I thought a lot about the word "home" as the Sierra's slid by out the window. The morning light was turning them pink and I saw a sleepy reflection of myself in the side view mirror, having woken up at 4:15 to get an early start driving.
I feel at home when there's a long stretch of highway in front of me, the sound of an oar digging into the water, the way the wind tangles my hair around my face and drinking a beer when I feel like I've earned it. Home is the stack of duffle bags I've been living out of, the bangles of plane tickets around their handles and opening my eyes to see the sky lit up with the milky way. It's the coffee mug I never wash, the conversations of desperate adventures told around a fire, and the beaming grin I always have when I reach the summit.
I guess home for me, in the broader sense, has never been a place. It's been found in souls that I've met and laughing until my stomach hurts. It's been found in kitchens, kindness of strangers, couches donated to my vagabonding and embracing hugs of old friends. I love having a place to base out of, but I've always loved the freedom and the inspiration I get from being on the move.
This past trip to Yosemite was one of the best trips I've had. I love the burning of my calves up the hillside, the scabs on my hands from climbing, the blood donated to the wall with the cause of reaching the top. I love watching the headlamps from the climbers on El Cap, laying in the meadow, eating pizza at the end of a long day spent running around. I love the sound of cams hula-hooped on a harness and the dinners made in the dark.
Those things are the things my heart returns to and my soul aches to be a part of again and again.
I'll keep traveling for another bit of time, bringing this season to a close. It's been a season for the books, and I can tell you that I've never been happier than I am these days.