Listen to your instincts...

By the fall of 2000, my life felt solid. Grounded. I had purchased my first home that June—on my own—after years of being single. That mattered more to me than I could easily explain. It wasn’t just a house. It was proof. Proof that I was capable, self-sufficient, and building something stable with my own hands. I had just started a new job with National Food Corporation, selling eggs to food service companies. It was steady, honest work, and I was proud of it. That September, I traveled to France to celebrate my sister’s birthday, completely unaware that I was standing on the edge of a life that would soon change everything.

In April of 2001, while traveling to Boise for business, I walked into a fly shop and asked the man behind the counter where I could fish the Boise River and what flies I should use. He was short and frail, quiet in his movements. He told me that if I waited a bit, he would take me himself. I liked that answer immediately. I had always been willing to fish anywhere, anytime. I had fished the Stillaguamish and Skagit Rivers with my friend Bill, the Snoqualmie and Snohomish and many rivers in Montana by myself, The Yakima River with Michael Moran, whom I was dating at the time. I was having the time of my life—independent, curious, alive.

The man behind the counter was Dave Tucker.

We went fishing. We laughed. We enjoyed each other’s company. It felt easy. Over time, ease turned into familiarity, and familiarity turned into something we called a relationship. About a year later, I stopped dating Michael, and Dave and I began seeing each other more seriously.

Dave would come to Seattle and stay at my house overnight, then return to Boise. He had lost his job and had very little work, though I didn’t yet know he was living out of his car. Around that same time, he was working with his friend Dan Telford to secure a guiding permit on the Owyhee River. There was always talk of the future—ideas, plans, possibilities—but very little grounding in the present.

In June of 2003, Dave moved into my house in Seattle and began working for SBC Construction. Our weekends revolved around his daughter—either traveling to Boise when he had custody or flying her to Seattle. She was angry, guarded, and resistant. She believed I was trying to replace her mother. I wasn’t. I redecorated a bedroom just for her. I taught her how to drive. I tried, again and again, to get her to talk about her feelings. Nothing softened the distance between us.

We never went to Dave’s house. When we were in Idaho, we stayed with his aunt in Nyssa, Oregon. I assumed he was simply down on his luck and ignored the warning signs. After all, he was kind, pleasant, quiet-spoken, and we shared many interests. That felt like enough.

On December 21, 2003, we were married on the banks of the Stillaguamish River, across from a waterfall. I chose the location. I chose the reception—Christmas caroling at a retirement home. Dave did none of the planning. I married him sick, with a raging bladder infection. As I stood there, I received a clear, unmistakable message from God: "If you marry this man, you will be sick for the rest of your life." I ignored it. I ignored many things. Years earlier, I had written a list of what I would and would not accept in a partner. I told myself I would never marry a man shorter than me, a man physically weak, a man who had not done the work to understand himself, a man who had no idea where he was in his career path or a man who was not deeply godly. Dave was none of those things. I married him anyway.

As the Owyhee River gained popularity, the Diamond D Ranch asked us to guide their summer clients. It quickly became a fiasco. We were still living in Seattle, and the friend who was supposed to guide with us had received a citation for an illegal pheasant. With no real plan, we packed up and drove to Stanley, Idaho. During that drive, Dave’s son Joshua called us in tears. His mother had told him he would never be a man—the same day he was leaving for his first tour in Iraq. We tried to steady him, to speak life into him. Months later, he sent a letter detailing years of emotional abuse. Suddenly, so much made sense.

Dave often told me his ex-wife was “bat shit crazy.” In time, I saw it with my own eyes. He also told me she never gave him any pictures of the past—no photos of his kids, no memories. I once asked him why he never forgave her. I was met with nothing but bitterness. When I eventually moved out, I found a huge box of photographs—pictures of his children, his family, even the wedding album from his prior marriage. How they came into my possession, I will never know.

There were good moments in our life, but I was the one who initiated them. I think I've had 3 dates that were planned by Dave in 21 years of our marriage.

At Diamond D Ranch, I spoke up about what a good elk hunter Dave was and how well he worked with people. Because of that, he began guiding elk hunts in the fall. I suspect he hated it. That first elk season, I cooked for the crew and prepared for elk camp while also preparing for my own hip replacement scheduled for January 2006. My body was failing, but I kept carrying everything because someone had to.

There were many more opportunities for Dave to excel—ongoing work with Diamond D Ranch, managing a lodge in Alaska, and later a duck hunting operation in northeast Washington. I was always ready for something new. He was not. In 2003, we started a business called Dreams on the Fly (you can read about that a little further down my blog) I taught myself how to build a website, combining my marketing work, and people skills with Dave’s guiding experience. The business took off. It became large and successful.

When it sold dreams on the Fly in 2014, I believe a large part of Dave was left empty. I know it left a hole in my soul.

Dave had a heart attack while we were at the duck club. I remember throwing him an aspirin, rushing to the Suburban—only to find it dead because I had been cleaning it earlier. I jumped into the truck and realized it had no gas. We had to stop for fuel before we could even get to the hospital. At the hospital, they confirmed he’d had a heart attack and were life-flighting him to Spokane.

It was rainy, dark, and miserable. I was completely lost. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t know who to call or what to say. I called my son. I called my mom. I regret that I didn’t call his children immediately. When I did reach out—later that night or the next morning—none of them came to see Dave. They called. They sent friends. And they made sure I knew what a terrible person they thought I was.

After the heart attack, we decided to move back to our house in Parma, Idaho. We had never sold or rented it while we were at the duck club. All I asked for with stability in a job so that we had a determined income and not this wishy-washy seasonal stuff that went on or when Dave didn't feel like working. When we returned from the duck club, he also took a job with Kielty construction and he hated that job. He said they micromanaged him and he quit. He just didn't have the mental acuity to do the job.

That Parma house, bought in 2006, had been filled with love and care. In 2018, Dave burned it to the ground through sheer carelessness. Fortunately, earlier that year I had switched insurance companies. We were insured for far more than we would have been otherwise. Dave and I had talked about it, but he never took action. I always did.

Even after the fire, I was the one calling his best friend, Jay Stark, to pull Dave out of the mental abyss he fell into. Jay helped, though I think he was also trying to repair a friendship damaged long before. And we lost Gracie our prized Wirehaired, pointing griffon to vets negligence.

2021 is when I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Living through building a house in as she shed 12 x 24 and a trailer until we got 650 ft.² of living space built into the shop it was a nightmare for sure. Living through building a house in as she shed 12 x 24 and a trailer until we got 650 ft.² of living space built into the shop it was a nightmare for sureIn January 2024, I was in California for my nephew’s funeral when Dave called and asked what I thought about moving to Arizona. Warmer weather, he said, might help my disease. I thought it sounded like a great idea. In April, we went to look at houses. Dave showed little interest, but I assumed he was just processing. Six months later, I realized the truth. After the fire, we had bought a house in Middleton, but Dave didn’t like living in the city. When COVID hit, we wanted to get off the grid. We began looking toward McCall and Cascade. On a camping trip, I drove off on my own and found a piece of property—high on a knoll, no neighbors, a full 360-degree view. It was perfect. We broke ground after living in a trailer at an RV park, then moving it to the land, and finally living through winter in a 24-by-12 shed. It was brutal on my body.

In May 2024, I fell and broke my fibula. In June, I fell again and broke my wrist. I was exhausted, injured, and overwhelmed. The house was built under contract to sell. Dave’s sister came from Texas to help us pack. I assumed we were moving to Arizona together. I never clarified. That was on me. I ended up in a rehab center for a week to get my wrist straightened out. The day after I arrived, Dave called and asked me to sign power of attorney papers. It felt wrong. I called my son in tears. He said it would probably be okay. Later, going through the divorce paperwork, I realized the truth. Dave planned to buy me a $150,000 house in Arizona, take complete financial control over me, put me in a nursing home or retirement community—and leave. We hadn’t been sleeping together. He didn’t shower for weeks. He snored relentlessly. I was restless and couldn’t sleep. So I slept in the spare bedroom. I began having recurring dreams that he was leaving me. Each morning, he asked why I was crying. I told him about the dreams. He told me he wasn’t leaving. That he loved me. The house sale was set to close on September 30, 2024. On September 10, Dave said he needed time to think. I asked for clarity. He gave none. On September 11, he told me he didn’t think we were good for each other anymore and that he couldn’t take care of me. I drove to Boise, hired an attorney on September 12, paid the retainer, and drove home. Dave was sitting in the backyard smoking when I arrived. I asked if he’d heard from his lawyer. He said no. I printed the divorce papers and handed them to him. I believe I beat him to it by a day. I screamed. I shouted. I said things meant to hurt. I wanted him to feel the betrayal I felt. When I confronted him about his lies—about health insurance, the dog, everything—he cut me off. All communication had to go through his attorney. When I found the box of photographs and the wedding album, I contacted his sister in Texas and asked her to tell him. I offered to drop them at the police department. In response, Dave filed a protection order against me. I was charged with violating it and sentenced to twenty days of community service and a $675 fine. I went to Oregon. Then another place. Then another. For nearly two months, I lived on borrowed space and borrowed grace. I was grieving, disoriented, and exhausted—but I was no longer trapped. Healing did not come cleanly. Some days were steady. Others were not. I learned that recovery is not linear. It is the repeated choice to stay present. In November 2024, a message arrived from Mike Blankmeier, a friend from junior high. He told me about a Divorce Care group he led at his church in San Marcos, California. The timing felt intentional. In April, I went to San Marcos. I was welcomed with dinner, then welcomed into Divorce Care. No explanations were required. These were people who understood loss because they had lived it. That summer, I traveled to North Carolina to visit my son, my daughter-in-law, and my grandson. I watched my daughter-in-law’s ballet—disciplined, powerful, and beautiful—honoring the heroes of Hurricane Helena. It was one of the most emotionally beautiful things I have ever experienced. I gave my grandson his first fly rod. We practiced casting in a downpour and laughed through the rain. It was simple. It was joyful. On my flight home to Boise, I sat next to a woman named Cindy. She told me she had once served as a prayer minister at the same church in San Marcos. I understood the confirmation clearly. On August 27, my Nyssa Christian Church family packed me up. Mike flew in and drove the U-Haul. I followed with a friend and arrived at an apartment I had rented sight unseen. Three doors down lives a man named Bill and his twelve-year-old wire-haired pointing griffon, whom I adore. My life now is full—church, family, new friends, warm days, soft evenings, and quiet joy. My health is restored. I am no longer carrying everyone else. I am finally listening. December 31, 2025. A lifetime of memories. January 1, 2026 A life of new beginnings.