Rediscovering Myself: A Journey Back to the Heart of My True Spirit
(adjective) orophile… a person who loves mountains.
As I swung open the door of the truck and set foot on the weathered dirt of the Potamogeton Park trailhead parking lot, a wave of nostalgia washed over me, mingling with the crisp mountain air that enveloped my senses. It felt like stepping into a familiar dream, one I had long sought to escape, yet here I was, standing at the threshold of a life I had walked away from over 33 years ago. The imposing peaks of the Lee Metcalf Wilderness loomed ahead, their rugged silhouettes striking a chord deep within me, the memories returning in vivid bursts.
Camping isn't really a vacation, but it makes great memories.
~ Julie Kieras
Countless summers of my childhood had been spent here, working alongside my dad at his outfitting camp, where we guided fishermen to hidden lakes and made our own magic in the wild.
Those carefree days—filled with laughter, discovery, and the sweet comfort of a life unencumbered—had carved themselves into the contours of my heart, leaving scars and whispers of who I once was.
But life had called me elsewhere, and now, standing at this junction of past and present, I felt the gravity of my choices, the weight of a hundred unwritten stories waiting to unfold in the shadow of the mountains that had cradled my youth.
The memories came flooding back as I breathed in the scent of the tundra and fields of wildflowers. I recalled the early morning chores, the smell of sizzling bacon on the campfire grill, and the sweet melody of the breeze as it danced through the trees, bringing life to the stillness of dawn.
My dad's infectious laughter and his tales of adventure still echoed in my mind, each story a thread woven into the fabric of my childhood. I could almost hear the crackle of the fire as it flickered to life, the warmth wrapping around us as we gathered to share tales with clients from all walks of life who had become as much a part of our summer as the mountains themselves.
Those summers taught me much more than just how to navigate a pack string or set up a tent; they instilled in me a resilience I didn’t know I possessed, a resourcefulness that would help me navigate the unexpected bends of life, and a wonder that still stirred deep within my spirit. But somewhere along the way, I had lost sight of that girl who marveled at the smallest things—a dew-kissed spider's web, the laughter of a child echoing across a lake, or the shimmering dance of sunlight on water. I had traded that life for responsibilities, for the confines of a predictable routine that had slowly chipped away at my adventurous soul.
We ventured down the trail, the crunch of gravel beneath the hooves felt both foreign and familiar, each step reawakening the echoes of my past. Perhaps time had shifted, or maybe it was just me, but I could feel the pull of the mountains igniting something long dormant.
I could almost hear my father urging me to embrace life again, to reclaim the joy and spontaneity I had sacrificed. Each breath brought me closer to a decision, a realization that the heart of the wilderness had never truly left me; it had simply been waiting for the right moment to lead me home.
Hiking deeper into the forest, the enveloping silence and solitude began to wash over me, wrapping my city-weary soul in a gentle embrace. The stillness acted as a balm, and I felt my worries slowly unraveling like the frayed edges of a well-loved flannel shirt. Here, in this sacred space, time seemed to pause, and the only things that mattered were the whisper of the breeze through the trees, the soft burble of a nearby stream, and the majestic silhouettes of the rugged peaks that had stood watch over me all these years.
When I finally reached the campsite where it all began, a rush of emotions surged through me—nostalgia, love, and an undeniable sense of belonging. I stood in the clearing, absorbing every detail, the scents and sounds transporting me back to those idyllic summers spent exploring Montana’s wild heart alongside my dad. This place wasn’t just a backdrop to my childhood; it was a part of me, a vivid tapestry woven with the joys of discovery and the lessons that had shaped my spirit.
Wanderluster: someone dedicated to collecting experiences instead of possessions.
As the sun dipped low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the landscape, I felt a quiet resolve settle within me. I knew then that this wasn’t just a moment of reconnection; it was a promise to myself. The mountains and lakes that cradled my youth would always call me back, reminding me to embrace adventure, to cherish the beauty of the present, and to explore the depths of my own heart. With a last lingering glance, I whispered a silent vow to return, to ensure that the roots I had planted here would continue to blossom, nourishing the spirit of the woman I was becoming—one with the wild, free, and fiercely alive.
This is my life…
my journey…
my narrative.
I will compose my own chapters and never feel the need to apologize for the edits I choose to make.
“In the whispers of the wind and the rustle of the leaves, my father showed me that to truly experience nature's beauty, you have to step outside and open your heart to the world around you!”
Thank you, Dad, for the unconditional love, invaluable lessons, and unforgettable memories that
continue to guide and inspire me every day, even in your absence.