Why the High Plains and Rockies Always Call Me Home

There are places in this world that don’t just ask you to visit—they call you. Whispering through the wind, tugging on your soul, and promising something real, something grounded. For me, that place has always been the High Plains and Rocky Mountains.

Growing up, my Grandma Juanita always had a Louis L’Amour novel within reach. When she finished, she’d hand it off to me, and I’d dive in headfirst. I devoured every one, following the Sacketts across the rugged terrain of the Old West, learning what it meant to be a cowboy: strong, loyal, and full of grit. Those stories didn’t just entertain me—they shaped me.

That spark turned into something real in the summer of 1992, when I worked on a ranch nestled in the rough-and-tumble beauty of Eastern Montana. The badland breaks, the sweeping high plains, the wind that never stops moving—it was like living in the pages of those old novels. I felt alive out there. And I’ve never stopped chasing that feeling.

Travel has always been part of my life’s rhythm. These days, I do it full-time with Bertie Bea, my Tiffin Allegro, and Rosie rolling along behind. Whether I’m on I-70, I-80, or I-90, I find myself pulled west, drawn to places where time feels like it slows down—where the land hasn’t changed much since the Old West days, even if it’s now crisscrossed with interstates.

And then there’s that song.

John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High” captured a feeling I didn’t know how to explain until I heard it:

 He was born in the summer of his 27th year
Coming home to a place he’d never been before
He left yesterday. Behind him,
You might say he was born again.
You might say he found the key for every door.

John Denver – Rocky Mountain High (1972)

That line hits me every single time. The first time I saw the Rockies—sometime in the 1980s, flying into Denver with my folks—I felt it deep in my bones. Like I’d found something I didn’t even know I was missing.

And now? Whenever I need to hit reset… I go back.

The Rockies and High Plains aren’t just beautiful—they’re healing. They’re my refuge. The fishing doesn’t hurt either. Standing in a cold mountain stream, casting a fly line as the sun rises over snow-dusted peaks? That’s not just a hobby. That’s church.

Since 2020, I’ve been chasing that peace full-time. First with Bessie, then Bertha, and now with Bertie Bea. Every year, I find a reason—any reason—to head west. And every time, I find myself feeling a little more whole.

These places aren’t just on the map. They’re etched into my story. And as long as I’ve got wheels under me and a sky above me, I’ll keep answering their call.

Because not all who wander are lost.