Finding a home in the Flathead

Sixteen years ago, I was but a young girl forced onto a train for a family vacation. A train from Harrisburg, Pa., to Glacier National Park.

Needless to say, I was not thrilled by this trip. I had planned to spend my summer by the pool with my friends, not camping in bear country with my parents.

So in all my teenage glory, dressed in black to express my rebellion, I moped for 2,600 miles. OK, I admit that the scenery was beautiful, but I was not about to let my folks know that. I would not let them off the hook so easily. I would stay miserable.

After two and a half days, I stepped off the train. It was a cool and foggy morning, the sun just cresting over the highest mountain. That sun shone down on the cool damp fog and illuminated the valleys.

I stood there letting the sun warm my face and burn away my rebellion as it burned away the fog. I felt in love for the first time. I was home.

I turned to my mother with tears in my eyes and told her that someday I would live here and see these mountains everyday.

Last year, while living outside of Philadelphia, my husband was laid off from work and we had no idea how we would make it. We have three children to care for, I didn't make enough money to support us, and no one was hiring.

I sat one night turning the channels on the TV trying to fight back the depression until I came cross a show on national parks. Was it a coincidence or fate that at that moment Glacier shined in all its glory as it did when I was younger?

The next morning, I told my husband it was time to move. I pulled out my old pictures from my trip and a map.

"Here," I said, pointing to the map of the Flathead Valley. "Here is home."

God love him he never questioned my reasoning; he knows me too well. He trusted me. So one year, 2,600 miles and seven tires later, I am sitting in my living room in my cabin in the woods. My husband and I both have good jobs and my children are happy.

I don't know what else this land has in store for us, but I do know that after 16 years, I have finally come home.

Leah Furlong lives in Whitefish.