My name is Ross Tennison. I was born and raised in Reno, Nevada. 1978 was the year, and I grew through the eighties and into the mid nineties when I became an adult.

My family was not the typical family. I was the only child with both parents, three other siblings were steps. We were raised as there is no step in anything.

Growing up as a Gen X child in Reno was a fractured experience. Kids came and went. As Reno was, and still is, a very transient city. So having any long term friends just never happened. Definitely made later life relationships hard to hold on to, thats for sure.

As the kids in my neighborhood moved in and moved out, we still played together. We had open fields to run in and be free. Most Saturdays were spent there. We would be gone all day sometimes. Exploring the desert.  Exploring ourselves, our dreams, our imaginations. We were speed racers, cowboys, adventurers and explorers, lovers of dreams.

The smell of the desert when it was sunny and dry, the smell of it when it was moist from snow and rain only intensified the times. Intensified the healing of the pain some of the kids brought. Soothed even the worst of ills.

My first memory of the desert exploration on my own was after my sixth birthday in 1984. I will never forget that day. It was sunny and warm for a late September day. I crossed the line from the park to the desert and was forever changed. I was scared, as the stories of monster snakes, coyotes and such were embedded in my brain. I was on constant watch. On edge. I slowly stepped from the park to the desert. Making those steps from protected child to child. That precious moment in time, helped to make the transition from imagination in the yard to the wonderous world on my own. The possibilities seemed endless, the rising of my spirit. My soul was free for the very first time. 

Do not get me wrong, I had a few friends. John was one. We would often go play at the park and in the desert. We would have adventures. We would play soldier. Would be the explorers. But the times by myself were the best.

I explored everywhere we could when together. I would stray further and further each time. The anxiousness of my parents to not go near the main road, made my daring even more extreme, even more outlandish.

The schools fostered nothing. We had great teachers. A great playground even. But nobody taught us like the desert taught us.

When my mother took us boys into town, it was a great time. But the boring and endless stores almost sucked the life out me. One store to the next. Endless wandering with an unknown mission. It made the longing of the desert that much more. The stores of the 1980s were wonderous yet boring, smelly yet delicious, tedious but entertaining. How that combination was achieved I will never know.

As soon as our van hit the driveway, that seat belt was off and I was gone. Freedom at last. Every frustrating stop light, every misadventure on that mystery mission forgotten. Time to play. Time to explore.

One great memory, I was on my bicycle in the desert. Summer of the 80s. Racing down the dirt road. Wind in my hair, freedom oozing out of my pores. I decided to go to the dirt hill by the sewer ponds. I was warned not to. I rode up the hill. Looked at the view. Alone and free.

I looked towards the bigger mountains and imagined riding up that side too. The air was blowing dust devils below. The crows were aloft watching. Always watching. The dry lake was full. Water towards the north. Cold and beckoning, yet forbidden. I saw a path down the side of the hill. I decided to go for it. I saw my brothers do this. I can too. Or so I thought.

I pedaled as fast as I could. Wishing for more speed. More power. More freedom. I hit the path square. The steep side crumbled first, then the path crumbled. Then I crumbled. The slide on my side went forever. I finally stopped on the hard pan. Cut and bleeding. Shaken and broken. I stagger out from underneath of my bicycle. Its ok. I am the one broken. Humiliated. Scared. Fearful of that hill. It has become my eternal nemesis.

I sat there, recovering. Recovering from the pain of cuts to my body and my being. Where did my freedom go? Its lost. I was now tied to the shame of not doing as my brothers did. Not wrecking, not letting go of my freedom.

After I recovered, I pedaled away from the new nemesis. The taker of my freedom. Now I have to go home and get endless peroxide on my cuts. The humiliating burning. Lectured to injure my dignity, and threaten that new found freedom.

Once I got home, I put my kickstand down and hang my head in shame and go inside. 

"Ross, what happened", my mother yelled. "I wrecked riding my bike" I said. Leaving out the details of the hill. 

She marched me into her bathroom. Whipped out the peroxide and the pain ensued. The leaching of my new found freedom. The pain of the humiliation was much worse.

"After we are done, you need to stay home for a bit. Besides, I know where you were", she said. Mom always knew. Somehow, she magically knew.

Home. In the house. With my family. The sound of the swamp cooler running. All of my friends outside playing. I had to stay in. The humiliation never ended. It just did not end. My freedom was outside. On my bicycle, not inside. My brothers came and went as they pleased. 

Eventually I was allowed to go out again. I rode my bike, with John. I was safe. We rode around the block, to the school, to the park. Tethered freedom. Freedom lost, painfully lost.

Eventually I disappeared to my sanctuary. My new world. The nemesis always in the distance, like it was mocking me. Mocking my failure, swallowing my freedom. The crows always watching, always laughing. 

I rode in silence, like the hill would hear me, like it could see me and come take me down again. Many, many days riding alone, riding in fear. Keeping a weary eye on that hill. The hill of shame. Easy to mount, easy to be crushed upon.