I Had to Leave the Prairie to See It Differently

A few weeks ago, I had the incredible privilege of spending six days backpacking a section of the Continental Divide Trail with my mentor and now dear friend, Margaret.

Margaret came into my life through Wild Idea. She is married to Tom, who oversees the breakdown, cut and wrap of our buffalo carcasses. Colton and I met them over dinner last summer, and I remember listening to Margaret tell stories about her backpacking adventures and thinking how incredible they sounded.

A few months later, she invited me to join her.

I said absolutely.

Over the next four months, Margaret taught me everything from reading maps and packing supplies to choosing gear and practicing Leave No Trace. By the time we set out, I felt prepared—or at least as prepared as I could be for something I had never done before.

We started near the Wyoming-Colorado border and headed south. Over six days, we walked 62.5 miles, gained more than 13,600 feet of elevation, took over 175,000 steps, and I started out carrying a 47-pound pack.

But those numbers aren't really what stayed with me.

Being Somewhere That Still Felt Wild

We walked through ecosystems that felt almost untouched by human hands, places where nature seemed to be functioning largely on its own terms.

It was beautiful, but it was also overwhelming and, honestly, emotional.

I found myself thinking about landscapes that have been altered, fragmented and degraded, and feeling that familiar sadness over how much has been lost.

But the longer I hiked, the more hopeful I became.

Our days started around 4:30 in the morning. We would pack up in the dark, make coffee beneath the stars, and start walking. At the end of the day, we found a place to camp near an alpine lake or running stream and did it all over again the next morning.

Even getting water became part of the experience.

There was no turning on a faucet without thinking about where the water came from. We had to physically reach the next water source, filter it, and carry what we needed until we found another.

Sitting beside those streams made me think about how precious water really is and how easy it is to take something so essential for granted when it is always there.

The same was true of so many things.

I wasn't just walking through the landscape. I was dependent on it.

The Buffalo Came With Me

I carried buffalo meat with me the entire way.

There was something meaningful about being fueled by an animal so connected to the work we do at home while walking through a landscape with its own long history with buffalo.

At one point, we crossed Buffalo Pass, a historic buffalo migration route through the mountains and a place Native people used as hunting grounds. Later, after the buffalo were killed off, those same trails became routes for trappers and eventually a wagon road.

Walking there made history feel much less distant.

The buffalo sustaining me on the trail connected me to Margaret, to the landscape beneath my feet, and back to the prairie waiting for me at home.

And everywhere we went, there was life.

We saw a mother moose and her calf, elk, a bear, countless birds and smaller animals. I was especially struck by the abundance of birds.

That's when you know you're somewhere different.

Somewhere wildlife still feels like it belongs.

Somewhere Along the Trail, Something Shifted

For six days, Margaret and I did little more than hike, breathe, look, listen and appreciate.

We didn't talk a lot, and both of us were completely okay with that. Most of the time, we simply listened to what surrounded us.

And somewhere in those six days, something shifted.

I started thinking about the work we do at home and how quickly life responds when given an opportunity.

Microbes feed plants. Plants feed insects. Insects feed birds. Birds and animals move seeds. Grazers influence plants. Water moves differently through healthy soils.

Life feeds more life.

Biodiversity creates resilience.

Seeing those systems functioning in the mountains gave me hope for our prairie. Not because the two landscapes are the same, but because I could see what becomes possible when all of those relationships are allowed to work together.

It renewed my energy for what we're doing at home and my hope that our prairie can become even more diverse, resilient and alive.

And Then I Thought About Home

The trip also gave me a different perspective on home in another way.

When you step away from the daily noise of work, kids and ranch life, you start to recognize the things you take for granted.

Usually, they're the people you love.

I came home with more compassion and appreciation for Colton and our boys, and with a renewed determination to work harder at what we've been entrusted with.

I want our boys to experience the kind of wildness I experienced on that trail—the abundance of wildlife, clean water, healthy plants and functioning ecosystems.

I want them to know what it feels like to be somewhere where wildness doesn't need to be explained.

That thought has stayed with me.

Because the food we eat, the animals we care for, the people we meet and the landscapes we move through aren't separate things. They're all part of the same system.

The buffalo gave me food for the trail.

Wild Idea gave me a friendship with Margaret.

The wilderness gave me renewed energy.

And now I'm home, even more dedicated to prairie restoration.

We've been entrusted with this landscape and the animals who call it home. Our job is to work patiently, imperfectly and season by season to leave it more alive than we found it.

And I think that's worth hiking 62.5 miles for.