The crunch of frozen snow underfoot is the sole sound echoing through the pasture although I swear I hear my warm exhalations colliding with the frigid, night air. Two Australian shepherds, Buster and Bodhi, “herd” me pass the quiet pack of horses at the front of the pasture . The night’s thick, low-lying clouds block out the stars and the waning, crescent moon but reflect enough of the nearby lights of Bozeman to view the serenity of the bright white, tree-lined pasture.

This is my nightly, late evening stroll with my two, four-legged nephews as I housesit my sister’s twenty-acre horse boarding operation while her and her husband vacation in the California desert. The reflection of light off the snow is not the only reflection underway. While these nightly strolls are my last attempt to wear down the Aussies so they sleep through the night, they also serve as a time for me to clear my head. And refill it.

With my plan to return to Los Angeles derailed by a sudden wanderlust for Idaho, the concept of “home” becomes murkier by the day. As I walk my sister’s land, with the Bridger Mountains majestically in the distance (the low clouds chopping off the tops, they look like a mountain version of headless horsemen) and the east fork of the Gallatin winding alongside the property, the conceptual idea of having a place like this (conceptually it would feel like this, realistically it’s a very small house on a couple less than pristine acres) to call home collides with my desire to live at every other dot on the fucking map.

 

 

It was the tenth grade before I underwent a standard, childhood experience for the first time: attending the same school for consecutive years. Fleeting as it was, (I attended different schools in my junior and senior years for a grand total of eleven out of my twelve years at a new school) it was refreshing to be familiar with one’s surroundings and have people know your name. But by then the seeds had been sown and watered – I had grown into a wandering vine searching for the next space to grow towards.

Ironically, a post-high school stint in the military provided a few years of stability, the same military life that caused me to move so much as a child. I was stationed at El Toro for four years, the longest I had lived in one place up to that point. I quenched my wandering ways by volunteering for every temporary deployment available. I spent time in the deserts of California (29 Palms), Nevada (no town, just desert), Washington (Moses Lake), a two week staycation playing grunt at Camp Pendleton, and three-weeks aboard a ship off San Clemente Island. Leaving El Toro and spending my last two years for Uncle Sam in the Middle East and Japan tossed kindle onto my smouldering, wandering fire.

By the time I exited the Marines at twenty-four it took a rambling five minutes to answer the question “Where are you from?” whenever asked. The answer for the question “Where do you consider home?” was easier. I didn’t have one. My first two years after the Marines were more of the same. One year stops in Santa Cruz and Dallas were followed by an eye on moving to Austin until a fall Saturday night in 1993.

Little did I know that an alcohol-fueled, music-filled, all-nighter in a small college town north of Dallas would change my ways. It was love at first sight the night I met Denton, TX (or as a lot of us like to call it “Denton fucking Texas”). The triplet of great live music, cheap beer, and an endless parade of pretty girls ended my vagabond and boundless port-of-call lifestyle.

For the better part of thirteen years I called Denton “home.” Sure, there was the year I lived in Dallas to be with a girl and two months in Louisville (long story) but Denton was considered home. It’s where I became who I am today. It inspired me to be creative, taught me that staying true to oneself is always better than following the crowd, and introduced me to a inordinate amount of amazing, creative people. And I had fun by the shitloads.

But it’s hard to pin a wanderer down forever. Five years ago I moved back to Southern California and tried stints in Long Beach, Temecula, and LA proper. I REALLY like Los Angeles. She’s the beautiful girl you love to have on your arm but always fight with. It’s not the fit for me right now. But wow is she gorgeous and hope we have another fling someday.

Bozeman is the girl EVERYONE wants to go out with but I didn’t find that great. I loved the outdoor activities around Bozeman but I didn’t mesh with the town. I’m not sure I could explain it. There’s always a band that everybody loves that somebody just doesn’t get. Sorry Bozeman, I’m sure “it’s not you it’s me” but I didn’t get it.

So I’m giving a Idaho a try. Idaho Falls to be exact. Truthfully, the move to Idaho is motivated more by financial motivations than any honest desire to call the Gem State my home. I can get an apartment with a garage for less than a third of what it costs in any decent LA hood. But there’s more to it than money. I’ll be near multiple national and state parks and last summer’s exploration of Big Sky and Yellowstone country felt incomplete. There’s more I want to see and do up here. The theory being less expenses equal less time at a job and more time writing and searching for grizzlies. However it wouldn’t be the first theory of mine to work only on paper. Time will tell. For every minute I feel it’s time to stop these wandering ways there’s a minute I think how cool would it be to live in…(insert anywhere here). There’s a reason vines continually seek new open spaces; it’s key to their survival.

 

A quarter of a mile into the pasture Buster barks and sprints forward through the thick snow. I call out to him but he is long gone, disappearing into the far end of the pasture. I’m not concerned, these dogs know every inch of the property and regularly wander off before showing up at the back door. With Buster off into the night and Bodhi investigating the old cabin to my right, I stand alone in the expansive, white field. I inhale in the cool, night air and exhale a warm breath of stress. It’s similar to the purge that occurs when the cool water of the Pacific washes over me.

A snort of air from behind me breaks the night silence and I turn to see a large, white horse practically face to snout. I am more shocked he was able to sneak up on me more than startled by his presence. I am familiar with this horse. Every night when I walk the dogs in the pasture he has approached me near the fence. This is the first time he has followed me into the field.

I rub the rigid yet felt-like area between his eyes before petting the side of his neck and scratching under his head. A “Hey there big fella,” is acknowledged with a up and down motion of his head before stopping to allow more scratching. Unprovoked, in one quick move he jerks his head away, turns around, and gallops toward the rest of the herd. He is at first beautiful creature, then galloping ghost, and finally a memory after disappearing into the pack of horses.

A small dot in the distance heading in my direction rapidly turns into a bounding, larger ball of fur, and finally a very proud of himself Buster. My best guess is a few deer crossed the property and Buster gave the trespassers a good what for. I call out to Bodhi and he ends his exploration and joins our pack for the walk back to the house.

I feel a tinge of jealousy of my sister’s home. It’s beautiful and comforting in only a way a homestead can be. She and her husband have created a space that fits what they love and a place they can call their own. In moments like this the thought of finding a space of my own seems appealing. But I have a feeling I won’t find such a place as much as that place will find me. Only then will I have a place to call home, til then I wander in the cold night.