The dogs and I drove north to spend two nights at the top and edge of Beartooth Pass, Montana—high enough to see the world drop away in every direction. We weren’t passing through. We went just to be there when the sun cracked over the high alpine wild, twice.

The first night, the aurora borealis glowed faintly in the distant north, like a pulse from somewhere far off and cold. Above timberline, the land was stripped bare—tundra and scattered stone, harsh, open, honest. The dogs answered it the only way they knew: with motion.

At first light, they ran. Jess—a flash of muscle and control—led the charge. Ridge, still full of puppy recklessness, chased her like he had a chance. They flew over the plateau, all legs and wild eyes, chasing nothing but the thrill of it. That morning, in that sharp alpine quiet, I watched them become part of the landscape—free in a way humans mostly forget how to be.

After that we stayed in two historical cabins over the course of a week—one near West Yellowstone, and another east of Ashton, Idaho, just across the border into Wyoming. Both were surrounded by a living wilderness. Ridge got his first lesson in mountain evenings: the rising chill, the dusk light stretching thin, and the sound of coyotes beginning their chorus—howls and yips that prick something ancient in the bones.

At the Wyoming cabin, a horse trailer rolled in one afternoon and parked at the far edge of the meadow south of us. That evening, I walked out to meet them as they were loading up. A man and woman, maybe in their thirties—the kind of people who don’t just romanticize the range—they live it. They were running cattle through those huge meadows, bordered with pines and fir, like a landscape out of an older time. I told them I have stayed here a couple of times before when the blue camas were blooming in June. I could tell that meant something to them. He said this year was even better than last year; the entire meadow was blue.

He mentioned he had a trail cam set up and that a grizzly had been bothering the herd a bit. I nodded, mostly listening, while quietly hoping his camera hadn’t caught Jess the evening before, helping me ease some of his cows a little farther from the cabin. I’d had her on an ecollar, making sure she downed when asked, keeping her excitement on a leash of discipline. Jess did a good job, and I had her under control the whole time.

It was a wonderful trip—not the kind of “vacation” people plan, but something wilder and harder to name. Jess and I have logged a lot of miles together, but this was different. Ridge became part of the rhythm. The three of us didn’t speak it, but we belonged—to each other, and to that place.

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I’m heading to Siau Island, Indonesia soon—an adventure I’ve been looking forward to for months. I’ve studied the island on Google Earth, collected photos of Karangetang—its dramatic, twin-coned volcano—and imagined what it’ll feel like to stand near the "Fire of Siau" in real life. When I return, I’ll visit classrooms to share a short sea story and show photos and videos from the trip. It’s shaping up to be unforgettable.

But what I didn’t anticipate when I planned this journey back in January was how different things would feel at home. Over the past year, I said goodbye to two older border collies. In the wake of that grief, I brought home Ridge, a new puppy, so that my three-year-old Jess wouldn’t be alone. Every day with Ridge deepens the bond between us. Last night, he curled up at my feet on the blanket I was using, warm and content—just one of those quiet, perfect moments you don’t forget.

While I’m gone, a whole team of friends and neighbors will keep Ridge and Jess busy—walks, feedings, and egg collection—and I’ve wired the dog room with baby monitors, webcams, and Barkio so I can check in daily and say hello. It’s probably more for my sake than theirs.

Yes, I’ll be thrilled to explore somewhere new. But each day away will bring me one step closer to returning to my border collies—the beating heart of home. I may live alone, but I’m never without love. My dogs and I move through life together, with the quiet, unwavering knowledge that we belong to each other.