Home Is Where The Heart Is

I know my title is a warn out bromide but I have found there is so much truth in these old, hackneyed sayings. I have just returned from five months on the road with my best friend, Koty Bear. We drove our motorhome Clementine and pulled along our little Shadow as I photographed the Pacific Coast from Cape Disappointment to Morro Bay.

It was a fantastic trip. We made many new friends and beheld many of Mother Nature's splendors, splendor of a sort one does not experience in Montana. The ocean is such a powerful and awe inspiring beast particularly in winter when storms have roused Her from a deep sleep and Her mood is clearly dark. It is truly breathtaking and a privilege to try and capture.

But, as great a time as we had, being back at the ranch is, well, being home. From the moment we crossed the border in Idaho, between Bonner’s Ferry and Libby I could feel a change come over me. It’s rather hard to explain. The feeling was like releasing a deep sigh of contentment.

The photograph above I named “Montana in My Dreams”. I called it that because it depicts the essence of why I call Montana my home. As a child growing up on a ranch in California (in case you missed it you may wish to read My California) I dreamed of one day living in Montana. Living here is quite literally a dream come true. Why the mountains call to me I cannot say. The mountains in the background are the Canadian Rockies, some of the most majestic mountains in the world. This was a particularly good year in terms of snow so they are at their very best.

I see this view every time I leave my place. The first time I left the ranch, after returning from the trip, I wept for the heartbreaking beauty of it. And, with those tears and that tightness in my chest I knew I was home again living my dream.

©Kinsey Barnard Photography

My California

Although I am now a resident of Montana I was born and raised in California. The California I grew up in was much different than the one you see today. Much of it was rural, agricultural and a very real part of the Old West.

My great grandfather, Austin Denny Barnard, came to San Buena Ventura in the mid-eighteen hundreds and my grandfather, Charles Ventura Barnard was born there in 1869. Ventura County is where I grew up on a citrus & avocado ranch. Ironically, I am only third generation even though the first generation was born there nearly 140 years ago.

When I was a little girl, everyday after school, I would run to the barn, saddle up my horse and ride away. I loved to pretend I was Annie Oakley. I would go into the hills and pretend to track rustlers. I was really tracking cowboys herding cattle.

Fields and orchards were never fenced. I was welcome to ride across any neighbor’s property. We treated each other’s property with respect in those days. Oh, yes, we misbehaved now and again. But, it was usually things like swiping a watermelon out of a neighbor’s patch. Course, nobody really cared but if you got caught you got in big trouble just the same. It was the principle of the thing.

Those fields and orchards I used to race across on my horse are no longer. Clapboard houses crammed together like sardines in a tin now cover that beautiful, fertile land. Also gone are the trust, respect and consideration people once had for each other. Just too many people competing for too little space I reckon.

I have often been asked if I miss California and I quite honestly answered no, not really. And, it seemed to me I really didn’t miss anything about California the way it is today. But, I was wrong. I recently visited California and I realized there is something and it is the rolling hills and majestic oaks. The California oaks are the most beautiful trees in the world in my opinion. Somehow I had forgotten what an impact they have on me. There aren’t as many as there once were but where they still exist they reign supreme.

I shall soon be returning to my beloved Montana mountains but I will never again forget what I will always love about California.

©Kinsey Barnard Photography