Motion is in my blood. I come from a long line of movement. Like almost all Americans, my ancestors left everything behind and sailed to a new world. Upon receiving land grants after the French and Indian War both sides of the family traveled as part of a long wagon train and traversed difficult terrain to resettle in Kentucky. Both grandfathers were the only sons to leave the farm and yet again resettle. One to start his own body shop business and the other to travel the world and the States in the Navy. Although I do not know all their specific motivations, I like to think that sheer curiosity played a part.
"What's out there?" is a phrase I've carried with me since I had words. A friend showed me 550 year-old trees the other night on a 2-hour walk that soaked us in moonlight. Every day this summer I made sure to go somewhere, do, try or learn something new. That included Yellowstone, a quick trip to Canada (my first), a massage from a Blackfoot Indian, fly fishing by the Blackfoot river, the quest for the perfect skim vanilla latte in Missoula, a chocolate-dipped scoop of homemade white mint oreo ice cream in a waffle cone, running shoes from Tim, and $1 sushi night.
As I was driving my new favorite stretch of highway from the ranch to Missoula this afternoon, I saw a backpacker with a gray mustache carrying a forest green pack with pots, pans, and cans hanging off his bag. One of the reasons I prefer this two-lane highway is because of its sharp twists and turns around the bases of glorious mountains that border the Blackfoot River, the body of water that first brought me to Montana.
The man had just crossed a particularly narrow bridge and had mounted a rather large red and white sign to the back of his pack that read, "Love Life". He waved at every car that passed. I'm guessing most assumed he was crazy and maybe he was, or perhaps from the outer edges, he professed life's secret. I waved back at a fellow traveler.
