Going Home

Growing up in Minnesota, while not usually a kid’s ideal home in winter since snow days hardly ever exist, I was conditioned to always seek out what was around me. From our vast expansion of lakes to the numerous state parks that flourished with trees and campsites, us Minnesotan natives loved the state; winter, spring, summer and autumn. Technically speaking of course, Minnesota only really has two seasons, road construction and winter. Both of which were non-stop it seemed. I've grown up here, parts of me are spread across the state in locations I've visited and felt some sense of wonder towards. It’s been 23 years that I've spent around these lakes and trees. When you’re a kid, you don’t think too much about being an adult, or at least I didn't. Now that ‘adulthood’ has arrived, I’m realizing that Minnesota isn't where my heart belongs. That brings me to the titling of this post, going home.

In 5th grade, so when I was probably 11 or so, my mom, her boyfriend at the time, and my little brother packed up their things and headed for Colorado. Towards summer, my oldest sister and my best friend, would follow them out there. That summer, I got the chance to visit them and that visit changed my life.

I remember it was the first time I had ever flown in a plane. I was nervous, scared, excited and yet strangely calm. Since my oldest sister-we’ll refer to her as L from now on-was 17, me and my other sister, B (she’s the middle child), were not in need of the standard ‘stewardess accompaniment.’ My sister talked to the pilot of the plane to let him know it was our first time flying and he assured us nothing would happen and then handed us each these little gold plastic wings, which I still have. Once we landed in Denver, my mom’s boyfriend was supposed to be picking us up. He was the one boyfriend of my mom’s that I can remember liking and treating as another father. He was slim, stood at about 5’11″, had dark hair, light eyes, and bowed legs like you would imagine a cowboy having. He always wore Wrangler jeans, a baseball cap, work boots, and a t-shirt that was always tucked neatly behind a brown belt with some form of buckle. To this day, I can remember him meeting us at the airport gate and making the comment, “Jesus, they just let me stroll through security like I was the god damn president.” After he greeted us with hugs and making us laugh like he always did, we followed him to the more privatized portion of the airport. We walked outside onto the tarmac and all I remember seeing was a decent sized private jet. I asked him if that was the plane we were riding it and his only reply was a glance over his shoulder and a chortle that still resounds into my head today. We passed the jet and there it sat, the puddle jumper, this tiny little 6 seater plane. My mom’s boyfriend, J, worked for a game farm where he was the hunting guide. The company owned the plane to take them to and from Denver since the farm was located on the other side of the state. We loaded ourselves into the plane, donned our headsets, and proceeded to take off.

L, who apparently wasn’t very good with flying in small planes, ended up vomiting up the Cinnabon we ate before leaving Minneapolis all over my sock and shoe. Thankfully, we were able to retrieve a barf bag for her before anymore could come out onto me. Looking out the small window of the less than quiet plane, I recall seeing mountains covered in streams, trees, and large boulders. We were even lucky enough to spot a herd of elk thanks to J’s keen eye for spotting wildlife. As we got closer to our destination, the mountains soon turned into a desolate field of dirt and shrubbery. Upon landing, I remember thinking, ‘really? this is where we’ll be? practically the middle of nowhere?’ We got off the small puddle jumper and my mom and my little brother were there in outstretched arms. She told us we had actually landed on the farm’s property and it would only be about a 3 minute drive to the farm itself. We crammed into the truck and drove down a winding dirt road.

The first thing I remember seeing was the orchard trees where the nectarines and peaches were grown. As we continued, the horizon began expanding and it finally opened up into a canyon. Inside the canyon, a river flowed and three ponds were visible. The ponds were mostly used for fly fishing and you could go rafting along the river. There were open fields, three cabins, a yurt-which if you don’t know, is this funny little round building-a clubhouse where the guests met before their daily treks, three more cabins, a boat house along the river and then the owner’s house. My only thought at this point was wondering how much history had taken place in this canyon a hundred years ago or so. Along one of the canyon walls just off the road were petroglyphs left by Native Americans. This portion of the farm captured my interest the most. While I wasn't sure what they meant, I know it had to have been left by someone of importance.

After we got out of the car and J showed us around the clubhouse, my mom told us to go off and explore the area, as this is where we’d be spending a majority of our time there. I nodded and took off for the river’s edge. Looking across to the other side of the canyon, I noticed a platform made out of rock that looked as if it could have been used during a battle as it had a perfect place to sit and rest a weapon. While I fantasized about the possible battles that took place there, I noticed I had this strange feeling swell over my body. Since it was my first time in Colorado, I figured it was just excitement and my nerves from being a little unfamiliar with my surroundings. I began walking back towards the clubhouse and into the nearby rows of orchard trees where I could smell the sweet scent of the nectarines flowing from the trees. The smell of the fruit, the river water, and the dirt were combining to make this sort of perfume that has yet to leave my mind. My eyes fluttered from canyon wall to canyon wall in hopes I’d catch a glimpse of the past that I now somehow seemed apart of. I made my way over to the ponds and sat down, looking for where my sisters had gone. I sat for about 10 minutes before I heard someone calling my name. I realized it was my mother so I hurried back to the clubhouse. As soon as she saw me running towards her, she asked me what I thought. When I reached her, I told her I loved everything about this place, how I didn’t want to leave, and about the strange feeling that washed over me as I was staring into the canyon. I asked her what this feeling could possibly mean since I had never felt it before.

She laughed a little, tilted her head, and said, “That’s how you know you’re home, honey.“