Chasing the Sunset

     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.