a modest bungalow on two hectares of forest. The initial challenges were all practical, such as how to split wood for the fireplace with an electric splitter instead of a heavy axe.

I got over my fear of climbing onto the low-pitch roof to keep the internet satellite free of snow. I learned to manipulate the generator choke and throttle during a deep freeze, and run cords through the windows to keep the fridge and electric heater running during power-outages. I even got used to measuring sewage levels in the holding tank with a notched pole to determine when to call the "honey truck" to empty it (and not whine about the aroma). 

When I had questions, neighbours were there for me. When I drew the line at using a chainsaw or ploughing my driveway, I found people for hire.

By the end of two years, I was settled in, excited and confident.

Until my first major setback.

It was a blizzardy night in December. Loud knocks woke me at 2 a.m. The front door squeaked open. 

"Hello," called a male voice. Groggy, I shuffled into the living room. Three metres away stood a man in a snowsuit. I forgot to lock the door that night and he'd obviously let himself in.

Aware of a deep need for calm, I asked, "What do you need?" 

His speech rambled but it seemed his truck had gone off the road and he wanted a lift. He appeared to be on drugs. I wanted to get rid of him and, also believing he needed help, I suggested my neighbour could assist. When he left, I locked the door and sat, stunned. 

Ten minutes later he was back, pacing the deck and pounding on the windows so hard I thought they'd shatter.

My legs buckled and I called 911.

"Stay on the line," the dispatcher urged. It was agony, hiding in the dark for 58 minutes waiting for the RCMP to arrive. 

The next morning, I was told he slept in police custody and then had no recollection of the event.

I was uninjured physically, yet sleep was hard to come by for months. Friends advised me to move or get a gun or a dog. 

I settled on keeping bear spray within reach and I refused to give up my home in the woods. I told myself I'd get through this and learn to sleep again. And that's why I laughed at the stench of carrion breath that night last June. It was a bear. I can handle bears. 

Now I realize the intruder was a gift. He gave me the opportunity to test my resolve to live in nature and I passed.

Over the years, living in the trees with the deer and moose and bears has grown my confidence and sense of peace. Eventually, when it's time for me to move again — as all things must pass — I trust I'll make the transition without fear. 

Telling your story

This First Person piece came from a writing workshop run in partnership with the Calgary Public Library in Forest Lawn. Read more about CBC Calgary's workshops at cbc.ca/tellingyourstory. 

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