It’s been twelve years since Bill and I sold our house, hitched up the trailer, and started this crazy gypsy life of ours.

Twelve years of roads, mountains, deserts, coastlines, tiny towns, National Parks, places we planned to see, and plenty we stumbled into completely by accident.

And through all those years, there is one question people ask us more than any other:

“Of all the places you’ve traveled, what is your favorite?”

You would think after twelve years I would have an answer.

I don’t. I never have.

There has never been one place that rises above all the others. We have simply seen too much beauty, in too many different forms, to pick a winner.

So recently, I decided to make the question easier. Instead of asking myself which place was my favorite, I started thinking about our travels through my senses.

What place do I remember because of what I smelled? What did I hear that I’ll never forget? What taste immediately takes me back? What have I touched that made me stop and think about how small my place is in this world? And what have I seen that literally took my breath away?

THAT I can answer.

SMELL — Key West, Florida

Old Town. Near the cemetery. Somewhere around Ashe and Grinnell Streets.

Get on a bike sometime between dusk and midnight and just ride.

The air is thick and still, and the scent is almost overwhelming: gardenias, jasmine, roses, honeysuckle, all tangled together in that warm Key West air. It’s hard to describe unless you’ve experienced it.

To me, it smells like heaven opened up and spilled a little bit of itself onto Earth. It is a smell that speaks to my soul.

And I have absolutely no doubt that when I get to heaven someday, that is what it will smell like.

SOUND — Coyotes in the Mountains

Our first long-term stop on the road was Breckenridge, Colorado.

One night, I woke up hearing what I thought were children laughing. Then the laughter changed. It sounded like cries for help, and for a few very upsetting minutes, I was convinced there were children somewhere outside who needed help.

And then I realized what I was hearing.

Coyotes.

That began my love affair with listening to coyotes in the mountains.

That first night was probably the most violent. They were working as a pack, and there was clearly some serious business going on. Something out there was either doing the eating or being eaten.

Nature isn’t always gentle.

But I couldn’t stop listening.

There is something so primal about the sound of coyotes: painful and beautiful at the same time. It reminds you that you’re sitting in the middle of a world that has been carrying on this way for thousands of years, whether we’re there to hear it or not.

Now that we live in the mountains, I sleep with the window cracked open no matter how cold it gets. I don’t want to miss the coyotes.

But the most magical coyote night happened at Under Canvas near Yellowstone. We were in a valley surrounded by mountains when suddenly the entire valley came alive.

Coyotes were calling from one mountain to another. Then another group would answer. And then another. There must have been dozens of them.

Bill and I just lay there listening.

It was a chorus unlike anything I had ever heard; beautiful, haunting, wild.

Like the Earth itself was talking.

TASTE — Maryland Steamed Crabs

This one isn’t even close.

There is no place like home.

Late August. Maryland steamed crabs. Sweet and succulent, covered in Old Bay. A table covered in brown paper, a cold drink nearby, and hours spent picking crabs with people you love.

Nothing beats it.

I’ve eaten some wonderful food in some wonderful places, but my Chesapeake Bay wins the taste category every single time.

I miss you, Maryland.

And no matter where this road takes me, you will always be home.

TOUCH — The Redwoods of Northern California

Put your hand on an ancient redwood.

Really put your hand on it.

There is something almost impossible to explain about touching a living thing that has stood there for hundreds, sometimes thousands, of years. You feel like you’re touching history.

The forest itself feels alive in a way few places do. There’s the rough bark beneath your hand, the dampness in the air, the softness of the earth beneath your feet, water dripping from leaves high above you, ferns and moss and green everywhere you look.

Everything is growing. Everything is feeding something else. Water falls from the canopy, nourishes the earth, feeds the roots, and the whole cycle begins again.

Standing there, you realize how small you are.

And strangely, how connected you are to all of it.

It feels like God’s abundance on full display.

The past isn’t behind glass here.

You can reach out and touch it.

SIGHT — Telluride, Colorado

For years, Bill and I talked about someday finding a mountain town we might call home.

Then we rolled into Telluride for the first time.

And I cried.

There it was.

The valley. The mountains. The wildflowers. The peaks and rolling hills. The temperature. The town itself, part cowboy, part Renaissance, part something I still can’t quite describe.

I had traveled through Switzerland years before, and Telluride was the first place on this side of the world that gave me that same feeling. It was almost impossibly beautiful.

I remember looking around and thinking: This. THIS is what I’ve been picturing.

Funny how life works. Sometimes you spend years looking for something without really knowing exactly what you’re looking for.

And then one day, you turn a corner and recognize it.

Maybe That’s the Answer

Twelve years later, I still can’t tell you my favorite place.

And maybe I finally understand why.

Travel isn’t really about collecting places. It’s about collecting moments.

A smell on a bicycle ride through Key West. Coyotes calling across a Yellowstone valley. Old Bay stuck to your fingers in Maryland. Your hand resting against a redwood that was here long before you and will hopefully be here long after you’re gone. Turning a corner in Colorado and seeing a mountain town so beautiful it brings tears to your eyes.

Those are the things that stay with you.

North America is extraordinary that way. Drive a few hours and the landscape changes. The ecosystem changes. The food changes. The people change. The smells change. And suddenly, the world feels brand new again.

Maybe that’s one of the greatest gifts these years on the road have given me.

They taught me to pay attention.

To roll down the window and breathe it in. To listen. To taste it. To touch it.

And every once in a while, to stop the darn car and look.

Because someday the road trip ends.

But if you were paying attention, you get to keep all of it.

When I think about these twelve years, more than anything else, I feel grateful. Grateful that we could go. Grateful that I could work while we wandered. Grateful for this beautiful country and all the surprises it gave us.

And incredibly grateful for my traveling partner, Bill Schroeter, who was crazy enough to sell the house, hitch up the trailer, and see what might be waiting around the next bend with me.

What a journey it’s been.

And maybe that’s finally my answer when someone asks about my favorite place.

I don’t have one.