“No one realizes how beautiful it is to travel until he comes home and rests his head on his old, familiar

pillow.” (Lin Yutang)

Over the past couple of months I’ve had the privilege of traveling a bit beyond the comforting borders of my Big Sky State. I lugged my rather robust purple suitcase—that my husband refers to as the giant purple hippo—across scuffed airport floors, gritty sidewalks and the polished marble floors of some of the nicest hotels I’ve ever stayed in along the way. I saw both new and fondly remembered sights….as well as new and familiar faces. They were trips that left a vibrant collage of memories in my mind that I’ve been replaying over and over again since arriving home.
 

My first trip, in early October, took me to fabulous Las Vegas….a place I’ve frequented since I was about 10-12 years old. One of the enticing elements of Vegas for me has always been its metamorphic nature…its utter refusal to slip into that most susceptible of states known as complacency. There is always a new hotel adding its glowing light to the notorious skyline and hopeful new acts making their debut on stages along the strip.
 

This particular trip to Vegas was unique, however, in that my husband and I journeyed there not for the endless buffets and glitzy hotels, but rather to reunite with two individuals with whom we share some of our fondest memories.
 

Almost a year ago to the date, Andy and I flew 11 ½ hours till we reached the azure blue waters of Fiji for our honeymoon. We spent the trip snorkeling, sailing, hiking, and scuba diving. Remarkably, in between all of our gallivanting about the island, we were also able to befriend two couples. Maybe it was the beautiful and peaceful environment, but Andy and I seemed to connect with these couples almost instantly. We talked and laughed with each other for hours as though we’d been friends for years. When the day finally arrived for us to board the boat and head back to the mainland, saying goodbye to their faces was the hardest part. When we parted ways I truly never believed that I would have the opportunity to see any of them again. With one couple from eastern Canada and the other from Scotland, it seemed like the odds of reconnecting again were slim.
 

But flash forward a year and one of these couples, Jen and Jamie from Scotland to be exact, informed us that they would be traveling to the states for a couple of weeks. One of the stops they planned on making was Las Vegas. Since Vegas is only about a 2 hour plane ride away for us, we told them we would love to meet up with them for dinner one night while they were there.
 

Jen and Jamie arrived in Vegas on a Saturday night and we told them we would wait for them in the lobby of their hotel. It was a truly special moment when Andy and I first caught a glimpse of our friends from across the lobby. I couldn’t believe that two people we met by chance thousands of miles away were standing right in front of us again. After warm embraces, the four of us migrated over to an Italian restaurant in the hotel where we shared stories and laughter over four bowls of spaghetti and meatballs.
 

After dinner, we walked down the strip a bit and paused for a couple of group photos with the vibrant lights of the city as our backdrop. Then it was time to say our goodbyes once more. It was sad to walk away from our friends again but I feel much more certain this time that our paths will continue to cross in the future. Andy and I secretly hope the next reunion with Jamie and Jen will be overseas in their neck of the woods.
 

Just a few weeks after our getaway to Vegas, myself along with Andy and my parents, boarded a plane again. This time though, our sights were set a little more to the south. It may not have been pouring rain, but when we touched down in Memphis I certainly felt like belting out the Mark Cohn song.
 

A year earlier we had made arrangements for our trip to the home of the delta blues after learning a glamorous new hotel was to open down the street from Graceland. With Priscilla Presley herself having a hand in the hotel’s design and members of Elvis’ band and entourage making guest appearances, it was simply an opportunity that couldn’t be passed up. My dad is about as big an Elvis fan as they come and he raised me with the proper respect and appreciation for the King so I was just as on board as going as him. While my parents and I had all been to Graceland before, my husband had yet to pay a visit. With such a landmark event taking place, we knew this was the right time to make the trip again.
 

Over the course of our five days in Memphis we ate some finger licking good BBQ, applauded the Peabody Ducks as they jumped into their hotel fountain, posed with an original microphone at Sun Records that Johnny Cash and Elvis themselves sang into, toured Graceland, and said some silent prayers over Elvis’ grave. We were among the first few hundred people to stay at the new Guest House at Graceland Hotel and shared in the beginning of a historic transformation of a Memphis neighborhood that has fallen by the wayside. It was an amazing trip and one that I was blessed to share with my family.
 

The other day I finally finished unpacking my purple hippo suitcase from our travels. With no trips planned for at least a few months, I realized it was safe to roll the suitcase back into the garage. While I felt a slight tinge of sadness over our trips being over, I smiled in knowing that I was quite grateful to be home as well. There is no place like Montana, but every once and awhile it is refreshing to leave my home state for a bit to see the other sights, sounds, smells and tastes of other places. And truly, the best part of any journey is the moment when you arrive back home. That is the moment you really appreciate all that you were able to see and do away from the comforts of home. And all your memories are what keep your home ignited with vibrant storytelling, laughter and joy.
 

 Lacey Middlestead is a Montana native and freelance writer currently living in Helena, Mont. She loves meeting new people and helping share their stories. When she’s not busy writing articles for newspapers like the Independent Record and Helena Vigilante, she can usually be found indulging in her second greatest passion–playing in the Montana wilderness. She loves skiing and snowmobiling in the winter and four wheeling, hiking, boating, and riding dirt bikes in the summer.

This is not the story of someone who loves hunting.

This is not the story of someone who hates hunting.

This is a story that falls somewhere in the middle...
 

I grew up in a hunting family. I have early memories of the whole family going along on hunting trips. My mom is not a hunter, but I remember the one year she tried and got her first antelope. I remember how happy my dad was sharing these experiences with us all. As I got older I became quite the animal lover and felt sad about all this hunting stuff. When my sister was old enough to hunt, she jumped right on it. When my turn came I never even considered it. I openly disliked everything about it...the idea of it, having to help my family process it and eating wild game. Later, when I married myself a city boy from Detroit far from the Montana boys I was used to I assumed I would get away from all things hunting. He had another idea. Apparently, city boys new to the country love the idea of getting to go out in the woods with a rifle on the hunt for the biggest buck. My hunting family took him right under their wings and showed him the way. This was when I officially became a hunting widow and my disdain of the hobby continued. Being left many weekends made even worse when we started our own family and I was on my own with babies. Wondering how anything could be worth getting up in the middle of the night and leaving a warm bed for a cold dark field scouting animals. Feeling so happy when eventually the novelty of hunting wore off and he settled into more reasonable hobbies like playing the guitar. Happy to finally be far away from the world of hunting and able to become the vegetarian I always knew I was in my heart.
 

While you might think this is how the story ends...me happy to be away from the hunting part of Montana, it’s not. There are equally as many reasons hunting is very much a part of who I am proud to say I became. Growing up in a hunting family I learned early on the value of being in nature. I believe those weekends out in the woods gave me my love of the Montana outdoors and to this day it is where I find the most peace. While I found it so gross to be in a cold garage cutting up meat with my family I learned the value of knowing where your food comes from. You can’t get much more farm to table than hunting. I learned early on the relationships that can form over a hunting bond...seeing how close my sister and dad were and still are. Watching her continue this tradition with her own family and their hunting weekends. I still have a soft spot for animals and don’t love seeing dead elk in the back of trucks driving around town, or catching a glimpse of one hanging in a neighborhood garage. However, I know this is all part of it... people feeding their families or feeding the community by donating it to the food bank. Over the years I have learned hunters are the ones who have the utmost respect for these animals. I know they wait for hunting season much like a skier waits for the first big snow and I wait for summer months to get back to the mountains.
 

Hunting is no longer a part of my life except for listening to stories from friends and family, seeing photos on social media and hearing the occasional gunshots while on a Fall hike. I do not love nor hate it. But I know hunting is very much a part of our history here in Montana and will always be an important part of our culture. I am grateful to have been raised around it and to understand this importance and all it has taught me.

Angela Jamison is a native Montanan and she grew up in beautiful Bozeman. I'm the mother of two girls and write a blog about our life here and taking in the simple pleasures of family and food.

http://www.rdeliciouslife.blogspot.com/

On the first day of hunting season in 2015, and a few days after opening this autumn, I climbed a mountain road above Jardine with my dog, both of us outfitted in florescent orange. It was a little like climbing a dirt road freeway, with a veritable rainbow of trucks passing, fathers and sons, friends, everyone outfitted in orange, many in camouflage. 
 

It was fun, like a progressive, uphill party. Several drivers stopped to chat including the owner of a mountain lodge who drove a battered old Subaru instead of a shiny new pick up. Mostly they wanted to admire my dog. One man stopped to be sure I was OK, sitting on a rock in the sun, resting.
 

A big buck deer ran by North and I, running up from the outfitters camp below. Running for its life. Running for llife.
 

It’s good I saw him before my dog or I would have been walking alone. A couple days later, a hunter spooked 7 antelope and North was gone in a second, running, running. And then I could see him thinking about what he was doing, maybe finally registering my voice, my call, slowing, slowing, pausing, smelling around, reassessing, then turning back to me. A bit of a miracle always with this rescue dog.
 

As I walked that road from Jardine, orange and yellow leaves sifted down to the road from aspen & other deciduous trees along the way. It used to be that by late October, there would be no leaves left to showcase autumn color.
 

Later in the day, my daughter and I drove in to Yellowstone and caught got in a buffalo jam. A man climbed out of the passenger seat of a vehicle, his orange vest making it apparent that he did not believe the flyer he surely had been handed, the flyer about not approaching bison. He crept along the side of his SUV, until he was just 10 feet from big buffs, trusting that the vehicle behind him would guarantee his safety as he snapped photographs. Maybe though the buffs were no more interested in the humans they passed than they were the vehicles themselves, their eyes big and red-rimmed, the fur russet, as they trudged & tumbled by.
 

We passed meadows of rippled with umber to russet to flat, tawny yellow. My right hand grasps the Corolla’s grey steering wheel and I notice my mother’s carnelian ring, its deep umber the color the same as my the tips of my hair as the last of its russet red fades to silver.
 

Carnelian. I Goggle it, curious what it’s qualities are. crystalvaults.com says it invokes the 2nd chakra, the center of the body’s life force, stimulating metabolism and a good supply of blood to the organs and tissues. It’s the color of adventure and social connection. It’s optimistic, sociable and extroverted.
 

The website “Empower Yourself With Color Psychology describes orange as “probably the most rejected and under used color of our time.”  It doesn’t seem that way in Bozeman, where  ubiquitous Road Closed, Road Construction, Slow signs show up apparently at random, everywhere. It’s an ever changing landscape of which road might actually get you where you want to go.
 

Also in Bozeman, obnoxious orange trucks were the beginning of a handyman business some years back. Now I see that they have upgraded to new vehicles, not dented-repaints. Orange worked for them.
 

Downstairs as I write my daughter is prepping bright orange carrots for our lunch, mixing sparkling water with orange juice.
 

Enjoy the colors, the flavors, the changing life-force of this season, a harvest of all that has been, the emergence of what will be.

 Jenna Caplette migrated from California to Montana in the early 1970s, first living on the Crow Indian reservation. A Healing Arts Practitioner, she owns Bozeman BodyTalk & Integrative Healthcare. For relaxation, she reads novels and walks the trails around Bozeman with her four legged companion. Oh, and sometimes she manages to sit down and write.