The Source of All Things
What if your favorite place in the world was ground zero for your greatest strengths and your deepest fears? Follow Tracy and her father as they trek into Idaho's Sawtooth Mountains to grapple with a tragedy that has haunted them for decades.
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About the Author
Tracy Ross is an award-winning journalist and contributing editor at Backpacker Magazine, an ASME award–winning outdoor publication with 1.2 million readers. She has been published in the U.S., England, South Africa, and Australia. Her essay "The Source of All Things" has won the National Magazine Award in 2009 and has been selected for inclusion in The Best American Sports Writing and The Best American Magazine Writing. Her Skiing magazine story "Our Country Comes Skiing in Peace" received a notable mention in Best American Travel Writing, and her work has also appeared in Outside and Women's Sports Illustrated. Ross's assignments have taken her to the wilds of Alaska, the ski slopes of Iran, and the most remote reaches of Ecuador. She writes about exotic places and intriguing people, but mainly about the wilderness and how it intersects with the most important issues in our lives. She lives with her family at 8,000 feet in the mountains above Boulder, Colorado.
Other Works
The Source of All Things (a novel)
Tracy Ross marches her father back to the physical and emotional wildernessa place of beauty, love and painwhere he first began to molest her as a child. A tour de force of courage and insight, Rosss essay reveals her ordeal with a clarity and compassion that is unsparing and cathartic.
LAURA MILES
GERRY HYUM (MASTER)
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Reader Comments Awards
READERS COMMENTS
Congratulations Trace, you finally did it.
Posted: Jan 21, 2011 Joy Martinez-Stranksy
The beauty and honesty of Tracy's journey is as breathtaking and awe inspiring as the Sawtooth Mountains themselves. Bravo to this brave author, couragous yet as lovely and delicate as a robin's egg. Her story belongs here because humans and nature go together. Both are as delicate as a spring trillium and as dangerous as an avalanche. Bravo Tracy... Keep writing, it is your gift to others.
Posted: May 30, 2009 Tira Scott
Brilliant imagery & searing pain - one of the most well written and touching stories, I've read in a long time.
Posted: May 14, 2009 sk
wretched story, but beautifully written. Really captures the essence of growing up in southern idaho, as well as hiking and camping around red fish lake. I've been gone a long time, and didn't know they had succeeded in getting some salmon back in redfish. Fantastic!
Posted: May 14, 2009 gen
The last reader is right. It deals with an ugly topic. This is story that does not belong here. In fact, it does not belong anywhere. No one should have to tell it. But she did and with grace and courage. Showing how the living a independent and active life outdoors helped her overcome anger and hate. And gave her the strength to confront her former abuser with calm restraint. Thank you, Tracy. I now have a new favorite writer.
Posted: May 11, 2009 Joseph Kennedy
I think this is a phenomenal story. Thank you for sharing it. For those who do not think think this magazine is an appropriate place for it- you have a choice. Do not read it.
Posted: May 03, 2009 Shauna Marsh
Congratulations on your win and telling your story. I, too, was a victim of rape and abuse. You are a strong woman, and I wish you respite from the demons.
Posted: May 02, 2009 Susan
congratulation. a have spent the last hour reading your essay, written in a foreign language for me.
Posted: May 02, 2009 alex
congrat's on the win this evening. must be something of a mixed experience, but wonderful nonetheless. wish i could read the article in its entirety on Backpacker.com. unfortunately, it seems to be only partially available...at least for my browser. that aside, well done!
Posted: May 01, 2009 michaeldraznin
Yes.
Posted: May 01, 2009 Jody Reale
This article was really well done, great use of the word maw. With twitter stealing news clips before you can even get a good lead-in sentence, this is how writing is going to need to be in the future. I know what the trails look like but this article is about much more than hiking, great gonzo style.
Posted: Apr 24, 2009 Nick City Reprise
i think it's a great story; Tracy, thank you for this. you did great. wish you all the best
Posted: Apr 13, 2009 andre
As a student of magazine editing and a lover of great writing, I read a lot of periodicals. I haven't read much of Backpacker and you wouldn't expect me to; I'm not in your target audience but might start coming back after reading this beautiful piece. Congratulations on your Ellie nomination; I hope you take home the award.
Posted: Mar 22, 2009 Nicholas Jackson
Stunning article, one of the best I've ever read in Backpacker.
Posted: Mar 21, 2009 Tim Patterson
My heart goes out to you. I can only imagine how hard that was to write, much less share with the world. I'm sorry to see people complain. I think a lot of us spend to much time hiding from our wounds, pretending they don't exist or never happened. If your boys have half your strength, just think of the things they will accomplish.
Posted: Apr 05, 2008 Marc Bostian
I think others have blown this story way out of proportion. It was very well done, and taught me a little of the background of the writer. Obviously backpacker thought it was a good story too. By the end of the article I had mixed emotions, but it made me feel trust in the writer. She gave her reason for joining backpacker even though its a dark truth. I want to thank Tracy for baring her reason through each word. And I'm glad she is part of backpacker. I look forward to more articles by her.
Posted: Mar 31, 2008 Tessa
I agree with the comment above - this magazine is not the appropriate venue for this soul- baring account. As a victim and a mother of a victim I can see right through your father's lies. You were not the only one that he abused. There is another or probably more than one out there. For him to say that it stopped when you ran away is a dead giveaway that he's keeping still secrets . I pity him that he cannot face the truth and I pity you for believing him.
Posted: Mar 26, 2008 You're not the only one
I'm sorry for your suffering, but I would rather be reading and enjoying stories on backpacking and not reading you trying to analyze your therapy.
Not trying to be callous, but maybe 'Outside' magazine would have been a more fitting place for your story. I presently do not subscribe to that magazine because it publishes stories such as yours.
Posted: Mar 15, 2008 Loren Loritz
thank-you so much for your candidness!
Posted: Mar 09, 2008 jan
Video
Simon & Schuster - The Source of All Things
Tracy Ross' THE SOURCE OF ALL THINGS Author Tracy Ross reveals her powerful memoir about the struggle to come to terms with her childhood abuse at the hands of her stepfather.
Tracy Ross never knew her biological father, who died after a brain aneurysm when she was still an infant. So when her mother married Donnie, a gregarious man with an all-wheel-drive jeep and a love of hiking, four-year-old Tracy was ecstatic to have a father figure in her life. A loving and devoted step-father, Donnie introduced Tracy's family to the joys of fishing, deer hunting, camping, and hiking among the most pristine mountains of rural Idaho. Donnie was everything Tracy dreamed a dad would beprotective, brave, and kind. But when his dependence on his eight-year-old daughter's companionship went too far, everything changed.
Once Donnie's nighttime visits began, Tracy's childhood became a confusing blend of normal little girl moments and the sickening, secret invasion of her safety. Tormented by this profound betrayal, Tracy struggled to reconcile deeply conflicting feelings about her stepfather: on the one hand, fear and loathing, on the other hand, the love any daughter would have for her father. It was not until she ran away from home as a teenager that her family was forced to confront the abuseand it tore them apart.
At sixteen, realizing that she must take control of her own future, Tracy sent herself to boarding school and began the long slow process of recovery. There, in the woods of Northern Michigan, Tracy felt called back to the natural world she had loved as a child. Over the next twenty years, the mountains and rivers of North America provided Tracy with strength, confidence, comfort, and inspiration. From trekking through the glaciers of Alaska to guiding teenagers through the deserts of Utah, Tracy pushed herself to the physical limit on her way to becoming whole again. Yet, as she came into her own, found love, and even started a family, Tracy realized that in order to truly heal she had to confront her stepfather about the demons from the past haunting them both. The Source of All Things is a stunning, unforgettable story about a wounded daughter, her stepfather, and a mistake that has taken thirty years and thousands of miles of raw wilderness to reconcile. Only Tracy can know if Donnie is forgivable. But one thing is for certain: In no other story of abuse does a survivor have as much strength, compassion, bravery, and spirit as Tracy displays in The Source of All Things
Reviews
Mary L. Jacobs
Bookhounds http://maryinhb.blogspot.com, March 12, 2011
This is one of the best memoirs I have read this year and I read a lot of memoirs. I was truly amazed that Tracy Ross could write such a moving story of her life and the courage to publish it. It is a true story of survival and how nature can help restore the human spirit. I was enthralled with how she captured her surroundings and made minor characters come to life. Her story is one that should inspire others to overcome their own heartache.
I don't know if I could survive the abuse Tracy Ross experience and in the end forgive her step father for that abuse. I think the real key was that she was brave enough to confront him in the end and comes to term with what happened. I think that helped her healing process immensely. Her retelling of how her mother responded to it seemed typical of other stories of abuse that I had heard. Her mother didn't want to hear about it nor did she believe what took place. I thought that in the long run her mother paid a high price with her own health.
Her descriptions of her life and how she coped with the betrayal were perfectly related and explained how their actions caused her despair. I had a few tears when she described how she felt from the abuse. There were also some smiles as she described her joy about finding the perfect love and sharing that with two lovely boys. I wish Tracy all good things since she deserves it. I received this book at no expense from the publisher in exchange for my honest review.
"Tracy Ross is fearless. She has faced the black stuff of her childhood and turned it into a memoir that will grip you, break your heart, and finally sing to you. Most of all, you will be glad she survived to write this funny, inspiring, beautiful book."
-- Claire Dederer, author of Poser: My Life in Twenty-Three Yoga Poses
"Tracy Ross is unflinchingly honest as she portrays a life scarred by dark secrets and deeply concealed wounds. But it is in her beloved wilderness that we exalt in her hard won triumphs of self discovery and the serenity of forgiveness. The Source of All Things is a mesmerizing memoir that lingers in your mind long after you close the book."
-- Alice Monroe, New York Times bestselling author of The Butterfly's Daughter
"The Source of All Things is a brave book. Sustained by her love of nature, Tracy Ross's search for truth, clarity, and vindication involving her childhood abuse is told in an easygoing voice that allows us to readily digest her horrors. In a kind of ironic silver lining, the man who abused Tracy also cultivated her love of the wild, introducing her to its exhilarating applications and healing powers where she always found solace--perhaps it was his unconscious attempt at salvation?"
-- Norman Ollestad, author of Crazy for the Storm
"I loved this book. Part survivor memoir and part love letter to nature, I found The Source of All Things compulsively readable and intensely enthralling. "
-- Julia Scheeres, author of New York Times bestselling Jesus Land: A Memoir
"In this brave memoir Tracy Ross embodies the detachment necessary to function while the wound of childhood sexual trauma festers unseen, erupting in self-destructive, dangerous behaviors until Ross can finally learn the truth, and thus begin to heal. In speaking her truth, in making herself vulnerable, she will help heal others."
-- Janine Latus, author of If I Am Missing or Dead: a sister's story of love, murder and liberation
"Disturbing but beautifully written...[We've] heard stories like these before, but rarely in such clear, unsentimental prose."
-- O magazine
"Brave and heartbreaking...her courageous story will bring solace and inspiration to others drowning in fear and lacking a voice of their own."
-- Elle magazine
"Powerful...a compelling story."
-- PW
"Ross continually explores the boundaries of father-daughter intimacy, never demonizing her stepfather, but instead, humanizing him--a far more difficult task."
-- Kirkus Reviews
"If Annie Oakley had married a saint, their first born would surely have been Tracy Ross. She can mush dogs, scale mountains, save herself from horrific abuse and forgive those who have hurt her, all while building a beautiful life for herself and her family. Her courage is radical, the story of her redemption heart-stopping."
-- Lisa Jones, author of Broken: A Love Story
"The literal and figurative steps she took to confront her stepfather about their past, in the wilderness setting where he first began his abuse of her, reveal steely self-reliance and a rare capacity for forgiveness...This is not always easy reading, but Ross's steady writing supports you til the very end."
-- Library Journal
"Gripping"
-- Whole Living
"...raw, heartbreaking..."
-- More magazine
"A brave memoir of compulsive sexual deviance, family enablement, nature's transforming power, and exceptional fortitude."
-- Booklist
'Part of something bigger'
Colorado Daily, March 14, 2011
...wilderness to heal Posted: 03/14/2011 09:42:04 AM MDT If you go What: Book signing for "The Source of All Things" Where: Boulder Bookstore, 1107 Pearl St. I n "The Source of All Things," wilderness is refuge. I poured through this memoir -- ...
Boulder journalist hopes her book helps end sex abuse of children
Denver Post, March 10, 2011
...abuse in "The Source fo All Things: A Memoir." (Presented by Julia Vandenoever) if(requestedWidth 0)} Tracy Ross hopes her third child, due in August, will be the daughter to whom she can give all the things her parents didn't give her ...
Womens Adventure Magazine, March 2, 2011
...Tracy Ross story of sexual abuse is turning heads. Its a must read. This former staff editor at Skiing and Backpacker magazines hopes readers not only get a realistic look ...
Books for Spring
...The Source of All Things: A Memoir By Tracy Ross She was a toddler who lost her father, then an eight-year-old sexually abused by her stepfather, then a teenager pulled between a ...
Awards
BACKPACKER Wins 3 National Magazine Awards!
On April 30, 2009 in New York, at the 44th Annual National Magazine Awards, BACKPACKER editors accepted awards for General Excellence Online, Personal Service Online, and Best Essay for Tracy Ross's "The Source of All Things"
Ladies and gentlemen, we'd like to thank the Academyor in this case, the Society. Last night, BACKPACKER won three National Magazine Awards from the American Society of Magazine Editors: General Excellence Online, Personal Service Online for our Maps Project, and Best Essay for Tracy Ross's "The Source of All Things."
This is basically the highest honor awarded by our industry, so needless to say, this means a lot to us and our moms. In fact, BACKPACKER tied with Wired, The New Yorker, and Esquire for most wins, and we won 3 out of 4 awards for which we were nominated (we missed out on General Excellence in our print category, but that's OK...we won last year. For a full list of nominees and winners, go here).
National Magazine Awards - category & description
ESSAYS
This category recognizes excellence in essay writing on topics ranging from the personal to the political. Whatever the subject, emphasis should be placed on the authors eloquence, perspective, fresh thinking and unique voice.
Backpacker: Jonathan Dorn, editor-in-chief, for The Source of All Things, by Tracy Ross, February
Event 02 ~ 29.05.2010
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Event 02 ~ 06.06.2010
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The Source of All Things - A Memoir
By Tracy Ross
Prologue
Redfish Lake, Idaho, July 2007
All my dad has to do is answer the questions.
That's it. Just four simple questions. Only they aren't that easy, because questions like these never are. We are almost to The Temple, three days deep in the craggy maw of Idaho's Sawtooth Mountains, and he has no idea the questions are coming. But I have them loaded, hot and explosive, like shells in a .30-30.
It's July and hotter than hell on the sage-covered slopes, where wildfires will char more than 130,000 acres by summer's end. But we're up high, climbing to nine thousand feet, and my dad, who is really my stepdad, says that this heat feels cooler than the heat in Las Vegas, where he lives. Four days ago, he and my mother met me in Twin Falls, a town 140 miles south of here where I grew up. They'd driven north, across Nevada, past other fires, including one on the Idaho border. When I saw my mom, at a friend's house where she'd wait while Dad and I backpacked, she'd seemed even tinier than her four-foot eleven-inch frame. Her sweatpants—plucked from the sale bin at a Las Vegas Abercrombie and Fitch store—drooped like month-old lettuce over her bum. In the creases of her mouth, a white paste had congealed, proof that she was taking antidepressants again. Officially, she's said that she's glad Dad and I are going back to the place our troubles began twenty-eight years ago, almost to the day. But as I kissed her goodbye, leaving her standing in our friend's driveway, I wondered, which way is the wind now blowing?
It was late when we left Twin Falls that night—too late to reach the trailhead to The Temple. So Dad and I slept in a field of sagebrush above the town of Stanley. A gnawing in my stomach kept me from eating our black beans and tortillas, but the smell of the sage helped quiet the fear I felt welling beneath my ribcage. In the morning, Dad parked his red Ford pickup at the Redfish Lake Lodge and we took a boat across the water. On the far shore, we found the trailhead to our destination, which we started hiking toward and have been for the past three days.
At sunrise this morning we slid out of our bags, made breakfast, and caught a few fish. When we finally started hiking, we climbed out of one basin and into another, inching up switchbacks sticky with lichen and loose with scree. At the edge of one overlook, we saw smoke rising on the horizon from a fire that was crowning in the trees. And when we arrived at the lake with the dozen black frogs chirping across the water, we called it Holy Water Lake because it was Sunday and we did feel a bit closer to God.
Now the wilderness seems haunting and dark. The air is thin, the terrain rugged, and my dad's body—sixty-four years old, bow-legged, and fifteen pounds overweight—seems tired and heavy to me. He's been struggling the last half-mile, stopping every few feet to catch his breath, adjust his pack, and tug on the big, wet circles that have formed under the armpits of his T-shirt, which reads Toot My Horn. Ignoring his choice of wardrobe, I try to remember the father who first led me into these mountains. That man was lean, with a light brown mustache and hair that fanned out from his cheekbones in beautiful blond wings. In a Woolrich shirt and hunting boots he charged up trails, coaxing me on to ridgelines with views of vast, green valleys. If I whined from heat or wilted with hunger, he'd lift me onto his shoulders so effortlessly it was as if my body were composed entirely of feathers.
I know my dad is hurting because I am hurting too—and not just my legs and lungs or the bottoms of my feet. We have barely spoken since we left the dock at Redfish Lake, left the boat and the worried Texans who said, "You're going where?" I'm sure we seemed an odd pair: an old man and his—what was I? Daughter? Lover? Friend? When we stepped off the boat, I'd wanted to turn back, forget this whole sordid mess. But The Temple—a spot on the map I'd latched onto and couldn't let go of—was out here somewhere. And, besides, I still hadn't decided if I was going to kill him outright or just walk him to death.
We're here for reasons I don't want to think about yet, so I train my mind on the sockeye salmon that used to migrate nine hundred miles from the Pacific Ocean to lay their eggs and die at Red-fish Lake. That was before the Army Corps of Engineers put in the dams that obstructed their journey. For decades, no fish have made it back to their ancestral spawning grounds at the base of the Sawtooth Mountains. But when I was young, sockeyes clogged the streams pouring out of the lake, creating waves of bright red color. Mesmerized, I knelt on the banks of Fishhook Creek and stretched my fingers toward their tinfoil-bright fins. My dad told me that the fish were rushing home to ensure the continuance of their species. He said they hadn't eaten in months; were consuming the nutrients in their own bodies. Over the years I have thought of the fish with love and terror. I want to hover, as they did, over the origin of my own sorrow and draw from it a new, immaculate beginning.
Several times as we hike up the trail, I fantasize about finding the perfect, fist-size rock and smashing it against my dad's skull. I picture him stumbling, falling onto the ground. I see myself crouching beside him, refusing to hold him as he bleeds. But even as I imagine it, I know I won't do it, because I can't afford to lose my dad—yet. For twenty-eight years he has held my memories hostage. Without him, I'll never know what he did to me when I was a kid.
We climb for another hour until, a few hundred feet from the pass, we turn off the trail. In front of us is a circle of granite towers, sharp and fluted like the turrets on the Mormon Tabernacle. Loose rocks slide down vertical shafts and clatter to the ground. Quickly but carefully, my dad and I crabwalk across the jumbled blocks, insinuating ourselves into tight slots and willing our bodies to become lighter, so the boulders won't shift beneath us and break our legs.
When we get to the wide, flat rock that looks like an altar, we stop. My dad slumps over, sips water, and chokes down a few bites of food. His eyes, the color of chocolate, begin to melt, and the corners of his mouth tremble, as if he's fighting off a frown.
Hunching next to him on the granite slab, I squint into his red-brown, sixteenth-Cherokee face. I dig in my pack until I locate my handheld tape recorder. Holding it close to my father's lips so the wind won't obscure his answers, I begin the interrogation I've waited most of my life to conduct.
"Okay, Dad," I say. "I'm ready. Tell me. How did it begin?"
© 2011 Tracy Ross
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