I believe the whole “grow where you’re planted” thing is just an uplifting idiom created to make people feel better about where they are living; an encouraging affirmation to make us accept where we are instead of where we would like to be.

Because of employment, family obligation, or some innate nomadic gene, we move and move again. Many of us are involuntary settlers to unfamiliar locales. We smile insincerely and acquiesce to blending and adapting to our surroundings, and yet we long for home.

Some people just don’t flourish when uprooted and relocated to a foreign locale. I know. I am a transplant—surviving, but certainly not thriving.

When I first moved from California to the Midwest, someone asked if I had a surfboard. An uncomfortable silence ensued as I contemplated just how to answer that question. After all, I came from the mountains.

Summers were spent water skiing on surrounding lakes, rafting and panning for gold in rivers, hiking craggy peaks and exploring forested land. Winter activities included time at our family cabin, skiing, snowmobiling, and playing board games in front of a crackling fire.

Sorry folks, no surfboard!

Although I’ve made many friends in the Midwest, there were concessions as well. I amended my diet and altered my speech in order to assimilate. But as much as I tried, some things simply cannot be changed.

You say, “pop” while I continue to say “soda.” I will not pretend to understand what a funnel cake is and you don’t have to feign interest in spelunking. I’d never heard of chiggers (until bitten by them) and you’d never heard of a potato bug. I use my turn signal. You do not.

I was accustomed to earthquakes and forest fires, but ill-prepared for death by humidity. Here, there is no segue into spring—no gentle easing from bitter cold to scorching heat. Spring lasts approximately five-minutes and should you sleep in one day, you just might miss it.

I’ve also learned that tornado season is just as unpredictable. Like property assessors, tornadoes arrive whenever they damn well please!

I could never be a city dweller and I’m not much of a suburbanite either. I find the flat monolithic grid of people spilling out in every direction unnerving. I am content to spend time alone and don’t require a lot of social interaction to be happy; though what I do require is personal space and moments of quietude, a scarce commodity in the burbs.

One of my dogs is also not an indigenous species—a Siberian Husky who predictably does the happy dance when it snows, or when the temperature dips below zero. During the hot summer months, she does not fare as well. Her genetics scream animal cruelty! After all, a dog built to endure the frozen tundra of Siberia was not meant to suffer through the high heat and humidity of the Midwest.

Though I have lived many places, the mountains are my nirvana, with air so crisp it awakens the senses. I favor the scent of pine and natural greenery to chemically saturated lawns and the foggy pong of mosquito trucks. I prefer hiking boots to heels and delight in the restorative properties of nature. And if given the choice, I would rather chase a bear out of a garbage can than attend stuffy highbrow events with deeply affected people.

I miss watching wildlife with enduring gratitude as they go about the circadian task of survival. I miss hairpin curves and popping ears as the elevation rises, winding through cloud-girdled summits. I miss mountainous terrain that proves just how small and insignificant we really are; that intense spirituality experienced when you are alone, but not lonely.

What’s more, I miss living where neighbors check on one another and show genuine concern; a place where people wave or engage in sincere conversation; a hearty stock of people that must depend on one another during winter’s iniquitous wrath.

While it was difficult to leave my home in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California, even harder was leaving friends and neighbors. We cut firewood together and kept a communal a log splitter. We borrowed everything from eggs to automobiles, watched each other’s kids and pets and kept each other’s secrets. We celebrated life’s joys and held each other tightly to grieve its unavoidable sorrows.

Life doesn’t always turn out as expected, but I’ve never given up hope of returning to the mountains. It’s where I belong. It’s home. The reality is, it’s where I thrive. Extreme weather, digging out of deep snow and the threat of fire is all worth deviating from the ordinary in order to live the extraordinary.

Sometimes you have to take the plunge and return to that place that gives you a sense of belonging. Sometimes you have to listen carefully and answer that instinctive call to action.

Even though I will be trading the Sierra Nevadas for the Northern Rockies, I’d say that’s a pretty sweet compromise. And while I am deeply appreciative for all that I have, there is a promise that must be fulfilled.

The mountains are calling. I’m going home.