Staring at the “M” through the generous North-facing windows of Bozeman’s public library on a cumulus-speckled, blue-sky day, a question washes through me:
 

“What am I doing here?”
 

Three times I left this town with no plans at returning.  And with each completed trip, something brings me back.  Somehow the best-laid escape plans never work out, and time and again, the Universe finds a way to convince my stubborn mind that my hometown may actually be the best place on the planet.
 

While none of my escape attempts have worked out, it wasn’t for lack of trying.  And it wasn’t for lack destinations.  It was an archetypal quarter-life bid at individuation that sent me wandering, searching for the mysterious something that can’t be found in the familiar. I’ve been fortunate enough to call New Zealand, Vietnam, Bali, South Korea, even a remote Greek island, “home” for multi-month and year-long stints.  I’ve surfed and skied in the same day, eaten bugs in jungle villages, wandered beaches at sunset, meditated with monks in pagodas…and it’s all been great.  Wonderful.  Life-changing and heart-opening.
 

It’s been a traveler’s life, full and empty simultaneously.  Full of new friends, experiences, opportunities, understandings–all the things I hoped to find when finally, with adrenaline ice in my veins, I bought the plane ticket I hoped and secretly knew would change everything.  And empty…empty in the biggest sense of the word.  Empty of anything lasting; an embodiment of life’s greatest truth.  All flows.  The people and places, the smiles and songs, the freedom to be with nothing to do, it’s all excruciatingly fleeting.  And when it’s over, when the money’s gone and the place–the place I thought I needed to land–hasn’t appeared, I remember.  I remember that my hometown, surrounded by looming, pine-covered mountains, filled with smiling, active people, tucked away and somehow hidden from the hoards, is better than any of the exotic places I just spent years exploring.
 

On the plane ride back, I sit with my face pressed up against the window watching the earth mutate at 600 mph.  Vast swaths of Canadian tundra give way to suburbs.  A frozen lake.  Suburbs, anonymous skyscrapers filled with unseen thousands, more suburbs, into fields–endless squares, human parcels imposed upon the flat and stretching expanse of middle America.  I pull my eyes from the scene to take some peanuts from the flight attendant, and then I return to the ground moving below.  More suburbs, more fields.  I fall asleep.  Eventually I wake up with a kinked neck and turn back to the window.  Finally, mercifully, we’re above the mountains.  Great mounded monsters rising up in rank as if commanded by an unseen general, fill the window.  My shoulders drop.  I breathe a bit deeper, feeling into the nervous, joyful rush that comes with descending from 30,000 feet into the home I’ve always known as a person I’ve only just discovered.
 

Returning is the scariest part.  It forces me to face the parts of myself that changed, and recognize that the person my friends and family expect at the airport died somewhere in Vietnam.  Scarier still, coming home requires that I face the parts of myself that didn’t change.  The same stubborn shadow, the bad habits, the illogical phobias and personal resentments, they all wait with sadistic patience for the return, and flare up before I’ve even lifted the tray table.  They remind me of just how human I am, and that no paradisiacal adventure, no matter how amazing, can change that.  But this edge opens my eyes.  It’s a barometer, a reminder to try to bring the wonder of travel into the familiar world of home.  And what a home Montana is.
 

We drop below the clouds and I see Yellowstone Park from a plane’s-eye view, and strangely, I’m brought back to earth.  Memories start flowing.  A symphony of Old Faithful’s eruptions; the numinous woooosh of water exploding from the bowels of the earth which always silences the crowd.  Strolling along the edge of Grand Prismatic Spring, wondering at rainbow snakes stretching across the valley floor. Direct eye contact with a grizzly bear at sunset.  Swirling vertigo at the top of Lower Yellowstone Falls, following the jagged scar of a water-carved canyon into the distance.  A captain’s announcement interrupts the revery and I’m back in my seat.  It’s incredible from this altitude too, the contours and folds and hulking hills that fill the world’s largest volcanic caldera.  And we keep moving, heading North.
 

I’m always amazed that it’s possible to fly from Hanoi, Vietnam to Bozeman, Montana in a 24 hour rotation of the planet.  Two worlds that couldn’t be further apart, separated by three flights and a layover.  As the plane begins a final spiral into Bozeman’s shiny new airport, I remember the teeming streets of my Vietnamese neighborhood.  Spitfire chicken roasting over coals, men perched around small plastic tables drinking beer at all hours, children–children everywhere. Women playing badminton, mounds of trash, the twangy drone of motorcycle horns, toothless elders watching it all; everything-at-once on the narrow, pulsing streets of the capital city.  It’s a beautiful cacophony.  Unregulated life.  The Vietnamese live with a bemused scurry, an understanding of the hilarity and tragedy that surround them in the chaotic push for economic development.  They are a beautiful and dignified people with a deep sense of community, and there were moments I considered staying, integrating myself into the flowing mayhem to participate in the sheer force of humanity.
 

And then I look down at Spring mountains still capped with winter residue, sprawling green fields intersected by twisting rivers, grain silos and railroad tracks, sidewalks uncluttered by motorcycles, and I remember.  I remember the quiet joy of waking up to a blanket of fresh snow outside the window at sunrise, and the louder joy of the first sunny day with enough heat to melt it, ushering in the changing season.  Thoughts of campfires and barbecues rise from the gut while a yearning for a gulp of fresh mountain air soothes my travel-weary mind.  The first trip will be a solo hike.  Into silence.  Into the understated stillness that lives in the valleys, the subtle invitation to finally rest.

I want to unclutter.  And as the plane meets the runway, I realize that’s what it was all about from the beginning.  Uncluttering.  Simplifying.  Relaxing.  The engines whine as they spin in reverse, slowing us down.  The past 18 months compress into that moment and I remember all the movement.  The flights, the taxi rides, the lice-infested motorcycle helmets, the restless pilgrimage from one hostel to the next.  Drunken conversations on the state of the world, the great humbling of colliding with the economic poverty of the developing world.  The food sickness, the homesickness, and the constant gnawing question, “what am I looking for?”  On the outside, travel is nothing but clutter.  A constant mess of sweat and confusion and ecstasy.  But internally, the place the journey really happens, it’s freedom.  Freedom to follow the impulses of the heart, to move when and how you want, or not move at all.  The broken-down busses, the scams, the bedbugs, they all lend to the joy that grows through embracing the unknown.  They point to the truth that peace is possible in any moment, regardless of external circumstances.  And so, eventually, with enough travel, the realization dawns that the happiness of the road has nothing to do with the road.
 

It’s the kind of happiness I remember as a kid.  Getting out of the car with my parents and my brother at the base of a meadow in the Bridger range, staring at a thin dirt trail winding up the side of a mountain and disappearing over the other side.  For a child, that trail could lead anywhere.  The other side of that mountain may as well be infinity.  The butterflies flitting from flower to flower mirror the gurgle in my belly.
 

“We’re going all the way up there?!” My brother asks, gawking.
 

My dad smiles.
 

“Yep.  Can you believe that?  We’re going all the way up there.  And you’ll get to see farther than you’ve ever seen before.”
 

And it’s true.  The vastness of Montana is unrivaled.  Still, after all that travel, nothing compares.  And it’s when all these pieces click, when all the questions about career and calling converge into a simple clarity, that I remember. It’s all here.  Everything I could ever want is in the very place I always was.

 Kris Drummond is a writer, photographer, and traveler from Bozeman, Montana. You can find more of his writing, photography and publications on his website:

https://ideaforeplay.com/

Summer Vacation. A time to make memories, create family rituals and adventure. Because we live someplace that is a vacation destination for many, it’s hard to leave during these blissful months however, we work around school schedules so summer vacation it is. This year our adventures took us on a couple road trips around our neighboring states. Driving down the interstate and venturing on two­lane highways, watching the landscape change, cheering as we crossed state lines welcoming us and seeing that in just a days drive we can be someplace so different than our home.
 

Experiencing a new place, noticing the similarities and differences in that city. Taking in moments of gratitude for getting the opportunity to have these experiences, but more often than not saying thanks for the reminder of the beautiful place we get to go back to.
 

The first part of summer vacation began with a drive through mountain passes of Montana and Idaho, into the flat, dry parts of Washington and then onto a lush mountain pass before opening up to the skyline of Seattle. I love getting to visit new places and try to experience it more as a local than a tourist. Don’t get me wrong, we all get stuck doing a few tourist things (like an over­priced elevator ride to the top of the Space Needle), but for the most part we try to dig deeper into the heart of where we are. I love the energy that comes from visiting a big city, the people, the diversity, the abundance of things to do. The Pacific Northwest is a great place to visit from Montana because although the cities are bigger, they are still so friendly. Seattle was no exception as we met nice people, but in the hipster “I’m a cool kid still” sort of way. We may have our mountains here, but this city gets its beauty from the water on its edge. All day long ferries go across, sailboats gently floating along, the sun glistens on it and you get that fresh smell in the air that can only be found near water. Now, I understand visiting this fine city during the end of June is much different than the gloom you’d find most of the time...I know it’s not always sunshine and roses. However, what all this moisture gives is a lushness that’s hard to find elsewhere. Lots of rainy winters equals very lovely summers. I love a city, but I’m still a Montana girl at heart and after a few days it was time for a change of a pace. A ferry ride, and short drive later we found ourselves on the tip of the Olympic Peninsula in the quaint seaside town of Port Townsend. What a charming, Victorian seaport and artsy­hippie community. Set against the backdrop of the wild beauty of the cool ocean, rocky bluffs, sandy beaches and a quaint downtown. The small mountainsides more like a rainforest than the forests we are used to hiking in. This was a time to slow down from the chaos of the city, take in the natural beauty, hang out with the neighborhood deer that roam the quiet streets and relax. The vibe was similar to Bozeman...small and touristy with plenty of unique local joints to visit. The town full of welcoming people, yet leery of out­of­towners. Like Bozeman in the we’re happy you are enjoying our little town, but please don’t consider moving here.


A few weeks after the family trip, we found ourselves again crossing the MT/ID state line, this time heading towards Boise and this time without children. This part of Idaho, so different than the month before as we passed through the mountainous Coeur d'Alene area, now driving through barren land, dry and smoky from the fires. Taking the more scenic route and ending up driving through the Craters of the Moon State Park with open rift cracks and lava fields. It was so cool to stumble upon this part of the country. To see the landscape turn black and rocky with mountainous volcanos popping up in the horizon and the earth basically split open in parts. On to Boise, a place unlike much the rest of Idaho. A big city compared to the small communities we had driven through. A vibrant downtown that was fun with its restaurants, street music, nightlife and young community. By far the friendliest city of all the places we had been to while on our vacations. Each place we went we were welcomed with a genuine, kind smile, helpful advice and true care if we were having a good time. We didn’t encounter one rude person and everyone there seemed truly happy. Most of them were locals who obviously took such pride in their city. 


With any vacation, the end always comes faster than you want. When I wake up on the last day, a heaviness fills my heart. Wanting to continue all that comes with being away. However, as the miles pass I remember what we are going back to. The landscape begins to change, mountains come into view and by the time I see the Welcome to Montana sign things begin to feel better. Once we pull off the exit into Bozeman a contentedness replaces the earlier heaviness. Home. We get to call this amazing place home. A place that brings so much goodness. A place that in the beginning we are excited to leave and get away from, but then thrilled to get to come back to. The saying goes “Don’t be sad that it’s over, be happy that it happened”. While I agree with this I’d have to add “Be happy that you get to come home to Montana”.

 Angela Jamison is a native Montanan and she grew up in beautiful Bozeman. I'm the mother of two girls and write a blog about our life here and taking in the simple pleasures of family and food.

http://www.rdeliciouslife.blogspot.com/

Photo by: Mapped Creative

Hot Summer Nights? Don’t let electronics make it harder to sleep.

Summertime. The season of staying up later either in the hope of a cooler bedroom or for night to really settle in. On those evenings, it’s tempting to while away the time on your iPhone, iPad or computer. I used to write at night until I acknowledged that I couldn’t sleep afterwards. Turns out that’s not unusual. Those devices emit blue light that that suppresses levels of the sleep-promoting hormone melatonin. In fact, according to the Apple Certified Support Specialist at F-11 Photo, research suggests that the use of light-emitting electronic devices before bedtime prolongs the time it takes to fall asleep, delays the circadian clock, reduces the amount of REM sleep, and reduces alertness the next morning. 

Solutions? Read an old-fashioned paperback novel or a hold-it-in-your hands copy of Distinctly Montana magazine. Prefer to read articles like this on the online blog? Happily, there are fixes for your electronics too. The folks at F-11 Photo suggest a donationware utility called f.lux. Compatible with both the Mac and Windows, at sunset, f.lux starts warming up the color temperature of the display, with the goal of making it look like a page of a book (or magazine) under your normal room lights. 

You can access the free download through the f.lux website. The website includes a lot of other interesting information on improving sleep so explore. 

On newer iPhones and iPads, iOS 9.3 offers a feature called “Night Shift.”  Look under Settings > Display & Brightness for the option to warm the temperature of the screen automatically on a schedule, enable the temperature warming manually until the next day, and control just how warm you like it. In terms of scheduling, the default approach is from sunset to sunrise, but you can also set custom times, which might be useful on long, not summer nights. 

For myself, I try to turn off my electronics by 9 PM. But I’ve noticed that time frame slipping lately as I sit in my kitchen, waiting for temps to drop in my upstairs bedroom. I like knowing that I wasn’t making up the connection between keyboarding and having trouble sleeping. It’s also good to know that If technology creates challenges in falling and staying asleep, it also offers solutions.

Jenna Caplette migrated from California to Montana in the early 1970s, first living on the Crow Indian reservation, then moving to Bozeman where she owned a downtown retail anchor for eighteen years. These days she owns Bozeman BodyTalk & Energetic Healthcare, hosts a monthly movie night, teaches and writes about many topics.