The first leg of my trip- Eastern Montana, North Dakota, and Western Minnesota
Leaving Montana was hard, necessary, but hard. I had been living in my RV parked at my aunt’s house for almost two weeks. I was full of fear and I was experiencing financial insecurity at the highest level. Part of my settlement was still in the either. I was having to jump through hoops with corporate financial companies to get things moving. My dogs were still at Tom’s* and I missed them desperately. I was writing like crazy and I felt like I couldn’t get the words out fast enough. Maybe because of all of my angst. I was antsy to leave but so afraid that I never would. I knew if I just started I would be fine. I knew there would still be fear, but I knew if I didn’t do it, the anxiety, regret, and fear would be much greater. I didn’t want my family to say “I told you so.” Or fulfill their fears, or maybe secretly their hopes that I would never follow through.
I have been living in a cycle of not following through my whole life. I have let fear run my life for far too long. Standing up for myself and my dreams and taking action to move toward the life I wanted to live was terrifying, but the alternative was much more grim.
I thought a lot about the people I’d grown up with who had big dreams and left Montana with the hopes of achieving them. The problem was they took themselves with them. They were looking for a fix in another far-off land. Inevitably they failed and came back as if it was a choice and continued to live mediocre lives. At first, I admired these people, leaving was the thing I’d fantasized most about growing up. Getting out of the small town that felt like it had chained me down. Chained me to a smaller version of myself, a version it hoped I would never break free from. Don’t get me wrong, My hometown is incredible. It’s my home. It’s the place I first experienced the joy of getting lost in the woods, it was the place that fueled my passion for photography. There was an abundance of beauty that surrounded me. That will never change. And so many people call this place home for very valid reasons. They love the slower pace, the recreational opportunities, the small businesses, and the downtown vibe. There’s a lot to love. But it had stopped loving me.
I say that not because people hated me or wanted me to leave. I say that not because people who stay are mediocre. I say that because people like me, or maybe it's just me, can’t thrive and flourish in an environment that feels like just existing. I had exhausted my options and at that point was just existing.
I grew up in Helena. My family is here, many of my high school classmates still live here, so many of my closest friends are here, and it’s where the community of people who welcomed me with open arms and then became my biggest cheerleaders, when I was first getting sober, still are. But it’s also all of those things. It’s the place where I grew up in the semi-public eye being the daughter of a prominent business owner and college professor. It’s the community where I caused the most destruction and also where I cleaned up the wreckage of my past. It's the community where, no matter how hard I try, I can’t outrun the shadow of the little girl, the newly sober girl, the unhinged girl, the girl who always had potential but never did anything. Despite my greatest achievements- getting and staying sober, graduating from college, building a life and healthy mind that made me feel good- I couldn’t help but feel like a disappointment. I felt like very few people were actually proud of me. This included my family at times. Now this could very well be a projection of my own insecurities and self-doubt, but I knew deep down I needed to leave to prove myself but more importantly, I needed to leave to prove it to myself.
The people whom I feared of becoming that I grew up with who left and came back, are not the people who realized Montana is home and wanted to return to “The Last Best Place” and are currently thriving. Those are the ones who Montana was meant for. I’m talking about the people who feel stuck. Who feel like they have no other option but to stay. They tried to get out but couldn’t make it. I pity these people. Not because they are beneath me, but because I was them too. The problem is internal. This is not me psychoanalyzing them, it’s me recognizing in them what I felt for so long. Trapped, and expected to fail. So my solution and theirs was to stay and play along. I saw them suffering, as I too once was, and my biggest fear was I would never do anything about it.
When I travel, I feel the most alive. I feel like I’m my most authentic self. I feel like I can walk into any room and light it up because I know how to shine. The problem is, when I come home, unlike most people who feel rejuvenated or excited to return to their families and lives, I feel like returning means putting out my light. I first experienced this sensation when I went to Minneapolis for a Justin Bieber concert a little over a year ago. The trip forever changed me and returning meant I had some decisions to make.
It wasn’t until I left Helena and moved to Missoula that I realized I could shine anywhere. Even in Helena. I needed to look inward and be exposed to that version of me long enough to know it could be tapped into anytime.
The problem was that returning to Helena, parked at my aunt’s initially felt ok. I knew it was temporary. I was in my planning stages, mapping out my road trip, and pinning all my stops in Maps. I was excited. I was so grateful my aunt let me stay there. Her place was beautiful. She lived out in the country and had acreage and panorama views of the big sky and regular wildlife visitors. It truly was paradise. She was one of my biggest supporters, checking in every afternoon for her endearingly named “wellness check”. Not to make sure I was ok, but to check in and be a sounding board for all my ideas and fears. She was such a godsend during what felt like a tumultuous time in my life. She was living the true Montana dream with her little piece of heaven, just her and my new bestie, her sweet dog Kasey. She helped me with my camper too. She showed me how to dump my waste, level my camper, and gave me tips and tricks on all the supplies and resources I would need for my trip. She had a unique perspective on my life because she had married and then divorced from the family. So as a member not by blood, she could empathize with my need to leave. There’s nothing wrong with my family, but old habits die hard, and my family dynamics run deep and back several generations. I was attempting to break the mold and was met with resistance. Not by everyone, but some of them. I think they thought I couldn’t do it, or maybe that my quitting my job, leaving my marriage, and making a life on the road as a traveling tarot reader and blogger seemed irresponsible. Either way, I knew I had to do it no matter how many objections I received.
Spending those two weeks parked at her house allowed me to not only plan my trip but also develop a schedule and get used to writing every day. This wasn’t hard, I was extremely inspired. But as the days dragged out, and with the pressure from my family about what my plan was, I was beginning to think I was getting stuck again. I had to rip the bandaid off. I had to go. So I set a date and prayed like hell I would get everything done I needed to in order to leave by then. Of course, there were hiccups, but sure as shit, the day came and I was ready to depart.
Even that Monday as I was hooking up my camper and making arrangements to pick up the dogs I had this kernel of doubt like, “Am I actually going to make this happen?” Earlier I had packed up and moved out the remaining stuff from my ex-husband's house, ironically they were the grandfather clock my grandpa had made custom, and my grandma's china. I grew up eating on the china at every family gathering, and there were many. I carry the memory of those dinners with me constantly. I loved our family get-togethers. Back then, things felt more normal. My grandma made everything special. She made homemade everything. Her kitchen was the place that felt most like home growing up. I remember making jam and Christmas cookies and gingerbread houses where the cotton snow stuck to everything. The grandfather clock watched over us, in the background, serving as a constant fixture of stability and memories. When my grandpa died, years after my grandma, the only thing I wanted was the clock. I was a single 20-something kid with no real place to put it, but the clock served as a reminder of when things were really good. I moved it around with me, to every apartment I lived in until I met my now ex-husband.
After they both passed, our family dynamics changed drastically. Dinners became less frequent, and the spark of magic that once was, was barely there. My grandpa was an asshole at times, but he was funny as hell. I loved going to family reunions and listening to my mom and aunts and uncle reminisce about the quirky things my grandpa used to do and the made-up language he used to speak. He had nicknames for everyone and none of them made sense. My grandma was Mickey and Nan. Her name was actually Jo. My mom was Tate Nan, or maybe that was my sister, or maybe both. He had endearing names for everyone and, despite his inability to tell us how he felt, it was these small gestures that showed us he cared no matter how mean he could be.
My grandma was the glue that held our family together. She was the heartbeat. We would show up to her house and she would take care of everything. She embodied everything you would want in a grandma- squishy snuggles, fluffy dogs, hard candy, and soooo many cookies. My fondest memories are playing in the motorhome with my cousins in the summer, or when we’d visit them over spring break at their house in Arizona. I miss her every day and I’d like to think she is looking down on me as one of those people who is proud of me. Every accomplishment, every monumental moment, I think of her. I try to embody the person she always saw in me and I find peace in knowing I followed through.
When my grandma died life got really hard. I felt like my network of support had died. Whether perceived or real, I felt really alone. Family get-togethers felt different. We were adjusting. As the years went on our family traditions changed. Some faded out, and life as it once was, seemed like a distant memory. Death and change are inevitable, and traditions often are meant to die, but as my drinking got worse and then when I finally got sober, I had to face the facts, family dynamics change for better or worse and I had an opportunity to carve my own path.
I’m a movie buff. Maybe you know this by now. One of my favorite movies growing up was Good Will Hunting. I didn’t fully understand its beauty until later in my adult years, but I remember falling in love with Matt Damon’s character, Will, because I saw a lot of myself in him. Not because I’m some math genius, but because I’ve always felt misunderstood. I accepted the life and hand I was dealt and made the best of my situation. Now I by no means grew up in a home like he did, but I could relate to being confused about who I was because it didn’t match up with the life I was living.
The monumental scene I missed as a kid, that later had a profound impact on my life was, (spoiler alert) at the end of the film. His friend Chuckie, played by Ben Affleck, led a similar life to him. Poor, worked to death, and with no real aspirations. Every day Chuckie would pick Will up and one day he told Will that every day he drives to his house he secretly wishes Will won't answer the door. He knew Will was special and he prayed he’d get out and break the cycle he was living day in and day out. They all were living that way, and they were ok with it, but Will was different. He wasn't meant for that life. At the end of the film, Chuckie drives to Will’s house and he’s not there. He drives off with a smile knowing his friend finally followed his dream and lived up to his potential. There are a lot of other things that happened in the movie, obviously, but that moment was profound.
I’d been talking about leaving for months, I’d been pushing my departure date back and then back again. Taking weekend trips here and there, but not ever really leaving. On the day I was finally leaving, I stopped by a friend’s house to say bye. She asked me if I was going back to Missoula. I know she didn’t say it because she didn’t believe I would ever leave. After all, it wouldn’t be surprising if I was making the trek back to my former residence. I told her no. I told her I was leaving for good on my big trip. I watched her entire expression change. Her face lit up. I could see she, similarly to Chuckie, had probably secretly hoped I would leave and finally do it. I was the only one standing in my way.
I didn’t take offense to the question at all. I enjoyed that tiny moment of joy with my friend who had been there the whole ride. She was the one I had moved in with when I left Tom. She was the one who consistently showed up, always, because she had been there too. She was one of the first people I shared my dream of living camper life with, so many months earlier. She was yet another example of all the people I had in my corner whether I realized it or not.
Sometimes I get in my head and think I don’t have any support and that all my encouragement died with my grandma, but when I look around, the overwhelming sense of gratitude I have for the many many people who have been in my corner all along is truly remarkable.
After I picked up my boys and made my way out of town, I had this sense of peace and yet, still so much fear. I was headed to North Dakota to park at a friend’s house. She too, is one I will cherish forever. She’s my college bestie. There’s no way in hell either of us would have made it through without each other. One of my favorite memories of college was staying up way too late slaving over research papers, mostly me cleaning up hers- she would agree- and then rewarding ourselves with a steak dinner and our favorite chocolate cake at our favorite restaurant. That was our ritual. One of those late nights we actually got locked in the school library and couldn't get out. We had to call campus security to come and get us. She was my ride-or-die and still is, and I was so excited to see her.
She’d just gone through a tremendous loss, and she and her husband were grieving deeply. I wanted to be there and love her as she had with me so many other times.
My first stop before North Dakota was Billings because I didn’t want to make the 7ish-hour drive into the night, or ever, with a camper and two dogs. I remember seeing a raccoon run in front of me- don’t worry, I didn’t hit it- just before I got to the place I was staying for the night. Another friend, from Missoula, had an uncle who lived on a farm. She connected us and he let me stay there for the night. My time there was less than 24 hours, but the landscape was breathtaking. He had horses and tons of acreage- quintessential Montana farm property. I was grateful again for yet another friend who showed up for me.
As I made my way east the next morning, I remember thinking, “Ok, I’m really doing it. I can’t look back now.” I was relieved and emotional. Honestly, I didn’t really know how to feel. I think I was still getting used to the idea that this was my new life and I had finally made it happen.
When I crossed the border into North Dakota, I started to see dead raccoons. I think before this I'd seen no more than five raccoons ever. I passed at least four on my way to my friend’s house. Normally this would be insignificant, but I paid attention to it this time. Raccoons are known for their secrecy and their craftiness. They are kind of a menace too. They also have this incredible will to survive and thrive amidst chaos and unfit conditions. I took it as a good omen. I was saying goodbye to the old version of myself, the small version, the version that felt like it had a chokehold on the big me that wanted out. I was embracing the stronger, more resourceful, resilient version of me.
North Dakota gets a bad rap. It’s the least visited state in the US that I know of, but jokes aside, it’s gorgeous. I was there a couple of years ago for my friend’s wedding and I felt the same way. Most of the major “cities” are smaller than the ones in Montana, which is saying something, and most of the country is just wide open farmland. The sunsets are unmatched and the North Dakotans rival those Minnesota nice. My friend lives in Dickinson, which isn’t that pretty compared to the country that surrounds it. It’s mostly chains and there’s very little to do. But I didn’t mind. I was there to see my friend and just be. We spent most of our days watching my dogs and hers try to figure out how to play. Murphy, her dog, is two and very playful. Lars, my oldest, is normally very playful, but also can be a grumpy old man. He was the latter for the first few days. Otto, my baby, but he's three, is just along for the ride, and wants human affection at all times. Eventually, they figured it out and Lars and Murphy would chase each other around the backyard with Otto trailing behind barking, so he could be included. She had the best backyard. It was so cozy with the patio furniture and there was tons of room for the dogs to run. I also enjoyed sitting out there alone, writing the night away with just the brightness from my computer and the string lights dangling above. The sky was so dark and clear, it was beautiful.
I loved spending time with my friend. It was such a relaxing time catching up and not worrying about any agenda. We also spent time in her classroom getting it ready for the school year to start. It was fun being in her world and watching her creativity come to life. I think we both needed the break from the day-to-day. My favorite parts of the trip were the walks we would go on. She lived in a quiet neighborhood, so we would take the dogs out in the evenings when it wasn’t so hot and do a big loop.
The first night on our walk, we were making our way around this corner when she saw a shooting star. I was bummed I missed it, but sure enough, a few minutes later, one showed itself to me too. After that, on our way back, the whole sky lit up for a second. It looked like a giant camera had flashed. I knew it was lightning, but there were no bolts, just this magnificent second of magic. Then, on our final block, another flash happened. This one was isolated to one part of the sky, but it also looked like a camera went off. I’d never seen anything like it before. Her husband told me later they get lightning like that all the time. I fucking love this country and the different weather phenomena that happen in each state. North Dakota isn’t very far from Montana, but it felt, at that moment, that I was really far away.
On the second to last day, my friend told me she was sad to see me go. I was too. She’d been so blessed with the outpouring of support during her devastating loss. Me leaving reminded her that she had to go back to her daily life without the baby she had hoped she would one day raise. We talked a lot about the loss. It wasn’t just a miscarriage, she had carried the baby, healthy as a clam, for 21 weeks, and then one day she was gone. My friend opted to give birth so she could hold her baby and give her a proper burial. I’ve had two miscarriages, and those both crushed me, but I can’t imagine the pain of giving birth to a baby I knew would never take its first breath earthside.
I was anxious about leaving for different reasons. I knew I would miss my friend and cherished the moments we spent together over those few days, but I was, for the first time afraid of the unknown road ahead of me.
I had a lot of fear about leaving Montana, but not because I would be on my own. I was excited about that. I was afraid of money trouble, of hiccups with my trailer, and other logistical things. I think those last two days made my new life a reality. I don’t think it had fully sunk in the magnitude of the journey ahead. I was headed into unknown territory and yes, it would be beautiful, but I suddenly felt really alone. I ate the last of the tater-tot hotdish she'd made for us and much of the giant bowl of puppy chow she'd also made. I knew that would be one of the last home-cooked meals I would eat for a while. I can cook in my camper, but it's not the same.
The last day was better because I connected with some other people in recovery and they reminded me that not only will I always be taken care of, but I have friends everywhere, even if I haven’t met them yet. I felt peace in knowing that and knew, no matter what, I was going to be ok. We both were, under different circumstances, but for the same reason.
She had a network of support so large, people from all over showed up in droves reminding her of her strength and her incredible ability to be a true friend. She’s truly a remarkable human.
As I packed up and drove off, I felt this lightness. I was making my way more east than I’d ever been by road and in new country I’d never seen.
My first pit stop, before making my way towards Minneapolis, was a small farm I found on an RV app my aunt had told me about. As I wove my way through dirt road after dirt road, wondering where the hell could this possibly lead, I arrived at this large property filled with tractors, big barns, and giant silos. It was kind of scary actually. The sun was setting on the endless horizon, and it became really dark. When you're away from the lights of the city or highway, it gets darker than I was comfortable with. The owner wasn’t home, so he told me I could park in the back and plug in for the night. Being so isolated was jarring. I spent much of the night tossing and turning, hoping my boys wouldn’t have to pee and take me outside into the vast blackness. Even with a flashlight, it was terrifying. It amplified the shadows of the silos, tractors, and semis that surrounded me. I envisioned this being the beginning of a horror movie. I was just waiting for one of my dogs not to come back, or imagining a man emerging from one of the buildings suddenly with a chainsaw or something else to murder me with. To make matters worse, the owners had left a radio on in one of the buildings, so faint music played in the air adding to my terror.
Now I’m a bit dramatic at times. This place was verified, and I knew my brain was just running wild trying to keep me from moving forward with my trip. We all got our sleep, and the next morning we made our way to the next pit stop leaving unscathed. Obviously.
The next night, we stayed at a place near Bagley, Minnesota. It was a working berry farm and they grow tons of other fresh produce too. It was about a five-hour drive and it rained the whole way. I enjoyed the rain. I loved the gloomy, misty air as I drove through more farm country. I passed corn and hay fields and several sunflower farms. I was shocked and amazed when I saw the sunflowers. I’d never seen anything like that before. My host at the berry farm told me that’s where sunflower oil comes from. Makes sense.
We stopped on the other side of the bridge after Grand Forks, North Dakota. Crossing the bridge meant we were now in Minnesota. I say that in my head with a heavy accent. There was a park with a path that ran through it, and we had a break from the rain, so I decided to stop so the boys and I could stretch our legs and I could eat. I was starving, and I had passed a Little Caesars, and since I was short on cash, a Hot-N-Ready pizza sounded perfect. We sat while I ate my pizza, and then we strolled through the park. As we walked, I felt almost euphoric from the sense of joy and accomplishment that was washing over me. I was doing it. I was really doing it. The boys were so happy to run around, even though they were clearly enjoying the car ride. They both would cram themselves onto the front seat and take turns sitting on each other while one slept and the other looked out the window with a big grin on their face. They also took turns leaning over the center console so they could put their head or paws on my lap. Usually, that was Otto.
When we picked back up our driving, the rain started again. I thanked the sky for the brief reprieve so we could get some fresh air.
Similarly to the drive to the scary farm, the Honeyberry Farm was hidden down a maze of small country roads. My GPS kept telling me to make a left or a right down another county road. But unlike the last one, this place was a dream. When I drove in, the grassy spot where I parked my camper hugged a large, fenced garden. I got out and took my dogs down the long dirt driveway to check-in. As we walked, we passed a slew of antique tractors. These were not scary. The house where the host lived was quaint and nestled behind a large line of trees. On the other side, I could see a huge orchard of berries. I was excited to try them. After we met the host, Bernis, we went back and hung out in our camper for the night to recover from the drive.
The next morning, we walked back down to the house so I could buy some produce. She was so kind. Bernis puts the nice in Minnesota nice. She gave me a tour of her farm and grabbed bags to fill with produce. We wandered through the rows as she told me about all the things she and her husband grew. She had everything from fresh herbs to literally any vegetable you could think of. I took a little of everything. She told me she and her husband had bought the land and planted everything themselves. They had started with a blank canvas and created a masterpiece. Before leaving, she brought me a bag of plumbs and then filled the bag with more goodies. She showed me her rosehips and chokecherries and the other tiny herb garden located behind the house.
I felt so honored that she took the time to teach me about her farm. We also talked about her Instagram because she didn’t use it very often and I wanted to tag her in my stories. I showed her a few tips and helped her navigate both her Instagram and Facebook pages. It was so sweet how she invited me into her house and sat me on the couch so she could ask me all her questions. It didn’t feel weird or awkward. Just two strangers, enjoying each other's company.
As I was leaving I was telling her about my tarot reading and how I use my social media to promote it. She told me she believed in Jesus and that God was the creator. I told her me too. I think a lot of people think that because I do tarot, I believe in dark magic. I believe in the Universe. I believe we are all created as a small part of this big universe and that our purpose is to connect and love one another. I told her that. I told her that I think it’s so beautiful at the core of most religions is love. That we can all agree that our purpose is to love and be kind to one another. She gave me a big hug and told me she’d made a new friend.
My heart was so full as I pulled away from the berry farm onto my next destination. It’s people like Bernis that make this whole trip worth it. This is why I’m doing this. It’s the tiny moments of joy and the connections with strangers that make me feel so much comfort and peace.
I continued on my journey east towards Minneapolis. I was going to stay with family for a few days. By marriage, I have family in the area, so I was excited to see them. On the way, I stopped at this cheese farm I had also found on my RV app. More on all of that later.
I’ve been living in my camper full-time now for over two months. That feels wild to me. I’ve only been gone from Montana for less than two weeks, but I’ve made this place a true home. Before I left Helena I did some petsitting for a few days to make some extra cash. I always love hanging out with dogs. Any dogs, give me all the dogs. Getting paid is just a perk. But what I didn’t expect was, that after I was done and came home to my camper, the second I walked in I felt happier. This place has become my sanctuary. The place where I sleep, eat, write, read my cards, cry, watch movies, and plan my next stops. It’s small but it’s mine. I was worried the boys would be uncomfortable, but they love it. They sit with me at the table and snuggle while I do tarot and eat breakfast, and they snuggle with me at night while I lay in bed and write. Having a smaller space forced me to downsize significantly, but I have everything I need and it’s all unpacked. No more living out of suitcases like I’d been doing for the last year or so. I finally have a place to settle. Plus, the ever-changing scenery allows us to get out and explore, and the boys are having the time of their lives.
The further I get from home, the freer I feel. With every passing mile, I make my way closer to my destination, which is no destination at all.
*As a courtesy I changed my ex-husband's name to protect his anonymity.
*The picture above was taken somewhere in Eastern Montana.
*Pictured below- All the puppy pics, corn fields, small towns, the Nekoma Pyramid in North Dakota- by far the strangest thing I've seen so far, Murphy begging for food, the "best" Mexican food in North Dakota, Eastern Montana, grasshoppers- they are EVERYWHERE, horses from the ranch I stayed at in Billings, my life packed into a 10 x 10 storage unit, alllll the dogs, and me climbing scary ladders because I love my friend that much.
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