I can't believe it, but I have lived in one place for ten years. The old me would have been horrified by this. Keep moving, see what is around the next bend, was my mantra. People who stayed in one place were..boring. (They really weren't, but I was young. Forgive me.)
Part of this incessant traveling was based in my line of work, which was largely seasonal, and necessitated leaving when I was thrown out of the bunkhouses. Plus, there was an always changing cast of characters who gushed over the exciting places they had been over the past season. Who wouldn't want to be part of a migration like this? It was an incredible experience that I wouldn't trade on most days, even those when people younger than I am can retire (we can have amazingly young retirements in this agency) and who come into my team at the same level as I am but are twenty years younger. Life choices, but I feel as though I made the right ones.
On Sunday, L and I made an annual pilgrimage to Freezeout Saddle. Some of us go there every spring. It is how we mark the beginning of renewal, and register the differences between the years. "The balsamroot isn't even out," she observed, unusual for this late in the year. Down in the canyons, we snagged boughs from a blooming feral apple tree. We climbed up the switchbacks to the saddle, where it lived up to its name as we burrowed in down jackets and hid behind rocks. It is never warm at Freezeout, but that is part of the ritual.
|some snow over in Idaho|
As we descended toward the sun, I missed my discovery days fiercely. It isn't the same, going on short jaunts away from the county. Back then, I moved to whole new ecosystems, exploring blank spots on the map. It is hard to admit that part of my life is over. At the same time, I listened to L as we drove down the somewhat creepily fascinating access road. She pointed out all the abandoned cabins. Who used to live where, the scandals and mysteries that made up this part of the landscape. "I've known Pam since the 1970s," she said. "She used to live over here." What would that be like? Here in a place with so much history, I am caught between two extremes–no longer a traveler, but not a local.
"If I were single, I'd be going to Greenland too," I whispered to Big Spindrift, who travels the globe doing temporary jobs like this. But would I? I don't know. He has a house, but he is never in it. Others take care of his dog. While we all flock to see him on the infrequent times he is in town, he can't maintain the same level of friendship as if he stayed. I've left really good friends and we promised to keep in touch–but invariably, distance separated us.
Maybe I'm always wanting what I can't have? I think about the canyon and the people who fought hard to stay there. The books I write, that are always bound to landscape. There's something to be said for familiar pilgrimages. There's also something to be said for adventure. How to merge them both, that is the question.