I first ran away to the mountains when I was 21. I graduated college a semester early, and was unwilling to go home, but lacked the funds to live anywhere on my own for the months between graduation and Teach For America institute, which wasn’t until June. The summer before, I’d been the office assistant at a camp with a bunch of seasonal workers from the UK. They’d shared with me some of the websites they’d used to find their jobs and given me a first-hand look at what a seasonal work experience entailed. I was interested. I started searching for seasonal work anywhere out west that was hiring, and parlayed my camp experience into a similar role at a ranch near Estes Park, CO that I found on a dubious website titled “outdoored.com.”
For four and a half blissful months, I was free. I made friends with people from all over the country, started dating a rock climber (a pastime I hadn’t even known actually existed until I met him), solo road tripped to the Grand Canyon, camped for the first time, got my car stuck in a ditch in a snowstorm, learned to (properly) hike, and fell in love with the Rockies (and the rock climber, though that’s another story).
I saw and experienced more in those four and a half months than I may have in the first 18 years of my life. And all I wanted was more.
But duty called. That summer, I did go back to the East Coast for Teach For America institute. I then taught in Massachusetts for two years in a grueling environment full of some of the smartest, biggest-hearted, hardest-working students I’ve ever met. On our school breaks, my friends and I would plan elaborate road trips traversing different parts of the country. I returned to the mountains multiple times to visit, both on these journeys and on my own. I saw my friends from the ranch, hiked in the national park, and tried to capture as much of the initial bliss of those four and a half months as I could in a couple of days. But it wasn’t enough.
I ran away to the mountains for the second time when I was 24. This time, with a teaching license and experience, I left behind my days of seasonal work and took a job teaching kindergarten at a charter school in Denver. My best friend, myself, and my 17-pound cat, Louis, road tripped out from New York to set up my new home. When I saw the mountains emerge on the horizon for the first time, I cried.
I lived in Denver, about an hour and a half (maybe less) from the mountains. I went hiking as much as I could. I went on epic camping trips with friends. I explored as much as possible of the new state I was living in. Every time I went on a new adventure, the mountains took my breath away. My love affair with their grandeur never faltered.
But this time, I felt less free. Maybe because I wasn’t 21 anymore, and I didn’t have on the rose-colored glasses of a recent college graduate any longer. Maybe because I was working a full-time job that demanded a lot more time and attention than my seasonal work at the ranch. Maybe because I was finally starting to realize that it’s really hard to live far away from your family.
I stayed two years before I decided the time had come to move home. It was an incredibly hard decision. The mountains represented so much of my sense of freedom and independence in my adult life. But my family was getting older, and so was I. The mountains had given me a great deal, but they couldn’t replace familial bonds. They had helped me heal, and now, it was time to go home.
I didn’t return again until my 28th birthday, a couple of days ago. This wasn’t completely intentional, but time moves without us noticing sometimes. And before I knew it, two years had passed and I hadn’t been back. I sat in an aisle seat as we flew into Denver and I was nervous I wouldn’t be able to see the Rockies emerge on the horizon. But by some form of divine intervention, the person in the window seat ducked just as the mountains swung into view. It was golden hour and an orange glow colored the peaks. I teared up again.
The next morning when I woke up, I swung the curtains open and the mountains stood tall along the horizon. They looked bigger than I remembered them, but also more welcoming. It felt like a homecoming of sorts. Even in my leaving, the love between the mountains and I hadn’t faded in the least.
I doubt I’ll ever live in the west again (though as always, who knows). But I cannot accurately describe the joy of knowing that when I visit, the love and grandeur of the mountains will still feel like a little piece of home. And the sense of freedom, independence, and adventure they inspire will awaken again in my bones.
Running away to the mountains, both times, were some of the best decisions I made in my 20s. I learned more about myself and my capability as an independent woman than I ever would have if I stayed on the East coast for my entire life. If you’re considering a big move, take the leap. It seems scary at first, but the insight you gain about yourself and the world around you is truly invaluable.
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