The thrum of cicadas, the sharp scent of sun-warmed pine, the crunch of gravel under hooves—those were the soundtracks and scentscapes of my childhood. Growing up on a ranch nestled just outside Jackson, Wyoming, wasn’t just a setting—it was a shaping. If you’ve ever wanted to know what it feels like to have an entire landscape write your origin story, let me tell you: the Gros Ventre Range had me at "hello."

But this isn't a misty-eyed ode to wide-open spaces. This is about what it means to be forged, not just raised, by a place. A place that taught me everything I know about relationships, and yes, that includes dating. Because between cattle drives and mountain storms, you’d be surprised how many metaphors this rugged corner of the West has to offer about building real connections.

Where the Wild Things Teach You: Lessons From the Land

When you're raised in a setting where the nearest neighbor is a 15-minute drive (on a good day) and dates are literally a town event, you learn to get comfortable with silence. Not the “I've said something awkward; now I’m filled with dread” silence, but the kind that allows space for something more. Relationships—romantic or otherwise—breathe best in that space.

I’ll never forget the first time I guided a group of city tourists on a trail ride through the mountains. Listening to their jittery enthusiasm over a moose sighting, I saw a weird parallel to first dates. Everyone was trying to one-up each other with their knowledge of antler biology or tossing out goofy one-liners. I knew then what the adults in my family always said: “Sometimes, it’s better to listen than to try making noise.”

  • Takeaway: You don’t always have to fill every moment with words on a date—or in a relationship. A meaningful shared silence can speak louder than a rapid-fire volley of halfhearted “getting to know you” questions.

Adapting to Storms (Literally and Romantically)

Out here, the weather doesn’t just roll in; it arrives with drama. One minute, the world is bathed in golden sunlight that would make an Instagram influencer weep; the next, a sudden mountain squall leaves you drenched, gripping the reins, and praying your horse doesn’t buck. Ranch life raised me to expect the unexpected—and to prepare for recovery afterward. Rain might soak you, but it also slicks the fields for the next growth spurt.

My longest-running relationship (shoutout to my high school girlfriend, whom you probably haven’t heard of because, well, Wyoming) taught me something similar. You don’t avoid life's storms; you figure out how to change tack when they hit. She and I learned this when I left for college across the state—a six-hour stretch that felt like the Wyoming equivalent of long-distance dating. Real connection isn’t about avoiding friction; it’s about deciding the relationship is worth the work, come what may…or realizing when it’s time to head for shelter.

  • Takeaway: Storms don’t have to spell disaster. Whether you’re under a literal deluge or metaphorical one, take the time to pause, regroup, and figure out if and how you're going to weather it together.

The Art of Building Fences (But Not the Emotional Kind)

Building fences was basically my summer job growing up. Barbed wire has a mind of its own, and no amount of pleading or swearing (trust me, I tried) will persuade it to cooperate. There’s a deliberate rhythm to years spent hammering steel into earth: measure twice, tap lightly at first, then commit fully. It’s slow, intentional work, but once the fence is up, you know it’ll hold for people and wildlife alike.

I’ve noticed a similar rhythm at play when developing a new relationship. There’s a precise balance to setting boundaries—physical, emotional, or otherwise—without creating barriers. The fence has to be sturdy enough to protect what matters but not so overbuilt that you shut someone out entirely. Somewhere in there lies vulnerability, an opening to say, “Come on in, but watch your step.”

  • Takeaway: Boundaries matter in relationships. You’re not keeping people out; you’re letting the right ones in—just with enough structure to maintain your sense of self.

Feeding the Connection: Lessons From Campfire Cooking

If you’ve never cooked over an open flame, I ought to warn you: it’s messy, unpredictable, and often ends with something hilariously charred. That’s half the charm, though, and why some of my favorite nights were spent roasting anything we could skewer over hot coals. There’s something vulnerable about this, too. You forget perfection and embrace presence; when the marshmallow drops into the fire, you laugh and reach for another.

Many of my most successful connections—whether friends, partners, or something undefined—started in moments where I let go of “polished” and opted instead for “here I am, marshmallow crumbs on my chin, and all.” Trying to constantly impress or be flawless shuts down the authenticity that makes things interesting. Relationships, like campfire cooking, thrive when the effort is sincere but the stakes aren’t suffocatingly high.

  • Takeaway: Embrace imperfection. Vulnerability is magnetic. People don’t fall for robots; they fall for the delightfully human moments where your edges show.

Why the View Only Matters if You Share It

The first time I summited Sleeping Indian Mountain, I was 12 years old, and the view hit me like a movie climax. The kind that plays swelling orchestral music as the hero stares into the wild unknown. But here’s the thing: the view always looks better when someone’s there to share it. No seriously, I remember thinking, “Man, Mom’s gonna LOVE hearing about this.”

It’s the same with relationships, isn’t it? Milestones, big gestures, and even small, quiet triumphs—what makes them meaningful is the person you turn to and say, “Can you believe this? Us? Right here?” This holds just as true in dating as it does when you’ve been with someone for years. Connection isn’t found in material achievements; it's built over shared sunsets and cold coffees, messy mornings, and leaps of joyous risk.

  • Takeaway: Connection thrives in the shared moments, big or small. Don’t underestimate the power of simply being present together at life’s vistas, literal or metaphorical.

A Place That Shaped, Not Finished Me

Jackson, Wyoming, shaped me—quirks, lessons, and awkward cowboy boots included. But no single place, person, or relationship writes your final story. Like the trails running through the Tetons, life and love have forks, weather changes, and the occasional moose blocking the path. You adapt. Reroute. Share the journey.

I’m not naïve enough to think that everyone gets their “place.” But no matter where you call home—be it a city apartment, a quiet suburb, or, yes, a working ranch—you can look for the lessons that place leaves you with. You can decide how those lessons will show up when you’re flirting, committing, or even just figuring out what kind of date you are to yourself.

Some days, when I’m out on the trail, I still hear the land whisper those lessons back to me: listen more than you talk; adapt but respect your boundaries; laugh when the marshmallows fall. And, oh yeah—never underestimate the power of a shared silence.

  • Final Takeaway: Our most meaningful connections often echo the places we come from. When you embrace the quirks, edges, and storms—both in your surroundings and yourself—you open up the chance for something truly lasting and genuine. And who knows? Maybe you’ll find your person somewhere along the trail.