Life without you would be easier, Bear. There’s no doubt in my mind.
When I wanted to travel, I’d probably fly instead of drive.
I’d probably go to each and every national park that dots the landscape of the west coast, hike the popular hikes, snap a selfie, and hop on a plane back home.
I’d probably get home and share and compare my classic American West stories with others who’ve been on similar, or identical, journeys.
And in the end, I’d probably— no, I’d definitely— miss out on all of the places I’ve come to love, drenched in sunrise and bitter cold before the rest of the world has woken up. The places I’ve found in the corners of my Road Atlas, isolated from the heavily-traveled routes and geotagged much, much less on Instagram than Half Dome or Tuolumne Meadows.
I’d probably— no, I’d definitely— miss out on the challenge and the beauty and the wonder of navigating the world through your anxious, brave, adventurous soul.
Sometimes, on the bad days— the ones that you’re worked-up, high-energy, and a handful— I think about planes and national parks and Angel’s Landing selfies. And when that happens— when I think about all of those things— I remember how much they don’t sound like “me”. Or like us.
I don’t know if fate, on the larger scale, exists or not. But I do know that you’ve given me the pieces of the world that I may never have seen without you. You’ve given me the whole world, really.