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I can’t stop looking at houses in Montana. Call it escapism. It could be the call of the wild. Maybe I just want to drop the entire life I’ve built for myself, just ghost the hell out of here and give into my primal urges of blowing my life savings and 401(k) on a ranch in the Mission Mountains. Big ideas only.
One problem: I don’t think I could run an entire ranch by myself, let alone afford the day-to-day costs associated with running said ranch. But hey, if Tim Riggins can go to jail for chopping up ‘98 Mercedeses and still buy a bunch of land in Texas, then Brian McGannon can sure as shit grab up 60 acres in Western Montana for his personal Big Sky palace. I’d grow veggies, have some horses, listen to Nathaniel Rateliffe all day, make my own beef jerky from locally sourced beef, learn how to hunt with a bow, shoot guns and drink beer. The American Dream, really. Even if I don’t know how to make deer jerky, scare off a brown bear or shoot a hunting bow, I feel like a long afternoon going down some YouTube rabbit holes would easily fix that.
Real estate speculation happens to be a hobby of mine. I’m always on the lookout for a hot deal. You guys ever watch Beachfront Bargain Hunt? It’s exhilarating. Somebody finding a Hemingway-style hideaway on Siesta Key for less than $500k gets me absolutely rock hard.
After a few Coors yellow cans the other day, I found this incredible 2,700 sq. ft. 3B2B in Kalispell in my price range. “The Highwayman” started playing on Spotify and I will tell you this: I have never been closer to buying that damn cabin sight unseen and moving my life up to the Rocky Mountains, never to be seen again.
I wouldn’t have even said goodbye. I feel like that’s the kind of move that people would understand. That’s not like me packing up and moving to New York or Scottsdale or Miami. I think most of my friends and family would be like, “Well, that makes sense.” I already live by myself. I am single, with very little interest in not being single (“It’s not the horniness, Jim. It’s the loneliness”). I have very little to tie me down. I’d be a fool not to do this, right?
I don’t think loneliness would be that big of a problem, either. Everyone I know would want to come visit. You know how psyched your friends and family would be to go to Montana instead of other vapid millennial relocales? Montana FUCKS. “You guys going to visit cousin Jeff in San Francisco? Tight. I’m gonna be drinking rye on my back porch looking at the Rockies wondering how my life could possibly get any better, while smugly laughing at all the suckers back in civilization.” Then I’d have a brief panic attack after remembering that the nearest hospital and Walmart is 45 minutes away. You would have to take the good with the bad, I guess.
Then, winter would come. I’d be holed up in my gorgeous cabin with nowhere to go, no one to keep me company…oh, wait. I got a GD snowmobile in this fantasy. Fire up the old ET, just gonna send it. Gonna be a good day.
Montana’s state name is “The Treasure State.” You don’t just name a state that unless there’s actually treasure in the state. I don’t think they were talking about nature’s splendor and the awe of the Rockies when they gave it that nickname. No, there’s actual treasure there, and I intend to find it.
You can laugh all you want. I’ll be the one living in a palatial wood cabin in Whitefish after discovering El Dorado in 2025. I’m playing chess while everyone else is playing checkers. .
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