The day had finally come. We loaded the bus on an overcast
Tuesday afternoon and started off on our way. Our destination? Bozeman, Montana,
some 12 hours of non-continuous driving to the west. It seemed extreme, as many
team members were eager to point to on social media, but after all, it was
conference week. This wasn’t the first time we’ve endeavored on this journey,
in fact three years earlier we had done the exact same trip, and it constantly
amazes me how little I remember from it. The landscape, the towns, the road
signs- all of it will be unfamiliar the second time around. I’m ok with that.
We never drive west through North Dakota, and sitting in a
travel bus with team while we progressed was a weird feeling. Every time we
stopped somewhere- a gas station in Jamestown, a restaurant in Bismarck, a
hotel in Dickinson, the North Dakota badlands- I could vividly recall memories
of what seemed like another life, whether it was high school sports or working
at a summer Bible camp. I guess it is indeed true that visiting the same place
with different people can actually make it feel like a place you’ve never seen.
We even went for a run in Dickinson in
the morning, a nice and comfortable morning run on the surprisingly quiet
streets of a past-oil-boom town. Though the streets we ran on were the same
streets I had once strode across in years past, everything was different. This
time I had teammates with me, and that combined with my previous experience,
made it not only feel smaller, but less exotic. It seems to me that in some
places, the more you visit the smaller it gets, while with others, the more you
visit, the larger and more mysterious it gets. However, I can’t really think of
anything that has stayed the same since the first time I saw it.
As we drove through the badlands, many faces (including my
own) were rested up close to the windows, absorbing this magnificent
transformation of the landscape, the result of years upon years of erosion by
the Little Missouri and its nefarious tributaries. I heard one of my teammates,
upon seeing West River Road, ask another if she had seen it. Wouldn’t that be a
great place to run, she wondered aloud. I couldn’t agree more. It seems that as
I grow to love running more and more, the more I find myself looking at places as
more than just a place that exists, but a running opportunity too. I look at a
gravel road and I can see myself running casually away from the road, headed
for someplace quiet where I can put in some serious work while entertaining my
sight at the same time. Apparently I’m not alone.
Then we crossed the border. Now, some borders are easy to
find, like the Red River between North Dakota and Minnesota and the Atlantic
Ocean between New York and France. The border between North Dakota and Montana
was a little less spectacular. We drove through Beach, ND, and then soon after
there was a sign proclaiming our entrance into Montana, and that was that. The
landscape looked much the same- the open range. The gently rolling and treeless
hills were occasionally sparkled with obstructing buttes, and tucked into a
hillside somewhere would be a quaint little home with a winding gravel road
leading up to the doorstep. As we entered into Montana, the common theme of the
drive seemed to keep going- more rural and hillier the farther west we go. You
could almost picture a cowboy perked confidently on his horse at the top of a
hill, disappointed in his observation of the nearby noisy interstate, designed
for people to travel through an area quickly without actually seeing it (hat
tip to John Steinbeck and his book ‘Travels With Charley’). The thin clouds in
the sky sometimes hide behind the sun for a little bit, but the sun fights
enough to shine a rainbow of colors through the outside of the clouds. The wind
never stops blowing.
As we keep going into Montana, it becomes apparent that we
will be stuck in a perpetual state of driving along the valley of the
Yellowstone River while being surrounded by badlands-esque hills and buttes. We
cross the Yellowstone more times than Allen Iverson said ‘we talkin about
practice man’, and I can’t imagine all of the large bridges were fun for the
engineers and construction companies to plan and build. After all, the wind
never stops blowing here.
It’s strange that this area doesn’t produce professional
runners. We are nearing the point where altitude actually affects you, hills
abound everywhere you look, soft gravel surfaces turn off in every direction,
and the wind is something that could only make a runner stronger. Is it the
winters? Probably not if Minneapolis can have a professional team. Is it the
wind? Mountainous areas get windy too, so I’m not so sure about that either. Is
it the ruralness of the area, therefore implying a lack of good coaching,
facilities, and runners to run with? I would lean more in that direction. What
is there to inspire kids here to run and be great at it? Yeah, I don’t really
know either.
It’s easy to see why they call these ‘fly-over states’; most
people simply go through these areas to get to someplace better. I remember
when I was talking to a park ranger at Theodore Roosevelt National Park this
fall, he said one of their struggles is trying to make the park a destination
for travelers, not simply a checkpoint on their way to Yellowstone or Glacier
National Parks. If, perchance, someone had to endure the tragedy of having to
drive through North Dakota and half of Montana to get to something special to
see, then I would feel bad for them too. Missing out on an opportunity to
appreciate all that is around and the people that can make the area vibrant are
definitely worth it. I remember a former teammate of mine who was from far
eastern Montana, and she would tell us that people would learn that she was
from Montana and instantly be jealous, mostly because that meant that she was
able to see mountains and they couldn’t. It was difficult for her to explain
that in fact she was quite a drive away from any mountains, but that’s how the
ball rolls I guess.
I remember, three years ago on our journey to Bozeman, the
first time mountains came into view in the far distance. The energy on the bus
instantly increased, and people started getting out phones and cameras to take
pictures, because this would be moments that we had to keep forever. What is it
about mountains that enthrall us so? I have never met a person with a negative
opinion of viewing a mountain, and I don’t think I ever will (if you feel the
need to prove me wrong, don’t). Why is it that a huge pile of dirt sometimes
covered in trees makes us stop and rethink everything about our life? Why do we
become reflective at the sight of something as majestic as a mountain? Let me
pose a question: let’s suppose we flip the world for a second. Let’s pretend a
child is raised and taught the opposite of what we are taught: mountains are
boring, the flat prairie is stunning, and people go out of their way to spend a
lot of money on yearly trips to the prairie. Would this child look upon the
prairie and gaze longingly, while looking upon a mountain and questioning what
could be better done with their time? This is a nature and nurture question: are
we as humans hardwired to have an appreciation for mountains? Or is it the North
Dakota life I have lived that makes me so appreciative of them? I sit here on
the bus, loving the views of eastern Montana around me, but also eagerly
awaiting the arrival of the promised mountains. We are still following the
Yellowstone River and its amazingly steep valleys beside it- wouldn’t a kayak
trip down the Yellowstone be fun? It’s still pretty windy.
We hit the mountains now. We could see them coming from
almost a hundred miles away, but now we are in them. I look around and I see teammates
staring quietly out the window, lost in thought. I feel the same way. Looking
at the mountains messes up my eyes and depth perception, and the hugeness of it
all is difficult to take it. I find myself sitting there and wondering what
exactly keeps my eyes going back to the same view over and over, like a drug. I
picture what it must be like to glide silently through the mountain trails,
running at a comfortable enough pace to absorb the serenity of it all. I
continue to sit, captivated by Creation, until we finally arrive in the more
open area that is Bozeman. The drive was great, but we all breathe a sigh of
relief having reached our destination.
It’s crazy to think how far we can travel in such short of a
time, because we can move across time zones and landscapes in a manner of
hours, making sure to watch movies, read books, or listen to music so that we
miss the journey. Sometimes I wish that we could simply apparate like the
characters in Harry Potter, but then again I also love seeing the places where
few people travel. Perhaps that’s a reason why I love running- I get a chance
to slow down and pass through landscapes as I ought. Distance means a lot more then,
and every step brings something both new and special. I can take in every
sight, smell, sound, and taste around me, all while doing something that comes
perfectly natural to our bodies. As always, it isn’t so much about the final
destination, but about enjoying the journey to get there. We may be here, but a
part of me still is on the bus, following the Yellowstone River west, waiting
to see what’s on the other side of the next hill, hoping it will captivate my
attention. Odds are it will.
