WATFORD CITY, N.D. -- My husband and I spent a brief time living in western Montana when we were first married almost 20 years ago now. It doesn't seem that long ago when I reach back for a memory there of us and our big brown Lab who was just turning from puppy to real dog, sort of like our marriage.

We chose the mountains as a challenge to pick a spot to live, and that sounded adventurous before we completely settled down at the ranch. We had married the year before, and my husband needed to finish his college degree after spending as much time as a man needed as a roughneck in the oil fields.

I had been touring up and down the Midwest, particularly the interstates and state highways of Nebraska, Kansas, Iowa, Wisconsin, Illinois and Minnesota. I would take my husband with me when his four days off aligned with my time on the road.

Our honeymoon, for example, was spent in Redfield, South Dakota, a tiny town of 2,000 just south of Aberdeen. I had been hired to perform at a company picnic, and so off we went for 400 miles, nearly running out of gas when we miscalculated the distance between towns.

We could have been in Jamaica like normal newlyweds, but on our way home, we stayed at the Hotel Donaldson in Fargo to be fancy and bought a new refrigerator and microwave with our wedding money, only to discover they were much too big to fit in the tiny ranch house where we were living. So, we sold them to his parents.

Living together as husband and wife in my grandma's tiny house next to the red barn on the ranch where I was raised when we were so young made us feel uneasy, I think, only because we wondered if it might be too good to be true. We couldn't possibly be here already -- with jobs and bills and the brown Lab puppy I bought for him for his birthday.

If we stayed here for the rest of our lives, would we grow to resent it? Would we blame every mistake and wrong turn and unsettled argument on the fact that we never spread our wings too far together? What if we became unhappy? Would there be a way we dared blame it on the ranch and the small town that raised us and pulled us back?

We narrowed it down to two choices: Winona, Minnesota, because I sang there once and brought my husband along, and we visited a cute coffee shop and walked along the river and climbed to the top of a bluff and we liked how it looked like a movie scene from far away, even in the ugly and brown part of March. Then we went to Wabasha and watched the bald eagles and toured the famous restaurant and places that inspired the '90s movie "Grumpy Old Men." We got a kick out of all of it. And Winona had a college with the right program.

So did Missoula. We hadn't been there before, but as prairie kids, we romanticized the mountains, so that's what won. Seems like the mountains always win. Who could argue with a college credit in snowboarding and professors who wore Birkenstocks before every teenage girl in the country wore Birkenstocks?

We brought our dog, and I brought my guitar, and I doubt we had too much else. Maybe a bed and my mom's old leather couch. We found a cheap place to live, and I found a job and he went to school, and we looked for places to find ourselves in the mountains every night and every weekend, and we wanted to love it. And maybe we did a bit.

But looking back on it now, it seems like we spent most of our time trying to climb out so we could see the horizon and the weather coming. So we could get away from the endless swarm of people looking to be found, too.

My favorite hiking spot was the bald face of a mountain outside of town, where nothing but prairie grass grew and the trail was cut like a switchback, the way the cows and deer and elk would do it at home. There were no surprises there. I could see the sky.

I lost my first pregnancy in that little condo in Missoula. My husband had already moved back to North Dakota to take a job, and I stayed behind with the dog and nothing but an air mattress and a suitcase left in the space. It wasn't time for us to be parents. We were not ready. But it didn't feel that way when I was alone and wailing. My dad came to get me because my husband couldn't leave. I protested. I'm like that Lab -- when I'm hurt, I want to hide out under the deck and be alone.

And that was that. We gave it a year for the mountains to enchant us. But nothing compared to the place that loved us first. After the long trip home, I climbed to the top of my own hill. It wasn't a mountain, but the view was better. I cried the cry of someone who had lost something. I cried the cry of relief. I cried the cry of uncertainty. I cried the cry of being loved. I cried the cry of being home.

And I've cried that cry a thousand times since, but I've never wanted to leave again.