Growing up in a small town, I learned there are three forms of entertainment. Skiing, mountain drives with rock & roll, and getting high. My best friend, Henry, and I spent our days dreaming bigger than the big sky, jacked up on caffeine, our hearts beating to the rhythm of his little Toyota truck. Small town, going nowhere kids get wasted on last nights Bud Light as they beat the morning sun to their construction job. Age 18, I wake up on my best friend’s couch. His dad’s already awake, making us coffee. Henry stumbles from downstairs, passes me a pipe and mumbles something about a shower. The morning ritual. Forty five minutes later, we stuff ourselves into our winter coats and load my skis and his snowboard in the back of his RAV4. I run back inside because I forgot my water bottle and headphones, the necessary items for a day at Lost Trail. His mom already has NPR on and hands me two Broadway Bagels from the oven. She’s already buttered them. I tell her “I love you” as I do double take, making sure Henry didn’t forget anything. She squeezes me, stuffing Henry’s phone into my pocket (were always forgetting something) and I dash back towards the car. As the clock reads 7:45am we speed down the highway going 85, watching mildly for cops, even though you almost never get pulled over. We stop in Hamilton at McDonald’s for a burger for Henry and another coffee for me. About 30 minutes away from Lost Trail Powder Mountain, otherwise known as weekend freedom, the radio cuts out and I whip out my speaker. Bob Marley starts playing as Henry curses under his breath at the car in front of him who is flying around the corner. “Damn kids, they’re gonna fly off the side of the road.” I cringe, knowing that we’ve both seen too many accidents on this highway. It may be two lane, but the road twists and turns that even Henry and I still take it slow around the corners. Suddenly we turn right into the parking lot of Lost Trail and the high kicks in; there’s fourteen new inches of powder, and Henry and I don’t need anything besides the wind and the mountains to give us that feeling of euphoria. As we stand on top of Popcorn Rocks, staring in awe at the powder heaven below us, we both smile, because we both know this is what keeps us alive.
My landscape changed who I was. I spent my summers driving up mountain roads, cranking rock & roll, always looking for the next adventure. I lived off of movement. Skiing was the best high, but I found my freedom in those mountain roads. Skipping class to pick wildflowers while Led Zeppelin played in the background, midnight ice cream trips and river trips. Growing up next to wild mountain ranges, I spent a lot of time exploring the roaring creek beds and burned landscapes. And when there was fire in my life, I was reminded that heat helps with restoration and growth. My favorite memory was on a very windy day, one summer, maybe two or three years ago. My best friend and I hiked to the top of Mill Point, my favorite peak in the Bitterroot Selway range. I just stared at the neverending valleys and mountain ranges. Finn pointed out ski lines and suddenly this huge gust of wind came roaring up the canyon. I had never been so high. I had never felt so damn alive. I just screamed back into the wind, letting the air soak into my bones. Days like that, days of freedom, are pieces I’m going to carry with me, when stress and anxiety cloud my thoughts, I think how the mountain speaks to my soul.
We all have that desire to be wild. Not everyone tried to find their sense of place. Most everyone just got high, because that’s what makes them feel wild. In the Bitterroot, drugs are considered a daily habit for a lot of the kids I grew up with, especially marijuana. Most teenagers you talk to in any town in the Bitterroot have the same philosophy. You don’t go to the bars because there boring and sketchy; you can go to the park, but not after 9 pm or you’ll run into cops or meth smoking teenagers. I learned that you any party you get directions to is just a two hour drive up a dirt road to some bonfire, jacked up trucks playing country music and crushed Bud Light cans everywhere.. Bud Light and Luke Bryan is not my scene. I learned that this town is meant for families with small children or anyone over the age of 50. Not to say I didn’t have good memories of my hometown (like how the stars shine at night) but as soon as I could get out, I did.
We all have a sense of place. For me, it wasn’t the ice cream shop on 2nd or the library where I spent my childhood summers. It wasn’t the bridge where I kissed the boy who smelled like cigarettes or the late night dirt road drives. My sense of place is in the mountains. Mill and Blodgett felt more like a home then rhubarb crumble and NPR. Even the empty beer bottles, overgrown by arrowleaf balsamroot; and the empty packs of yellow spirits disintegrated by the rain we had back in June gives me that sense of place. I don’t find my wild in drugs. I find my wild in the mountains. Whether I’m behind the wheel, blasting rock and roll, staring at powder heaven or listening to Mill Creek roar down the canyon, I feel free. I feel safe and jubilant.
I grew up beside the mountain, on the mountain and because of the mountain. I found my stability and peace from the mountain. I found my spirit and my wild. I found myself.
Wild Works 