Springer's Journey

The mountains finally let go of me.

Not dramatically. Not with trumpets and cinematic music. More like a quiet agreement between myself, the weather, and a little white Subaru named Cora.

After the snow at Emigrant Springs, I decided to stay an extra day instead of forcing mountain driving in uncertain conditions. A younger version of me would have pushed through to “prove” something. I’m not entirely sure what.

These days I’m learning that wisdom sometimes sounds like:
“Nope. We rest today.”

And so we did.

The snow fell softly all night around the tent. Stick stood guard from inside while I periodically emerged to smack accumulated snow off the tent walls like an irritated woodland creature. Somewhere during all this I realized I wasn’t panicking.

I was adapting.

That feels different.

The next morning brought one of those gifts I never expect but somehow keep finding on this journey: kind people.

A couple camping nearby invited me to pull up a chair and helped me look over the Utah section of my new atlas. His name was Ron, from Utah, and they were traveling with two French Bulldogs named Dolly and Junebug who looked like tiny, emotionally opinionated woodland supervisors.

Junebug had the expression of someone trying to determine whether I could be trusted with important French Bulldog business.

Dolly appeared willing to reserve judgment.

I loved them immediately.

There is something deeply comforting about travelers helping travelers. No grand speeches. No fanfare. Just:
“Pull up a chair. Let’s look at the map.”

The following day I crossed into Idaho and into a different time zone entirely. The driving was easier. Gentler somehow. The mountains loosened their grip and the road stopped demanding every ounce of my attention.

Then came the yellow oil light.

Now, old Lorrie might have immediately assumed catastrophic engine failure and prepared emotionally for life among the wolves. Instead, I pulled over calmly and asked questions.

Turns out Cora was simply a little low on oil.

At O’Reilly’s they helped me top her off, and I learned another lesson:
confidence is not magically knowing everything beforehand.

Confidence is believing you can handle the next thing.

I almost cried afterward.

Not because of the oil.

Because I realized how much has changed in me already.

Tonight I’m sitting in a motel in Bliss, Idaho. The campgrounds were full, and honestly? A hot shower and solid walls sound pretty wonderful after several days of snow, mountain driving, weather systems, and emotional growth disguised as travel.

Somewhere along this road I stopped trying to conquer the journey and started learning how to travel through it.

There’s a difference.

And for the first time in a long while, I think I’m beginning to trust myself.

This will be interesting.