It's always been the absence for me. Of people, noise, stress, everything that distracts me in everyday life. But out there, everything melts away and I can just be. Whatever happens, happens. Whatever doesn't, wasn't meant to. There's a reason nature balances us, it's the purest form of life, with the honesty of death on display and the reward of beauty for what survives.
For years I couldn't figure out why a temperate rainforest path didn't quench my thirst, and why picking blueberries by myself only came close but never quite cut it. Because I needed wild. I needed open, a space that wasn't confined by man but allowed everyone and everything to co-exist with the requirements of common sense and common courtesy. And you cannot find that on paved paths and city parks, and in the valley I had fled to, I was starving.
My roots were planted here five generations ago, into fresh earth that is now beneath lakes where locals spend scorching summer days. Our family homesteaded in Central Oregon, once believing that this home was worth the ultimate sacrifice of chasing manifest destiny. They were pioneers that gave all they had for the promise of new beginnnings. And they found it, here.
Even after so much time and change, our family stays, because this is our home. The farms are long gone, but this place is a piece of us all the same. And from the moment I left to see what was beyond the rimrock, it started calling me back gently.
When I finally listened, I was unstoppable in my need for the mountain air, despite my inability to access it myself. I had grown up mostly in the lower reaches of our mountains, with a taste for the wild but only a sample given. When I returned, I refused to settle for less than all of it. I needed to see what was higher, feel it under my feet and in my hands, this land that my ancestors had loved. It was in my bones to discover and I only knew that I needed to be in it.
The first summer amongst the sunsets was magical. It was full of firsts, including the unmatched perfection of getting to know the man of my dreams. When you view the mountains through the eyes of fresh, true love, I'm not sure anything in the world is more spectacular.
We explored trails that led to the tops of mountains. Viewed stars as they watched over a lazy creek running through a prairie. Said I love you in the privacy of a falling sunset and a valley that watched in silence.
Digging thundereggs out of a hillside filled a hole in my bloodline that had been hungrily empty for some time. But the peace of tracking sign and following animals was a whole different kind of fulfillment. It was like coming home to a world that had been just waiting for me to show up. Hunting quickly became a craving, something I needed to do to be fully content. I wanted to learn about every animal we tracked, and moved clumsily as I watched, feeling the healthy fear of knowing we were also being seen as we went. It was intoxicating and my steps got lighter and my words were replaced with silence as I began to learn. Some things are shown by doing, and some lessons are learned with eyes and ears and the absence of sound. When I began to venture a few hundred yards from camp, I felt the relief of grounding myself with landmarks and pride and making it back without help. Little steps have been my marks of success out there.
I still dream about the bucks my guy saw, and I tracked for half a mile down that steep embankment, their sign still hot and squishing beneath my feet. My heart beat in my eyes as I tried to move quietly, but they were gone before I arrived. I chose to return to him and the buggy so I wouldn't get lost, but everything in me wanted to cross that creek and track them until our paths finally met.
As much as I wanted my first big game kill this year, I'm grateful I still have it to look forward to. I cannot imagine the satisfaction that will come with such a sacred thing, and something like that is worth waiting for.
In this amazing time where life froze for these moments to become memories, I also got to witness the pride of a father as my man's baby girl walked in his footsteps all through those mountains we so loved. And I got to spend an afternoon hunting with my Dad, who had passed down this passion for the outdoors through our blood, as he saw how I had become like he and his father before him. And it was perfect.
It has been two years and I've gathered too many memories to recount, but they are full of the drunkenness of freedom that can only be granted in these mountains. Home is no longer an idea, or a place, or even just a person whom I love. It is this. The return, the belonging, the learning, growing, and wanting. Home is where my roots are planted and I will always grow. It is where I will live like my parents and their parents and grandparents before them. Where I will die and where my ashes will blow into the wind and become again a part of the majesty that is our home, here in these great mountains.