Still Wild
Succumbing to the allure of the West.
If you’re like me, maybe fear has held you back from a lot of things. It’s easy to let fear of failure, fear of starting over, or fear of letting people down ultimately make decisions for you. It can be hard to leave familiar faces, places, and comforts behind, but even scarier might be the fear of never following the pull of a place you love. I reckon a lot of people who journey west know what I’m talking about.
At 15 years old, when I first laid eyes on the Bridger Range, I knew instantly it was where I belonged. Unfortunately, I couldn’t run away just yet, no matter how starry-eyed and in love with the mountains I had become.
My hometown in Wisconsin never felt the same after that first trip west. Suddenly, the trees that had always seemed cozy felt like they were closing in on me. What I once considered a rolling landscape fell flat. The rush of the rivers didn’t hold the same power, and I could never see enough of the sky.
Maybe our bones know where we fit best before our minds finally figure it out. And maybe that’s an instinct most people ignore.
And so began my wanderlust. For the next decade, I saved money whenever I could just to travel—Montana, Colorado, Idaho, Wyoming—any place that stirred up that familiar feeling of possibility and wide-open spaces. But Bozeman held a special place in my heart, even though moving there felt like a far-fetched dream with its increasing popularity and rising cost of living. I often wondered if I would ever make, or if it was already too late.
By age 30, I’d tried to fill the void with the things society expected: a 30-year mortgage, a respectable job with benefits, and a familiar network of friends and community. I had settled, and I was comfortable, but I wasn’t the best or most inspired version of myself.
I spent a lot of time staring at my computer screen and reminiscing about my wilder days—and I mean “wild” almost literally—when I lived in rustic cabins, campers, and traveled more often. It hadn’t been easy, but I’d felt lighter then, more like myself, and I wanted to get back to that feeling. Only this time, the mountains were calling.
I sold my home and most of my belongings until everything I owned fit beneath the topper of my old Tacoma. And then I hit the road.
And so began some difficult decision-making. Thankfully, those decisions came with an overwhelming sense of relief that assured me I was moving in the right direction. I quit my job and went back to school for digital marketing, hoping for a chance to flex my creative muscles and work from anywhere I wanted. I sold my home and most of my belongings until everything I owned fit beneath the topper of my old Tacoma. And then I hit the road.
There will always be a place in my heart for Wisconsin—with the smells of childhood, colorful mornings in tree stands, and loon calls echoing across glassy lakes. But I could never shake my desire to move west, and the feeling of finally making it is one I’ll never forget.
Sitting here now, I stare at the mountains with coffee in hand, learning about each range and peak surrounding my new home. And I can’t help but think about how quickly life falls into place when you surrender to whatever it is that calls to you. When people ask, “Why move when you can just visit?” I usually answer, “Because I have too many mountains to climb before I get old—and that’s assuming I’m lucky enough to grow old in the first place.”
I don’t know if Gallatin County is where I’ll hang my hat forever, but I know there’s plenty here to keep me feeling inspired for a while. In many ways, it feels more like home than any place I’ve ever lived—and maybe that’s not crazy, when I think about the places my ancestors once lived and the rugged terrain they crossed. Maybe our bones know where we fit best before our minds finally figure it out. And maybe that’s an instinct most people ignore.
Most of us come from immigrants and settlers who traveled across the world and risked their lives to lay claim on new dirt. Perhaps, over time, we lost some of that drive and gave up some of those dreams. But when put into perspective, packing up your life and driving your air-conditioned vehicle across the country isn’t so hard after all.
Bozeman is certainly busier than it was when I first laid eyes on the once-intimate mountain town, and I realize the irony in my small contribution to that. I suppose the best we can do is try to preserve and appreciate its old-time charm—the not-too-distant gravel roads, weathered wooden fences, old homes frozen in time, and public land for all to enjoy. After all, the best views are the ones you must earn, the ones that not everyone who lives here—or merely passes through—gets to see. They require strong legs, strong lungs, and a willingness to push your limits. Maybe that’s the spirit of the West I love so much. Maybe that’s why it still feels wild to me.
Daniella Beckwith wrote this essay in 2023, upon first moving to Bozeman from Wisconsin. She now works as the marketing manager for this magazine, flexing those creative muscles all day, every day—and spending her free time among the mountains that called her here.
