PAMELA CRANSTON was born in New York City and was raised in Old Deerfield, Massachusetts. From the age of five, she has spent summers in St. Huberts, New York, where she and her family have been active with the Adirondack Trail Improvement Society (ATIS) and the Adirondack Mountain Club (ADK) for over fifty years. She received her B.A. from San Francisco State University, majoring in Interdisciplinary Social Science, where she also studied extensively in their creative writing program. In 1988, she received a Masters of Divinity degree from the Church Divinity School of the Pacific (CDSP) in Berkeley, CA. Ordained an Episcopal priest in 1990, she has served San Francisco Bay area churches and hospices for the past fourteen years. She also is an adjunct member of the faculty at CDSP, writes, lectures, gives poetry readings, leads workshops and retreats and does spiritual direction.  Her books include: The Madonna Murders (a novel to be published in 2003 by St. Huberts Press); Clergy Wellness and Mutual Ministry; and An Eccentric English Journey (privately published.) Her poetry, essays and book reviews have been published or soon will be appearing in various books and journals such as: Anglican Theological Review, On the Trail: An Outdoor Anthology by Birch Brook Press, Blueline, EarthLight, Cistercian Studies, Forward Movement Publications, Journal of Christianity and Literature, Journal of Pastoral Care, Kilvert Journal, Mindfulness Bell, Mystic River Review, New Moon Review, New Song Press, Northwoods Journal, Penwood Review, Presence, South, and Women: Empowering and Healing. Pamela Cranston lives with her husband in Oakland, California, and returns to the Adirondacks regularly. She is a regular contributor to The Adirondack Review.
Adirondack Voices

Your face stares ahead, stoic 
Chief Big Tree  head
on the Indian nickel,
minted in granite.
What do you see
above our Adirondack fjord?
Children playing in Indian Cove,
war canoes ambushing enemies
unawares? Nimble legs, thin
as saplings, clambering first trails
to touch the crown of your forehead?
Coke cans in the bushes?
Fighter planes screaming
past Mt. Colvin and the Range?
You stand as sentinel to all this,
watching as guide boats
beat their wooden wings
against white-capped water.
They push against an invisible wall
that shoves them back again.
Perhaps, even now,
you are praying
immutable words, mouthed
only by the wilderness wind,
"Go back. Leave no trace
behind. This holy ground
belongs to no one."

Pamela Cranston