My Home Range As Told By You

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Get ready to be inspired, and captivated by all the places you showed us are "home" during #MyHomeRange March. Here are a few of our favorite homes shared by Lady Parts fans.

 

I go to the mountains to lose myself. I go to the mountains to find myself

I go to the mountains to be myself. And I go to the mountains to free myself. Sometimes you have to leave home to find home, and when I left the south for Utah I discovered my #MyHomeRange 

I’m deeply in love with the #Wasatch and that’s never gonna change. Skiing, hiking, climbing, running, pulling invasive weeds, and photographing native wildflowers... I want to do it all. Being a responsible adult and mom comes before mountain time a lot of the time lately, but I hold the Wasatch in my heart and in my dreams, and I can’t wait to take my daughter there. - Christy Wall // @ski_wall

Settling in wherever I feel alive

I grew up in the Canadian Rocky Mountains in a place called Lake Louise. I learned to ski before I learned how to ride a bike, and black bears would often peruse my backyard for berries. In the winter I would walk along the snow banks holding hands with my pine tree friends so that I wouldn’t slip on the slick snow. My favourite thing about my home was the wildflowers. My brother and I spent most of our days in the summer outside among Indian Paintbrushes, with their honeysuckle sweet nectar stashed inside their flame-like petals. Those flowers left an imprint on me, which I carried with me when I left for university on the Pacific Coast. 

I didn’t know anybody in the Coastal Mountains. I only knew of the cedar trees growing ever taller in the temperate rain forest. With my tree friends still holding my hand, I explored this new range. Weekend hikes and ski trips between midterms allowed me to begin to grow roots. I met new faces of new people and new faces of new peaks. Eventually I once again met my old loves - the Indian Paintbrushes. I found them in the alpine after 3 years on the coast, and I finally felt like I could call this place home.

Home is a feeling of belonging. I find home among tree friends and wildflowers, with humans that take good care of my soul. I build home by expanding the borders of my comfort zone, and settling in wherever I feel alive. 
#MyHomeRange #sisterhoodofshred (first photo is in the Canadian Rocky Mountain Range, second photo is in the Coastal Mountain Range) - Kristen Joy // @Killahjustice

Where my spirits are lifted and my heart swells

My home range is the Washington stretch of the Cascade Mountains. From a small child, I would climb the mountains of the central and south Cascades with my grandfather, who slowed his mountaineering pace to match my toddling steps. ⠀
As I grew up, I could wander out the back door and into wild DNR land - our only rule was that we had to be back before dark or dinner, whichever was first. I realize that I am privileged and lucky to have had such a childhood. ⠀

Now, I live in Ferndale, WA, a small town to the north of Bellingham. I am active in the North Cascades, between hiking and climbing in the summer and fall, and skiing in the winter. I have been coaching the downhill team at Mt Baker for the last 10 years, and have fallen into a wonderful family of likeminded skiers and snowshoers. ⠀

For me, the mountains ARE home; its where I live, sleep, work, and play. It's where my spirits are lifted and my heart swells. It's time for my summit happy dance. 💃💃⠀-- Britta Nelson// @bnellie

This is the legacy I leave for my sons

Yesterday, my son beat me down a ski slope.

Granted, he didn't give me time to strap in after getting off the list since he's on skis and I'm limited by my snowboard bindings.

And I might have really enjoyed watching his deep, purposeful carves from behind the whole way down. He loves to go fast-- carefully.

Reminds me of someone I know.

For an 8-year-old, his life is complicated. Between his own reckoning with his Autism diagnosis/identity and the dichotomy between his addict-in-denial father that he loves and his silly-yet-reliable stepdude that counts on-- suspiciously, our little Midwest man-made "mountain" is his place to shine.

My first job was at this same ski resort. I worked the rental department in exchange for pocket change and a free season pass. I made lifelong friendships with badass bitches, terrible but super fun romantic decisions, and plenty of time by myself perfecting the perfect alley oop or 50-50 boardslide, or just going fast down the hill, carefully.

Even as a young person I wanted to get as far away from Ohio as I possibly could-- which I did, living in San Francisco and then Chicago and travelling the globe from Europe to Argentina to Alaska-- I've never been so happy to shred the same slopes with my son that I did at his age.

These are the same slopes that my mom and my grandpa (whose illness and impending passing brought me home, where I got serious about finishing college since the waitress/snowboard instructor life left me wanting...) taught me how to ski from the time I could walk.

I can't wait to take my son to Tahoe and Killington and Hood and Deer Mountain and even Snowshoe. Maybe we'll shred the Alps together. Heck, I'm pumped for Friday night at Boston Mills.

But I know the day will come when he wants to shred with his friends and not me. I did the same to my mom.

My mom and I rode together on Christmas three years ago. Since then, she's suffered from retinal degeneration and has graciously gifted her skis to my husband. Just like the classic "kid stuck in a car", I have so many font memories of bring stuck on a ski lift with my mom.

This is the legacy I leave for my sons. Let's shred. - Brit Charek // @britkneechairuck

 


Home lies in finding that elusive fulcrum point where everything levels out

My hands are planted firmly at ten and two o’clock, but my eyes, as they always do, drift down and left, to catch one more glimpse of Donner Lake in the driver side mirror as my 18 year old Subaru rattles its way over the summit. My polarized lenses make the bright day a little more bearable, and the snow covered granite and the piercingly blue sky take on a little more depth as I keep one eye on the road and the other on the landscape behind me. My toes, frigid and white in my soggy Sorels, push a little harder on the gas pedal as we—my Subaru and I—come up over the crest. My attention shifts forward, and I focus on passing semis and getting out of the way of cars that, unlike mine, can actually ascend a 7% grade at 80 miles per hour.
Did this happen this last week or the spring before? I’m not really sure because it seems like I spend more time coming and going than staying in place, these days. And each time I leave I like to glance over my left elbow at the reflection of that lake and the mountains that have been home base for the last few years.
It’s given me a lot, this place. Without it I wouldn’t have learned the desire to hit the skin track one more time rather than call it quits after that first backcountry lap. Or the confidence to tune my own skis, and more importantly the self-acceptance when l always, always forget exactly how to do it and have to look it up anyway. I learned that things like chopping wood really does warm you twice and that blue moons happen more than just once in a lifetime. And as I shoveled snow by the pound and watched sunset after sunset paint the alpine pink, I remembered that I love art and poetry.
I thought I knew mountain living when I moved here. After all, my roots are in the Sierra. My great grandmother ran a lodge at Echo summit during World War II, cross country skiing down to Kyburz to pick up her mail during the winter months. The next three generations of women in my family stayed close by, making their homes in the milder but still wild and rolling foothills. I left for college, of course, but found my way back to these mountains… inevitably, it sometimes seems.
But equal to the call to this 70-mile radius around Lake Tahoe and it’s granite peaks, alpine lakes, hilly vineyards, and really, really great people, is the call to roam. To not settle in one place for more than a few weeks. The red rock slot canyons of southern Utah, the misty Seattle mornings, the bitterly cold Colorado mountain passes, and moose sightings from the skin track in Wyoming… these, too, are a part of me.
And this year, when the snow melts, and as the lupines, black eyed susans, and larkspur bloom, I will be sitting on a commercial jet on my way to an island in the smack dab middle of the Pacific. I’ll trade spring skiing for swimming below tropical waterfalls, my puffy vest and flannel for a sundress and sandals, and Donner Lake docks for lava that sizzles as it meets the sea. Planning this trip is bittersweet, like the ache in my toes when I soak my sore ankles in cold mountain runoff after a long, dusty hike. I don’t know exactly when I will come back to these mountains, but I know they’ll always be home.
Will I catch the travel bug and stay away? Or will I come back before next season’s first snowfall? These are the kind of questions people ask me when they learn my plans, questions that I don’t think I need to answer just yet. I think, instead, I will sit a little longer with that uncertainty and anticipation bubbling together in my belly.
Because in the never ending balance between action and introspection, between growth and comfort, between diving in headfirst and sitting on the fence, home for me lies in finding that elusive fulcrum point where everything levels out.
In hitting the road, but always looking back. - Jill Sanford // @jillcsanford