When I moved to North Idaho in 1995, I never expected to fall in love. The company for which I worked was one of many lured from California in the '90s, and my job involved helping hire and train new employees.
During one marathon screening session, I was distracted by the most spectacular sunset. It was just after rainfall in the gloaming hour, with trees and buildings silhouetted against a neon sky with gold, orange, blue, purple and pink. Stunning.
"Would you mind if I ran outside and snapped a photo?" I asked the fellow I was interviewing. He smiled and I knew he knew — the same way I hope everyone gets to experience — the magic of the moment.
I was not yet 30, on a grand adventure, and I fell hard for the Pacific Northwest that summer. This was different from the sultry South of my preteens or the reassuring rhythm of the Northeast's four-season cycle during an otherwise tumultuous young adulthood. Nor was it the exciting romance I had with New York City's urban energy or powerful oceans I'd known on both coasts.
This was open prairie, incessant winds and the mournful song of distant trains. The lotion-y scent of mint fields at night. Footfalls on forest paths muffled by dense cedar duff. Canfield Mountain turned lavender at dusk like "America the Beautiful's" purple mountain majesties. The lake, everchanging, everpresent.
Although at the time I lacked words for what I experienced, I know now that it's a sense of place, a visceral connectedness like falling in love. That sunset photo is long gone. Places I remember have changed, as have I. But my love for this land — this place — and its people has not. This is home.
