Where Is Your Happy Place?

When I travel, I always struggle to choose between wanting to try someplace I’ve never been and returning to the mountains I find most comforting. No matter where we go, our travel style is always the same. We love adventure, the dirtier, the better. The more rugged the place is, the more curious I am. Danger doesn’t scare me.

For years, our happiest places have been far-flung mountain tops, remote waterfalls at the end of a long trek with camping gear in tow, and tents pitched on the side of a cliff with a view that money can’t buy. Places you can’t get to in a car. Give me a dehydrated meal and a sunset over the Rockies, and you’ll never find someone happier. Sneak some pastries into my pack, and I’ll be your best friend.

Last year, my husband and I changed our travel style. We invested in an off-roader camper van to be our home on wheels. It was the start of a long-awaited dream, a sabbatical from the rigors of owning our own business. After a decade of building MELT Ice Creams and being deeply committed to the people we work with, we prepared our team and went on the road and off the grid for a season of rest. Adventure rest.

We left Fort Worth at the end of June and headed for the mountains.

We had a few agreed-upon destinations but only a very loose itinerary. We didn’t know where we would sleep or how many nights we would be there. Each day, we’d scroll through apps rating national forest campsites or BLM [Bureau of Land Management] land, and we would drive along washed-out roads, hoping the spot we chose was level and safe and with a good view.

Because we didn’t plan each leg of our trip, we could let the magic of the road unfold before us. We promised ourselves that we would always detour for three things: people, pizza, and pastries. And low-intervention wine. (Please note that ice cream is included in the pastry category.)

Every day, we sought out long hikes with our dog, Mills (named after Milford Sound in New Zealand, another adventure destination we love). Every night, we came back to the van – our tiny, mobile safe place. We made our meager dinners and sat outside to stargaze until we drifted off to sleep. In this way, we made our way across the Rockies.

In Colorado, we shared many meals and hikes with friends. We even celebrated the Fourth of July above the fireworks with the publisher of this magazine! People shared hot showers and hot meals with us. We learned pretty quickly that when someone offers you a shower or access to a washer, you never say no. Water is the greatest luxury in van life.

We rock climbed for the first time without a guide and met strangers who encouraged us, gave us tips, and kindly built our confidence. We had dinner with the owner of MELT’s headquarters building as we passed through Aspen; he welcomed our smelly dog and our dusty selves into his home and treated us like family. The next day, we hiked 18 miles to the nation’s highest hot springs.

We met people everywhere we went.

We met them on trails, climbing Fourteeners [mountain peaks with an elevation of at least 14,000 feet], and at the top of summits, sharing pocket tamales while keeping Mills from chasing marmots over the edge. We met other Vizsla owners and let our dogs romp together. I thought that when we left Colorado, we would see fewer people and would settle into the silence of rivers and forests. But everywhere we went, another interesting person seemed to appear.

When we made our way to Idaho, I was stunned by the scenery. The Sawtooth Mountains towering over endless green prairies didn’t feel real.

One day in Idaho, we fueled up on hot coffee and oatmeal, packed our PB&Js, and hiked a 22-mile backpacking loop. We stopped for lunch at an alpine lake and submerged ourselves in the icy water. Mills refused to get into the water but happily rolled in patches of snow. We draped ourselves over sun-warmed boulders to dry off.

On the trail, we met a women’s hiking group who return every year to the same beautiful trail. We ate fried chicken at a tiny restaurant recommended by the New York Times restaurant critic. (The chicken was excellent.) We had the worst pizza of the trip in Stanley, Idaho.

Because we didn’t have an itinerary, we decided to stay a few extra days to explore. We watched sunsets as elk bugled on the ridge above us. We found a hot spring that fed into a river, surrounded by wildflowers, and we had it all to ourselves. At night, the stars stretched across the Sawtooths in a display that made shivers run up my spine.

I had no expectations for Idaho, and it was stunning.

In the tiny Washington town of Mazama, we found pastries that shocked me with their flavors. We stopped at a trailhead in the North Cascades to stretch our legs on a short hike to a crystal-clear lake, when I heard a familiar voice. Thousands of miles from Fort Worth, and yet here was our neighbor, standing at the same alpine lake surrounded by forests with no cell service. We laughed, took photos, exchanged travel stories, and walked back to our separate vehicles, shaking our heads in disbelief.

We made our way to Bellingham on the northern edge of Puget Sound and fell in love with the town. There were endless trails and fresh seafood. We took a sunset sail with Mount Baker standing behind us and the Canadian Cascades stretching out before us. We were freezing as the sun slowly melted into the sea, but our hearts were so full from the beauty around us and the people we kept meeting. The boat captain told us about the marine creatures he’s seen, his day trips to Canada to ski, and stories of nearby islands.

Bellingham became one of my favorite places to run on the trip – flowy trails, green everywhere, and the salty breeze of Puget Sound to keep me cool. The owners of a wine bar treated us like we were locals and told us where to find the best pastries in town. We ate local oysters, sipped crisp rosé, and devoured fresh bread with butter by the bay.

From Bellingham, we went to Orcas Island in the San Juans. We took the ferry, our van’s first ocean voyage.

Arriving on a weekend, we found a shaded campsite by a small lake surrounded by tall, old-growth trees. Sitting on the campsite’s table was a vase filled with freshly picked pink and orange flowers – a quiet kindness from the camper before us. Far from the known, surrounded by nature, that small gesture gave me pause. Kindness can show up in the most unexpected ways. It was lovely to receive such a gift.

We decided to go on a whale-watching tour, one of the few paid excursions on the trip. I packed little cans of Negronis, crackers, and cheese. We stood shoulder to shoulder with other tourists, all waiting and watching.

And then we saw them.

A pod of orcas, their black-and-white bodies cutting through the water just off the ship’s bow. We took turns with the binoculars, listening to the whoosh of their breath through their blowholes. For that moment, everything was still except for those magnificent creatures. On the way back, we saw sea lions and sea otters playing in the waves.

On Orcas Island, we paddleboarded in cold lakes, Mills wearing a life jacket that matched mine. We hiked to the highest point on the island and ate seafood in a shack on the edge of the Sound. We played Phase Ten with other visitors while the dog slept in the sun, soaking up the island’s magic. On our last night on Orcas, we shared a table at dinner with two women celebrating family and friendship. We ate pizza and shared our wine.

One of the women was a widow from Bainbridge Island. She told us about her late husband – his life as a lawyer in Seattle, the impact he made on his community, and the cancer that ended his life too soon. She spoke of her daughter, an actress on a show that I’ve seen, her grandchildren, and their beautiful, bright blue eyes.

Her eyes sparkled, and she smiled as she spoke, and I was moved by the way she described her husband and the life they built together. How he didn’t allow age to define who he was or what he could do. She commended us for taking time to travel and just be.

 

I know so many details about her life. Yet, I don’t remember her name. But I remember her overwhelming love for her family.

Orcas Island is a special place; it’s almost sacred. It feels like it exists in a different time. It also requires some planning, as lodging and dining reservations fill up quickly, but somehow, life is slower here.

From Orcas Island, we went to visit old friends outside of Seattle. We hadn’t seen them in years, and again, we were met with generosity and kindness. I had never met their children, but it felt natural to scoop up one of their daughters, holding her on my hip as she told me to smell the flowers in the garden and explained how bees pollinate them. With the right people, time cannot change your connection.

Of all the places we visited, the Pacific Northwest captured our hearts.

We slowly worked our way down the Pacific coast on the way to California, stopping in redwood forests and walking for hours along empty shorelines. In Big Sur, we stayed at the cliffside property of a new friend. She welcomed us into her home and made the most delicious meal. I still think about the compound butter she made with flowers pressed into the edges.

She served cider from her harvest of apples and pears. Delicious! She invited us to help with the grape harvest at her small vineyard, and we eagerly agreed.

A wine harvest in Big Sur with no machines. We cut the grapes from the vines. We sorted and de-stemmed them by hand. We pressed the grapes with our feet. I was completely enamored with the process. We were surrounded by incredible people – farmers and cooks from a nearby retreat center who prepare organic meals three times a day for guests. We felt like the luckiest people on earth. Until our dog chased one of the vineyard cats, and we had to apologize profusely.

The farmers gifted us day passes to the retreat center, where we sat in hot springs overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Then we steered our van back down Highway 1, weaving our way to the Central Coast of California.

We met up with some friends for happy hour on the beach to watch the sunset. They invited us into their home, let us use their outdoor surf shower, and made space for us in their lives.

We have a circle of friends on the Central Coast because Fort Worth friends have introduced us to this special place and these special people. We parked the van in their vineyard, surrounded by acres of organic grapes, which in turn are surrounded by palm trees. We fell asleep next to the flower and vegetable garden, listening to owls hooting to each other. The next day, we helped them to bottle our favorite sparkling wine and joined their family for a meal, sipping wine and learning about their winemaking process.

Van life distills everything down to simplicity and necessity. Inside the fan, space is limited, and everything is intentional. Outside, everything expanded – mountains, oceans, skies. Possibilities.

Our adventures were life-giving. They reset us. They gave us the solitude and rest we craved. But for me, the people we met are the center of this story.

The moments that live in my memory now aren’t just the landscapes. It’s the conversations, the shared meals, the unexpected connections I remember. The strangers who became part of our story. These are the memories my mind returns to on hard days.

I remember the sea lions, otters, whales, and eagles. I remember mountain sunrises and ocean sunsets. The twinkling stars, frigid rivers, steaming hot springs, and day-long hikes; these will always stay vivid in my memory. But it’s the people I shared them with that make them matter.

Maybe my happy place was never a place. It wasn’t the mountains or the ocean; it was the people we met along the way, and the small, moving home that carried us to them.

All photos used in this article are courtesy of Kari Crowe Seher and may not be used in any way without permission.