Home Again: A Montana Visit Filled with Family, Sky, and Memories

I returned home last night with a full heart and a camera full of moments. I spent twelve days in Montana visiting family, and half of that time was spent on the road—driving across the vast stretches that make Montana truly “Big Sky Country.” Even though I flew there, the distances between relatives meant long drives: thirteen hours separate my sister’s house from where most of the others live. That time on the road became part of the trip’s story.

Every day of those travels I spent with my sister Becky. We logged countless miles together and still never ran out of things to say. At one point I nodded off in the back seat and lost track of two hours, but by then our other sister had joined us and the conversation never stopped. It was effortless, easy, and exactly what a family trip should feel like.

My sisters: Becky on the left, and Susan

The days were full of ordinary, perfect moments—catching up with family and friends, meeting fiancés, holding new babies, lingering over coffee, and indulging in local Tastee Hut burgers. The Montana sky was a highlight every evening. Those big blue skies and dramatic sunsets made even simple walks feel cinematic; the light and color would stop me in my tracks and remind me why this place has always felt special.

One of the most meaningful parts of the trip was staying in the farmhouse where I grew up. The house is about a century old, and my sister-in-law has decorated it with warmth and care. Walking through those rooms brought back a flood of memories, and in the three days I stayed there we made even more—new moments layered on top of old ones.

We spent an afternoon going through Mom’s recipe cards, planning to organize them someday into a family cookbook. Sitting around the table—sorting, laughing, and reading notes in her handwriting—felt like a gentle way to preserve family traditions. Those recipes are more than instructions for food; they are a record of holidays, Sunday dinners, and small acts of care that shaped our childhood.

It was hot while we were there—over 100 degrees at times—and I found myself thankful for the invention of air conditioning in ways I never had before. Still, the heat did little to dampen our enjoyment. We laughed until our sides hurt, traded stories from years past, and took hundreds of photos. By the end of the trip I had 283 pictures—each one a small piece of the trip I want to keep.

But the reason for this entire journey was my mother. Visiting her was the heart of the trip. Dementia has changed her in many ways—words come less easily now—but some things remain: the warmth of a hug, the familiar cadence of a laugh. Those moments, quiet and small, were the most powerful part of the visit.

Seeing her was bittersweet. Though I had prepared for the realities of the illness, it was still heartbreaking to watch parts of her fade. At the same time, we shared tender moments that I will carry with me: holding hands, sitting close, and simply being present. I looked her in the eye and told her, “I love you, Mom.” Saying those words aloud felt like the most important thing I could do—an anchor of love even when the rest is shifting.

This trip was about more than travel; it was about family ties, memory, and gratitude. It reminded me that some places and people are worth the long drive, the late-night conversations, and the effort it takes to come together. The farmhouse, the recipes, the sunsets, and the time with my mother are all woven into that truth. In the coming days I’ll go through the photographs and share more stories from the trip, but for now I’m holding close these simple, precious memories.