Oftentimes, when I make my way to town, I find my breath taken away as I breach the pass through the mountains down McVey hill.
The view through the pass, with blue skies and rugged granite cliffs in the distant background never fails to bring me into the very present – and remind me of how grateful I am to call these mountains home.
In the same way, there’s a certain location, just in the valley on my way back from town that’s surrounded by farms and history.
Each spring, the light glints off glistening fields that turn lush green as summer rolls in. I often revel in darkening clouds that speak of thunderstorms bringing rain to the mountains I so deeply love.
Be the view of green cottonwoods lying verdant in wet creek bottoms
or dry embankments leading to weathered grass heads in dry drainage sloughs
or the rugged rock outcroppings that beckon the antelope and mountain sheep
or the glistening forest branches in the snow
This land is of me, and I am of it. I didn’t know I was born to be here, until I knew I was meant to be.