Going away for over a month of wandering around some mountains to which I have no ancestral connection did help dispel the popular travel fantasy that it’s possible to escape oneself. Leaving everything behind is simply impossible. Almost a year on, I still think about the people I met, the places I got to see, the food I got to eat, the crazy plywood lean-to hotels I got to sleep in, and I’m grateful for all of them. But I don’t feel guilty about the things I’d been putting off confronting anymore. I think I left the voice in the mountains. I probably could have left it behind long ago, if I’d just let it speak.