Life’s Wild Ride 

My last post mentioned feeling lost for blogging words of late.

Soon after, wanting to post something but not sure what I write, I came to understand part of my writing block was that so much had happened over the past year. Too much, it sometimes seemed. I needed to relay the bigger events and experiences before I could clear my head to write anything more current.

So, as I promised in my last post, here’s a summary of how life happened to me in 2024, ” …bringing lots of big changes. Some sad, some surprising and life-altering (in a good way).”

Apologies in advance for the length, but if you’ve been following my blog at all, you know to expect wordiness.

The Introvert’s Dilemma

During my time in Vermont (July 2021-December 2024), I rarely socialized.

Initially, seasonal neighbors invited me to have dinner or drinks with them fairly often. We all agreed on social and political issues, so I found them… agreeable. But by my second summer there, I realized those same neighbors’ delight in shooting rifles on the land across the road while training dogs for bird hunting, inviting friends and gun dog clubs to do the same, despite knowing Conall was terrified of gunfire, meant I was being bribed to shut up and not complain. “You’re not my people,” I told them, and meant it. We remained civil, but stopped socializing.

Because of a sacroiliac joint injury my first winter in Vermont, I was in severe and chronic pain most of the rest of my time in Vermont. That, coupled with my usual low CSF (cerebral spinal fluid) causing headaches, short temper, and low motivation, kept me home and hanging primarily with my dogs. Trying to get out to socialize or even attend town events was too painful.

I craved some people time, however, so I worked with the town librarian to create a series of presentations by local writers. One or two evening presentations a month for three months. The first year’s series was so fun, I did it a second year. And when I was physically able, I joined an area running club for summer trail or winter road runs.

Otherwise, it was just me and my dogs, walking, running, or snowshoeing each day, depending on season, playing in the large yard, or hanging out together in the house, me on the computer writing or connecting with friends on social media.

An ideal life for an introvert, right? In 2019 I wrote a comprehensive post about introversion, how a quiet life suited me. The life I created in Vermont fit the bill.

I wasn’t lonely. And I did finally write Wild Running: Lessons from Dogs, Wolves, and the Natural World, the book I’d been mentally chewing on for years. A big accomplishment. But it bothered me I hadn’t come close to developing the sort of friendships in Vermont that I had in Idaho. Was I retreating even more into my small introvert’s world as I aged?

It didn’t help that so many of the people I met in Vermont were snowbirds, living elsewhere for six months each year to avoid the harsh winters. This dearth of connections, especially in winter, became painfully obvious whenever I needed a medical or dental procedure that required sedation and I didn’t have someone to drive me to/from the appointment.

As time went by and I kept seeking answers for the unresolved SI joint and leg nerve pain issues, in August 2024 x-rays showed that one of my hip joints appeared to be dying (avascular necrosis of the femur). This was new, perhaps related to the ongoing SI joint imbalance on that side. I was told I would eventually need to have the hip joint replaced. That’s when it hit me: how would I ever handle the long recovery from such surgery at home in Vermont, alone with big dogs that need attention and exercise, without good health care resources and close friends to lean on?

I pondered my introversion. Was it getting more pronounced with age? Would I eventually end up friendless and helpless?

Or, was the real issue that, when I was 63, I moved to a state known for its culture of independence, often rising to standoffish, with an ample suspicion of “outsiders” (made worse by the influx of people fleeing cities during the pandemic), landing in a town where I didn’t know a soul? Don’t get me wrong, Vermonters are quick to help each other when there’s a disaster or other urgent need, something I witnessed during two major floods in my town. But I found that the only people who truly welcomed me as a friend were other newcomers or seasonal residents. The full-time, long-term Vermonters were hard nuts to crack.

Jenn Granneman, author of The Secret Lives of Introverts, agrees that people become more introverted as they age. Even extroverts. It’s a phenomenon called intrinsic maturation: with age, people are more emotionally stable, agreeable, and happy with their world, needing less contact with others to be happy.

That makes sense. Most people within my age cohort in my little rural town in Vermont didn’t need or want new friends. They weren’t rejecting me personally (that I know of, anyway); they were simply being more introverted with age. As was I.

My error was to move so far away from the network of friends I had worked to establish over 15 years in Idaho. But, in early 2021, the pandemic erasing all my sources of income, I didn’t believe I could afford to stay in Idaho. Plus, a troubling incident with angry hunters while running trails with Conall during the fall of 2020 destroyed my sense of safety in the forest. With limited options for a safe and affordable place to live, I chose Vermont.

Yet, with each passing year there, I knew I’d made a mistake. By 2024, I wanted to leave.

But how? And to where? I had limited financial resources. Housing had only gotten more expensive in Idaho. Same for the Seattle area where I was born and lived until moving to Idaho in 2005. I felt stuck in Vermont.

That’s when my father came to my rescue, just as he had so often while he was alive.

The Big Surprise

Dad’s second wife died in early 2024. She was 22 years younger than him. And while I knew his estate plan was (in brief), Everything to her during her lifetime; then to my kids, shared equally, I never believed the second part would happen.

As an attorney, I knew that she, as sole trustee, had every legal right to change the terms of the trust and do whatever she wanted with the assets. Having known her intimately for the 25 years of their marriage before my father died in 2009, observing how she mistreated and abused my father in his last years, how she felt about me and my brothers (annoyed; not wanting us to visit), how hard she tried to keep us from receiving anything of my father’s immediately after he died, how she refused me access to his archives a few years later as I was writing Growing Up Boeing, my book about him and his test pilot colleagues, I decided it was prudent to assume I’d see nothing of my father’s belongings or estate after she died. Besides, being only a few years old than me, she might outlive me.

Those are the assumptions I lived under for the past 15 years.

So, you might understand my shock when, in the spring of 2024, I learned there was a significant estate to be inherited and divided between me and my brothers. Enough that I could afford to move back to Idaho if I wished.

Thank you, Dad.

Bonus: my father’s archives—the aviation artifacts, photos, documents, and mementos he meticulously collected and preserved over his lifetime—were finally donated to the Museum of Flight and will soon be accessible to me. (Dad would have been furious to know his widow denied me access.) The Museum is busy cataloging all the items this winter. Sometime this summer I intend to visit the Museum, view the archives, and (I hope) write a follow-on book to Growing Up Boeing that offers background details. I still have all my notes and audio recordings from interviewing my father in the early 2000s. We talked at length about many of the items he collected over the years of his amazing career as a test pilot. Just thinking about this new project makes me happy.

Where Should I Go? And When?

Once I learned the extent of Dad’s gift, I spent a few weeks thinking about where in the Pacific Northwest I wanted to move to. Idaho again? Or, as some friends urged, back to western Washington, where I also had an extensive network of friends?

I started surfing Zillow listings for homes in both locations. Lots of sticker shock, but Dad’s gift was generous. I knew he’d want me to find a house where I was comfortable and the dogs and I felt safe. Ultimately, reflecting on my experiences trying to make new friends in Vermont, I focused on the part of Idaho I’d lived in before. I knew my introvert self wasn’t up to moving somewhere new, alone, to start over yet again.

The only thing keeping me in Vermont that late summer/early fall of 2024 was my aging Australian shepherd, Finn. He would turn 17 in December. I’d never had a dog live past 14, so this was unfamiliar territory for me.

Finn had already lost 95% of his hearing and most of his sight over the previous couple of years, but at age 16 still navigated well through the house and yard, and appreciated a short daily walk. His mind remained sharp. He enjoyed herding puppy Chann through the house and yard, barking loudly, a game Chann found delightful. Finn leaned heavily on his remaining sense of smell to find me, Conall, and Chann, and to get around familiar places.

I knew Finn’s time was short, but felt he would likely reach his 17^th birthday in mid-December, maybe even live through the winter. I promised Finn I wouldn’t ask him to move back west because it would require a multi-day drive and learning to navigate a new home and yard. Too much for such a senior dog. I kept surfing Zillow, though.

Sometime in October, Finn lost his sense of smell. It went fast. His world shrank significantly. He became easily agitated with the steps leading into the house from the yard. He was fine going down them, but with almost no vision and weak hind legs, struggled to go up them, yet yelped loudly if I tried to lift him, hating the lift-assist harness I bought. We compromised: he allowed me to attach a leash and gently pull him toward the steps, into position, then give him a gentle boost after he started walking up them.

Finn also started panting through much of each night, a sign of pain.

In mid-November, to my surprise, I found an Idaho house listing that caught my attention. After my realtor took me on a video tour, I knew it was the house for me. I entered negotiations, which did not go smoothly. But I was determined. My plan was to buy the house but delay moving until spring, after Finn was gone and cross-country driving conditions improved.

Thanksgiving Day was rough for Finn, and for me. His panting had been increasing, especially at night. That morning, he refused to eat his breakfast despite all efforts to hand feed or add something enticing. He wasn’t drinking any water. I used peanut butter to get him to at least take his morning dose of pain meds. I reflected on how, back in 2014, Maia’s last day started similarly, refusing to eat or drink, telling me with her eyes that she was done and ready to go. But I wasn’t sure about Finn. Other than lack of appetite, he seemed alert and comfortable, interacting with Chann, Conall, and me. Plus, it was a holiday; there really wasn’t anything I could do. Thankfully, dinner was still the highlight of Finn’s days and by evening, he ate some food. Still, I worried he was nearing the end.

So, the next day (Friday), I contacted an area veterinarian who specializes in at-home, end-of-life care. I asked her to come to the house on December 2^nd.

On Friday, Finn rallied a bit. Was I being hasty, I wondered, asking the vet to come on December 2^nd, a few days later? I struggled with the decision, unsure what was best. I didn’t sleep. Finally, I decided I could always cancel the Dec 2nd appointment that morning if Finn’s rally lasted.

I always told myself that, when this terrible but inevitable time came, Better a day too soon than a day too late. This was especially true because Finn’s local vet had recently closed her practice. The only alternatives for urgent care for him was an emergency clinic 90 minutes away.

Finn’s loss of appetite continued. His agitation increased. He couldn’t find his way out of corners. He frequently barked anxiously for me, unable to find me, or anything, with his nose. He panted heavily at night, despite an increase in pain meds. He showed no interest in being outside with Conall and Chann. His joy, his world, had dimmed to near darkness. Would I want to continue on if my world became so small and scary?

I kept the December 2^nd appointment. Dr. Erika Bruner was wonderful. After giving him one last turkey tendon to chew with the few teeth that weren’t worn to nubs, Finn’s passing was the most calm and peaceful of all the canine companion goodbyes I’ve endured. Dr. Bruner let me cry, rubbing my back, offering comfort. When I was ready, she wrapped Finn in a fleece blanket, put him in her car, and drove him to the pet crematorium. She would send his cremains to me later.

Meanwhile, negotiations on the house purchase heated, a welcome distraction from my sadness and grief over Finn. A deal was made, including much of the furniture, along with some dishes and linens, so the house was “move-in ready.” A purchase-and-sale agreement was signed on December 8^th with closing scheduled on or about December 11^th.

Finn was gone. By mid-December, I would own a house in Idaho. I asked myself, Do I really want to spend another winter in my Vermont house?

No.

But I also didn’t want to drive six or seven long days through bad weather and snowstorms, with Conall and Chann needing breaks along each day’s route. Too dangerous and stressful. Still, I began following weather forecasts for the I-90 corridor from New York to northern Idaho. I noticed several models predicting a two-week window of exceptionally warm and dry weather starting mid-December.

Dare I try it?

Yes. Vermont held too many bad/sad memories. Winters there were nowhere as appealing as those in Idaho. I could easily close up the Vermont house for the winter and list it for sale in the spring.

Leap of Faith

Never one to hesitate once I decide to do something, thanks to DNA inherited from my decisive, risk-taking test pilot father, I quickly arranged for the transporting of my belongings to Idaho. After packing enough clothes and dog food to get us through a few weeks until my belongings arrived in January, the boys and I set out for Idaho on December 16^th.

The weather forecast proved accurate: the worst snow and driving conditions were in Vermont. Other than a couple of inches of fresh snow overnight in Minnesota, the freeway was dry from New York to Idaho. Strong winds in South Dakota were the worst weather element. When we got to Wyoming and Montana, daytime temps were in the low 60s F!

My new car drove like a dream. I purchased two audio books in a genre I wouldn’t normally read—fantasy romance, sometimes called romantasy—and each of the eight-to-ten-hour days of driving flew by. Conall and Chann handled it all like champs.

We arrived at our new home just before dark on December 21^st. Winter Solstice. Perfect timing for a fresh start.

The next morning, I awoke to this view:

Home. Again. At age 68, a fresh start in a familiar place. How lucky am I?

I’m near to where I lived before, although 1000 feet higher in elevation. That’s what drew me to this house, this area: familiarity. Not only the friends I made while living here before, but the forest. I sorely missed the Payette National Forest, these mountains with their distinct seasons. I already know and love so many of the trails, know where the wildflowers are most abundant, and when.

I realize this return to Idaho won’t be all roses and rainbows. I still loath state politics, and I’ll always worry about my dogs’ safety while in the forest, fearful of those who delight in killing wolves or anything that resembles them. That fear is the tradeoff I’m willing to accept to be in our happy place, living our best lives.

The boys and I have ventured into the forest many times since moving back, running on snow-covered trails or xc skiing in the dog-friendly area. Conall remembers these places well, cutting switchbacks in the same places, or climbing the same boulders he did before. His knees are bad, so he’s slower and doesn’t go as far. Sort of like me; we understand each other. Chann? He can’t believe his luck, thrilled with everything he’s experiencing in the forest so far. The joy on his face is infectious.

Shortly after we arrived in our new home, Dr. Bruner had Finn’s ashes shipped to me. I’m looking forward to being able to add Finn’s ashes to the forest cairns I built to memorialize the girls after their passing in 2014, where I placed their ashes. Finn accompanied me on each of those journeys that summer. Later, he, Conall, and I would visit the cairns on our trail runs and walk, saying hello to the girls each time. It was comforting, replacing grief with fond memories.

This summer, it will be Conall and Chann accompanying me as I add Finn’s ashes to those special places. More grief, more fond memories. Life goes on.

That’s the overarching lesson learned from my father. He wanted me and my brothers to enjoy life, to be comfortable and secure as we aged. He gave us the tools to do that for ourselves, but he also wanted to provide what’s now called generational wealth. That was important to him, and eases the guilt I feel that I’m beneficiary of this bounty when so many others struggle. I take comfort knowing Dad would approve of my decision to return to Idaho, using funds inherited from him to buy this house I couldn’t otherwise afford.

I know he’s happy for me.

Thank you, Dad. I love you, and am eternally grateful.

[Feature image: Conall and Chann enjoying Idaho’s much lighter, drier snow in the yard of our new house on February 21, 2025.]