Mountains To Climb

With my dog Willow, on our way to Sacajawea Peak.

I was fifteen when I first laid eyes on the Bridger range, and I instantly felt a sense of belonging. Unfortunately, you can’t run away at fifteen, no matter how starry-eyed and in love with the mountains you’ve fallen.

My hometown in Wisconsin suddenly felt small and dreary, and the trees that once seemed cozy were closing in on me. The rush of the rivers didn’t hold the same power. And I could never see enough of the sky.

And so began my wanderlust. In my late teens and throughout my twenties, I saved up money as often as I could just to travel. Montana, Colorado, Idaho, Wyoming… any place that stirred up that familiar feeling of possibility and wide-open spaces. But moving out West always seemed like a far-fetched dream, something impossible to attain. Especially with its increasing popularity and the rising cost of living. Mountains weren’t just for cowboys anymore, and I wondered; will I ever make it there? Is it even worth it?

These were the thoughts bouncing around in my head as I approached my thirties. I had tried to fill the void with things society expects you to want: a perfectly manicured lawn, new throw pillows, and home improvement projects. But my entire life, existence, relationship, home, and all that I had built didn’t quite feel like enough. I had settled, and I was comfortable, but I wasn’t the best version of myself. I wasn’t being honest with myself.

And so began some difficult decision making. Thankfully, those decisions came with an overwhelming sense of relief that assured me I was moving in the right direction. I stopped holding back and started laughing more. I cried more too, a lot more, but growing pains are inevitable.

I sold my home and most of its contents, one item at a time until everything I owned fit under the topper of my 2011 Toyota Tacoma.  I had purchased it the summer before, and even then, I knew deep down it would be perfect for this occasion. Those trucks run for miles, everyone says.

I had also quit my perfectly stable adult job the year before and gone back to school so that I could work remotely. Deep down, I suppose there was a reason for that too. My computer screen saver changed daily; flaunting photos of places I feared I would never make it to if I stayed there. Sitting in an office chair felt like sitting in a jail, no matter how kind my co-workers were. I dreamed every day of fresh air, morning hikes, and views of those mountains.

By 2023 I could admit what I’d known all along: If I didn’t go, I would never be satisfied.

Truck Camping in Nye, Montana.

It’s amazing how quickly a lifetime of things can fall into place, once you accept that you’ve been manifesting them all along.

I don’t know if West will be home forever, but I have a lot of mountains to climb before I’m old.

And maybe that’s not crazy at all, when I think about the places my ancestors once lived and the terrain they used to cross. Maybe it’s just in my bones. Maybe we all have places we belong.

Honestly, I think it’s an instinct people often ignore. We all come from immigrants and settlers, traveling across the world and fighting to lay claim on new dirt. They risked their lives to experience something new. And while the West isn’t as wild as it used to be, it still holds its old-time charm – with unmarked gravel roads, old fences, and log homes frozen in time.

Town is certainly busier than it was back in 2008, when I first came to visit. But you don’t have to drive far at all to be alone with no one else in sight. And the very best views are the ones you must earn, the ones not everyone who lives here or passes through gets to see. The ones that require strong legs and lungs and a desire to push one’s limits. And maybe that’s the spirit of the West I love so much.  Maybe that’s the reason it still feels wild to me.