Where I Belong

Dear Readers,

You know that John Denver song "Country Road", a folksy ballad dedicated to returning to the mountains of his youth? I've been experiencing a similar sentiment the past couple of days. I haven't felt an urge to go back to the mountains so strongly for a long time. The craving is so vivid, my dreams have been infected with visions of tree-lined mountains, feelings of solitude, and the wonderment of realizing just how small I am in this very big world.

My dad never had a son; I believe I was the closest thing to it. Kate and Andrea never showed much interest in the outdoors. I, on the other hand, enjoyed the adventure. I joined him on trips to the desert and lava flows near Kasota, to the mountains and lakes south of Albion, and spent countless Sunday afternoons exploring the Minidoka Dam area. We did everything on these trips from cutting firewood to mapping trails for his scout troop (which I am still bitter that I wasn't allowed to join just because I'm a girl). White water rafting, skiing, backpacking, my dad taught me all of these things.

Later, when I was in high school, I discovered and fell in love with mountain biking. I helped to form the Minico High School Mountain Biking Club, and spent loads of times in the foothills outside of Oakley putting the shocks on my hard earned Schwinn to the test. My friend Monica and I were the only girls in the club, and the guys were more than welcoming to us. We had a blast racing the trails, and I'm sure I made a great impression on them with my sailor vocabulary when I would wreck. That Schwinn and I enjoyed a lot of miles of trail together; when I lived in Logan I continued racing and riding until I was hit by a car on my way home from work. No matter that my head was bleeding and I needed stiches in my leg, my bike was totalled and I was devestated. I haven't been on a trail since. What a shame!

On one college spring break, my friend Melanie and I went on a road trip from Logan to southern New Mexico to visit her family. On the way, we stopped to camp in Moab, Utah. It was dark when we got to our campsite and clumsely set up our tent as best we could with flashlights. It was colder than I expected, and I struggled to sleep. Finally, at first light, I climbed out of the tent to start a fire and witnessed what is easily the most beautiful sunrise I have ever experienced. I wish I could describe in great detail the warm, gold light as filled the red canyon with contrasting dimensions of shadows and stone. We drove through the red desert, eventually making our way through a vast sage brush filled country to the white sand dunes outside Alamagordo and finally to the snow capped mountains where her parents lived. Melanie is an outdoorsman to her core, and she and I had a great time on that trip, hiking whenever we got the chance and taking time to appreciate the solitude of the desert.

For my 30th birthday, I had the great pleasure of introducing "my boys" to one of my favorite places on the face of the planet: the City of Rocks. I grew up visiting there with my dad, and remember loving it from a very young age. The pioneers wound their way through the rocks on the Oregon Trail, and you can still see where they wrote their names and messages, as well as the seemingly permanent ruts of their wagons. Shay, Chris, Aaron, PL, Loren, and I had a blast climbing and exploring. We all slept in the same tent, and all woke feeling like we had slept on a rock. It is one of my favorite memories.

I can already hear the call of the Sawtooths, even though I won't make it there until late spring at the earliest. Zion's National Park and Bryce Canyon are beckoning me from afar. Even the small trails in Hagerman are singing my name. I've made a resolution to ignore the pains of my joints, pull my backpacking tent out of it's hiding spot, load up my 15 year old pack, strap on my boots and hike up that country road, to where I belong.

Sincerely,
h.