When I lived in Southern California, I would have conversations with people that went something like this: “The taxes are out of control, the homeless are out of control, the cost of living is out of control but what are you going to do? Live somewhere else?” I would force a laugh, and say something insightful like,
“Yeah. The weather is so good here.” I would say it in a meek way that sounded like I agreed. After awhile though it became more emphatic, like, “Yeah! That’s exactly what I am going to do. The weather ain’t that good.” And I did. Of course, I moved to a place where the taxes are just slightly less out of control, the homeless are on par, but the overall cost of living is lower and I am nearer to family (the weather is better in the summer, worse in the winter, so we will call that detail a wash). I guess I am slightly ahead. Still, it doesn’t prevent me, on a long overnight in a cool place from testing out the idea of living somewhere new.
Most recently I had an amazing day in Missoula, Montana, where I had a whole day to kick around the town. Of course, it was just one day, one glorious day, but by the end of it, I was ready to call my wife and say, “Honey, pack your bags, sell the cats, we’re moving to Montana. (Okay, I was just kidding, I love the cats. They can come too).”
It started with the flight in the night before. We arrived dusk from the southeast. It was a clear evening. The setting sun reflected warm oranges and buttery yellows on the Northern Rockies and turned the many rivers into waterways of light. The sky on the edge of the horizon was glowing cobalt blue. As I scanned the sky and the rugged, serene landscape, I was entranced and overwhelmed by the beauty, “Marc? Marc, you still with me? What are you doing? Gear down.” I put the gear down and tried to focus on the task at hand instead of more adjectives to describe what I was seeing.
As I got off plane, my lungs were filled with something incredible. What was it? Ah yes, fresh mountain air. I have always thought those swanky oxygen bars in major cities seemed ridiculous, but if they were bottling and selling the good stuff they have up in Montana, I’d be a customer. Also, the people getting off the airplane, seemed healthier and happier, than other places I had been to. I will freely admit that I might have been a little drunk off the clean, high altitude air and the beautiful sunset, but everyone on the plane seemed to have tanned skin and glowing smiles. Where the Hell was I? I was exhausted when I got to the hotel and it was near 11pm, so I went to bed. I knew though, that I had a whole day in this glorious place of magic water, people, and mountains, and couldn’t wait.
The next morning, I had a task in my mind. I set off to climb a mountain. Mount Jumbo to be exact (to be honest, it was really more of a hill, especially compared to the surrounding “real” mountains, but “Hill Jumbo” doesn’t sound right). The foot of this hill came right down into town. It was a fifteen-minute walk from my downtown hotel. I walked there through a picturesque neighborhood, of hundred-year-old craftsman houses, all painted in bright happy, primary colors, with beautiful oak trees and countless front gardens overrun with blooming flowers. There were even clearly defined walking and biking paths all the way to the trail head. The sun was shining, and it was a perfect 80 degrees. I had to keep pinching myself, “Get the f#$@ out of here, this is too nice.”
Mount Jumbo itself was an amazing little hike. The running shoes I was wearing were more than enough. The trail was a perfect steepness: enough to get my pasty, stuck-inside-all-winter, heart beating but not so steep as to make that same heart stop beating. The trail was full of wildflowers and spectacular views. Hawks and ravens circled above me. Smaller birds fluttered in and out. Otherwise, I had the place to myself. Sure, it was only a hill (a hill with a 2000-foot elevation gain), but it was my hill. On top, I was even able to sit down, enjoy the 360-degree view of the town below, the river valley behind, and suck in all that sweet air for free. I even had a vision of quitting my flying job the very next day, finding an adventure store to work in as a of cool hiking guide, and beginning a new life as one of those healthy, strong Montana people.
On the way down the mountain, I walked past a couple of those healthy-looking people, who smiled and waved as they ran up the mountain. (GTF outta here? Are you some race of super-people?) I did the math in my head and realized I had a long way to go to reach guide status.
In town I stopped at a grocery store and bought myself an awesome dinner, I mean as awesome as a dinner as can be made in a hotel microwave (hey, I was already moving into town, you can’t just eat out all the time when you are a resident). In the grocery store, I made sure everything I bought was dairy-free and gluten-free, since I was upping my health game. I even bought some kombucha. I am not even certain why. I just figured if I was going to be as healthy as these Montanans, I was going to have to take every measure possible.
I walked back to my hotel via the Clark Fork River that runs right through the middle of town. Instead of graffiti, trash, and people hurrying to their big meetings while engrossed with their cell phones, in downtown Missoula there were people lounging by a beautiful river. They were doing all matters of water sports: swimming, kayaking, paddle boarding, and yes you Southern Californian naysayers, surfing. Everyone of course, looked happy and healthy in the warm sunshine and pristine mountain air. Even the one homeless guy I did see seemed healthier and happier than the hordes of disenfranchised souls that live in my city. When I reached into my bag of groceries and gave him a bag of beef jerky, he bellowed a deep infectious laugh and clapped his hands together. It had the effect of enhancing the moment in time. I could only smile and whistle as cartoon birds landed on my shoulder.
That night I turned off the light, with a belly full of an organic, microwave dinner, and kombucha and a Hershey’s chocolate bar (hey, I earned it, I climbed a mountain, I don’t care if I said it was a hill earlier, they called it Mount Jumbo for a reason). I had a smile on my face. I loved Missoula. It was a perfect place. The next morning, I would tell my wife we were moving there. I couldn’t wait to hang out in my cool outdoor store during the days and go catch up with my super healthy fun friends by the river in the evening. My new life was going to be awesome.
The next morning, when my alarm went off at 4 AM, my perfect day had dissipated like a fading dream. There was a drizzle falling in the early morning light. I had the realization that I had already spent a long time building the life I had and knew that there were already enough people working at all the outdoor shops in town. The cool people by the river didn’t need any more friends. I would get in my plane and fly to the next town. I would have to tell my wife, “Okay. We are not moving to Missoula.” She’d probably say something like,
“Okay. I didn’t know that was on the table. Were you planning to move to Missoula?” I would reply,
“Yeah. I mean for a moment yesterday. You don’t understand. It was a perfect day and it’s an awesome place. I was going to work in an outdoor shop! Just read my blog…” So, I am not moving to Missoula, even though if I could live a parallel life as a cool hiking guide that climbs all the mountains, I would. That doesn’t mean you can’t. You should and I will come visit all the time. Maybe you can even invite me to hang with your cool river friends? Please. I need this.
