When the adventure leads home

We hiked every day, even on the couple of intermittent-rain days. The reward for putting up with the wetness was a dusting of snow on the mountains the next day. Dan dragged me out of bed before sunrise—twice—so we could catch the alpenglow. If you’ve never seen pink frosting on a mountaintop, you need to get out more.

We just returned from a two-week road trip. A week in Wyoming’s Grand Teton National Park, down into Utah to visit family, west through Nevada and then north to explore some of eastern Oregon’s frontier land.

If you asked Dan and me about the highlights of our trip, we’d talk about the wildlife sightings. We captured a mama moose in … (wait for it) … Moose Pond. There were herds of bison and lone elk bugling for the ladies, and small families of deer. All captured on a phone that thinks it’s a camera.

In Jackson, we signed up for dinner and cowboy entertainment by way of covered wagon (notice the rubber tires).

And then there was the golden beauty as fall commenced to show off …

… plus the challenge and fun of a variety of hikes. My favorite trek was partway around Jenny Lake before summiting to Inspiration Point …

… stopping to view Hidden Falls on the descent.

It was all magical.

But the most magical moment was returning home.

Don’t get me wrong. I love venturing out. I love seeing new places, learning the history, and hiking new trails with my husband who also loves exploring.

And. I love coming home to our simple, sweet life. To a house that always welcomes us. To a garden that was overgrown in our absence. To the asters that were in full bloom and the wisteria that was taking over the south fence.

After unpacking and catching up on laundry, I sat cross-legged on the couch. My fingers were clacking away over the keys of the laptop because my heart was full—the simple pleasure and comfort of home, of life with this good man sitting across from me.

Fredrick Backman, in his book A Man Called Ove, describes what I’m trying to say. Ove, the protagonist, is reminiscing about his deceased wife, Sonja:

“Loving someone is like moving into a house,” Sonja used to say. “At first you fall in love with all the new things, amazed every morning that all this belongs to you, as if fearing that someone would suddenly come rushing in through the door to explain that a terrible mistake had been made, you weren’t actually supposed to live in a wonderful place like this.

“Then over the years the walls become weathered, the wood splinters here and there, and you start to love that house not so much because of all its perfection, but rather for its imperfections. You get to know all the nooks and crannies. … Which of the floorboards flex slightly when one steps on them or exactly how to open the wardrobe doors without them creaking. These are the little secrets that make it your home.”

Home isn’t simply an address. It’s also the people who occupy that address with us.

Yes, Dan and I love to venture out.

And yes, there’s nothing like taking a journey to prompt us to notice and appreciate and value what we have—and who we share it with—in this sweet place called home.