Jesse Bell

Winter is a trillion snowflakes and whispering trees on the crispest, quietest of nights. It’s steamy coffee against white-walled snowbanks, and January embers glowing against the cast iron of a wood stove in a log cabin deep in the woods.

I was in a funk. An I’m-almost-32-anddon’t- know-what-I’m-doing-with-mylife kind of funk. Lacking fulfillment and feeling misdirected, I decided to quit my job.

There's a white-haired donkey standing along the banks of a river in the morning mist, and my food bag dangles in his mouth.

Ralph's garden is a gardener's dream; well-established, metamorphic, an enchanted yard full of za za zoo. And so, one sunny afternoon in June Jesse joins Ralph for homemade iced tea under the shade of an umbrella to talk worms and dirt. To talk about how you can get your garden to look like his.

Summer carries with it moods as varied as the heat of the sun. Barbecues and busy gatherings with friends, baseball games and afternoon dips, a pitched tent on a sandy shoreline, the need for complete solitude beneath cliffs of a summit. Summers in Fernie are fraught with opportunity—sometimes the hardest part is choosing where to begin.

Fernie is an active community with active people. Bike trails for the mellow wanderer, single-track for the extreme downhiller but there's still room to grow when it comes to trails. Fortunately, this growth comes in the form of the Fernie Valley Pathway (FVP).

For nearly seven years and 92 issues (this marks, officially, number 92) Jesse has pushed herself to hike mountains, climb rocks, and camp solo in the pouring rain.

Fernie isn't much for scale; those of us who live here know this. A quaint 12 avenues and 16 streets, a mountainside subdivision, a serene river, and a four-block main street—just how we like it.

A cemetery is the surest place to find peace. St. Margaret's Cemetery in Fernie is one such cemetery. Old stones mix with old trees, standing quietly together just above town, touched only by the passing breeze.

Sometimes all Jesse wants is to hike alone. Alone enough to feel the thud of her boots against the earth. To have your face tickled by the breeze as it blows between yellowing larch needles.