My father instilled in me a love for all things outdoors. When I was a kid we spent many weekends at a hunting cabin in the gentle Appalachian mountains of Pennsylvania. I especially loved the car ride, how the unlikely highway blasted out of ancient rock winded gradually up through the forest. After a turnoff we ambled up the bumpy dirt road, gravel popping under the weight of the truck. It was time to switch off the radio and be silent. We would roll the windows down, listening and eagerly looking for signs of life. My sisters would giggle and give up shortly, but I never gave up. I was intent, looking, searching for something among the endless tracks of oak and birch.
My husband and I met in Florida while at college. We both grew up close to the mountains of the northeast and could not wait to leave the unbearable flatness of the southern coast. I will never forget the night we decided to move to Seattle. While he was going on and on, something about epic fresh powder ski runs, I was dreaming of the jagged peaks and infinite seas of towering evergreen trees. Neither of us had ever been to the northwest but we were just gonna go for it. We haven’t looked back since.
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