I've always felt at home in wild places, even when adventuring alone. Perhaps, especially when adventuring alone.
It feels a bit silly, but my idea of luxury often means the least gear and the most remote adventure possible.
Give me a sky with more stars than I can count;
the sound of the horses grazing nearby, their silhouettes cloaked in the blackness of the night, their soft and steady breath a lullaby to send me off to dreamland;
a dawn frost that tickles my nose just before the sun pulls itself above the horizon;
sunrise colors that steal my breath as I write and write and write in a hopeless effort to capture its divine and fleeting beauty;
that first sip of mate to warm my body as I bravely pull myself from my toasty sleeping bag and frosted bivy.
Oh this is heaven.
This is pure luxury, in my book anyway.
Freedom to roam and freedom to run, wander and explore with no agenda or plan. Freedom to find the herd and graze with them, simply being with the wilderness as though we are one.
Remembering that we actually are one, bodies sharing some aspect of matter and biology with every living being, even a bit of stardust thrown in for good measure.
Of course I feel at home in wild places, they are home.
They've always been.