Hindsight isn't always 20/20
With time comes decisions, with decisions, change. It wasn’t five years ago that I weaved west on I-90, through Hellgate Canyon along the Clark Fork into Missoula, my belongings packed to stay. En route from Bozeman, I was a kid seeking novelties, but subtle enough to keep me in Montana. My life wouldn’t move far, but as I would learn, even small transitions lead to immense revelations.
The first years of college I spent a typical freshman. I attended classes and explored outside, went drinking on weekends and met lots of new people. During this time I began to notice an energy I had yet to feel elsewhere–a warm bliss that seemed never failing to calm inner nerves or relax an agitated conscious–and in Missoula, it radiated. I’d live here forever and that was the end of it.
Fascinated with the new and attractive lifestyle, by the end of my sophomore year I had to yet to entertain the thought of actual independence. My significant choices were made impromptu, rather than with careful consideration. So in February 2015, I decided to go to New Zealand for a semester abroad, a trip that would be my first big break from Missoula after arriving as a freshman. After an enlightening five months of hitchhiking, backpacking and on occasion, school, I returned to the city I’d called home since 2012.
I arrived elated to an exciting friend group that I’d missed on my travels. The rest of the summer was spent climbing at Mill, biking in the Rattlesnake, and backpacking in Glacier. When September rolled around, I unloaded my two backpacks I’d been living out of and prepared to settle back in. While unpacking my valuables from my life on the road, an abstract thought of place and its influence of perspective drifted into mind. I felt I’d just experienced more in the past half year than my previous college tenure altogether. So as fall aged to winter, Missoula slowly began to feel old. First Fridays seemed generic, I tired quickly of the warm days in January, and the view of the M, perched behind the university clock tower, had become all too familiar.
No longer was I worried about getting left on the side of the road with my thumb in the air, or wondering if the town ahead had a hostel with open rooms. No longer did I plan by the day or have rushes of uncertainty flooding my everyday life. I went to class, went to work and had my weekends. My routine seemed static and too predictable.
But as spring stretched onward I made another decision and took an internship at Outside Bozeman Magazine in my hometown. The summer was scattered between close family and old friends, new work in a familiar place. I had countless wonders of livelihoods elsewhere, but again appreciated the change of scene.
Now, I’m back in Missoula on the heels of a graduation date. As my expected ending nears, I’m faced with another bundle of decisions, all of which constitute change. Do I leave and commit to something elsewhere? Or stay and keep my options open, perhaps look for something local?
Last Saturday I went Christmas shopping on Reserve street around mid-day. People everywhere packed the isles, lined the checkouts, and backed up the streets. A chaotic mess of mounting skis, switching snow tires, and buying presents. But even amidst this tumultuous frenzy, I felt relief–an ease of peace so rare everywhere else–a Missoula relief. Though the stores were jammed and the lines were enormous, people went out of their way to hold the door and stop in traffic to wave others in.
So when the snow started falling last night and showed no sign of letting up, I had to ask myself, do I really want to leave? As the flakes danced under silhouetted street lamps I let nostalgia play with my mind and I thought about how Missoula has changed me, how it’s still changing me.
It welcomed me five years ago when I pulled off at Exit 105 in the family van and moved into Craig Hall. It’s fueled hearty laughs into timeless friendships, and soaked me with the small slice of culture Montana has. Even when I was bitter about it last year, it greeted me with powder at Lost Trail and sticky limestone at Rattler. Missoula is a place that rids unnecessary ego and replaces it with humility. A place that instills sincerity and encourages community. It’s shaped these years of biking over the Clark Fork to grab a slice at the Bridge and skipping class to get ridiculous face shots, singing along to the Lil Smokies and dancing late into the night at the Union.
Like it has to so many others, Missoula embraced me. And no matter the decisions that lie ahead or the changes that will unfold as a result, it’s a place I’ll always associate with. Missoula will always have me.