Ode to Missoula
Oh no, things are getting deep. Read my Ode to Missoula below. Is it an autobiography of myself? Maybe. Is it a love letter? Probably. Does it encapsulate how I feel about my beloved town of Missoula? You tell me.
Oh, Missoula. It could have been Denver, it could have been Corvallis, or we could have stayed in Utah. But it ended up being you.
At first, I hated you.
Yes. You came with a big house. Lots of land. A new golden retriever puppy. The sugaring up of whitewater rafting and horseback riding.
But you were different. I felt as though I had finally made it. Friends, a good school, and stability.
Then you stole that from me.
You forced a new school on me. You forced me to make new friends, leading me astray and stupid, trying to fit in with the skinny jocks as a 13-year-old chubby boy. You forced new academics on me that made me doubt myself. New tryouts for basketball, while my overly tight basketball shoes from two years prior gave me blisters as painful as seeing my old friend group forget me two states away.
But slowly, you and I came around.
In the length of my despair, you slowly unraveled the better parts of life.
You gifted me my love of Spanish in a sea of white people. You brought me close to Megan, Ben, Rachel, Jamie & Jared, Emma & Alex, and who could forget Nora and Cody, and so many more. You gave me my succulent garden and taste for antiques, nice clothes, and the manic need for perfectly vacuumed lines in my carpet.
You gave me trips and academics. You gave me tennis and running. You gave me events, websites, newsletters, graphics, and writing. Yet you still scare me, making me believe that I will not be anything if I am in this small town, not in a big company, and not wearing a suit.
You made me see a river as a place to paddleboard down. A blossom on a tree to capture with my camera. And the dangerously intoxicating longing that you always look as if it is late May to mid-June.
How could I ever repay you for La La Loo, Scouty Boi, Maggie May, Smokey Doke, La Pepita, and Chibbin’ Chob?
But let’s agree. We lost our way a few times.
You gave me my first sip of alcohol. My first hit on the oat-milk-carton gravity bong in college. You gifted and rescinded friendships, which I trust I screwed up myself.
You gave us that summer where the creek never ran, that winter with no snow, and that fall where the wildfires choked us.
You fostered a surprisingly open place to come out as gay, while cursing me with a hot bod and a vicious web of four boys in one unregrettably troublesome summer.
Like a chain around my ankle, you made me traverse down the road, deep into the mountains, the alley of preadolescents up to no good, if you will, when scholarships, extra studying, and a pure senior year of high school could have been more easily attainable.
You made me feel trapped in the mountains while three groups of best friends moved away, loved ones moved on with their lives on the other side of the country, and my sense of belonging turned over every year.
What even felt like the biggest betrayal is that you lured me into the fifth level of that dark and isolating tower overlooking the river, paper and quill in my hand, which flooded me with tears and scars, and eventually forced me to jump out the window.
Little did I know that you knew this was best for me, even making me jump into your very own heart.
I thought I knew you all too well then. But I was naive to think this.
For I discovered much more.
Caras Park. Annual events. Light-post banners. Winter and Garden City Brewfests. IPAs. Bluegrass music. Meeting minutes. Brennan’s Wave. Facilities staff. Graphic design. Powerwashing. Banners. Jumping into the river. Riverside and dark-hair frenemies. Sponsorship sales. New friends. Downtown ToNight. Food trucks. Iced lavender lattes. Those damn flower baskets. Tree lighting. Chicken the Cat. Love for a city. Secrets and chatters in the bricks. Alleys with art. River terraces and canopy lights. A high heart rate that my perfectionist ass can’t control and still doesn’t know where to go.
I’ve loved the new adventures you have given me. Yet, I would kill to see you before we first met. No “M.” No buildings. No university. No Florence Building. When nothing was here besides the antelope, bears, bison, beavers, birds, elk, eagles, squirrels, snakes, snails, and tribes trod the grass. Where the only trails that were present were made by game and handmade footprints. Where the only light came from the sun, stars, moon, and fire. When you camped every night, and it wasn’t even called camping. Where summers weren’t too hot, and winters were severely cold and wet. Where the rivers and creeks flooded so hard that you actually believed you used to be a lake.
I want you to stop growing. Please. Why can’t we go back to how things were way before? While I think I know you, I yearn explore you.
I yearn to wake up early and watch the sun glide over you. I crave a hot latte while I walk through your wilting trees. I want to watch the steam roll off your warm thermal waters. I want to ride a four-wheeler over you as I drive through the fields of beargrass and moss-covered trees to the peak of Top of Deep. I want to plunge into your green and blue water in Johnsrud and float until the Blackfoot converges with the Clark Fork. I want to talk about you over a fire with Megan and Rachel. I want to ride down your huckleberry-spotted trails at Snowball with Nora and Cody. I want to run and bike up your curves with Ben. I want to walk on your receding lake shores in winter with Emma. I want to waltz in my gray sweat suit with Jamie and Jared as we blend into your dry grass fields. I want to see satellites decompose over the sky with Emi, Eli, and Khruangbin. I want to roam the frozen lake in Condon with my parents. I want to drop on your Badlander stage while my tequila sunrise falls over my waist. I want to see my sister get married while surrounded by family a thousand times over in your outskirts. I want a bison to impale my heart in front of the Mission Mountains. I want to freeze to death in the hot tub of the Eureka Airbnb. I want to fly to Louisville, quit my job, go to Goldbug and Quinn’s for two weeks, and start at the DMP ten times over. I want to sit in a field of balsamroot while the rain pours over me for days. I want to burn every private lake house to free your shores for the animals.
We have known each other for 12 years. You have given me more than you have taken. I continue to want more. You probably never asked for me. Yet. You are stuck with me.
