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I haven't had many traditions in my life, in general. Every year for Christmas and for Halloween, my family and I would watch Mickey's Christmas Carol and Disney's Halloween Treat, respectively. When I think back to try and find traditions that we followed, those are the only two that come to mind.

Then we grew up. We moved out of our parents' house. I think for a few years after, we would still dig through the old VHS tapes and find the ones that had been taped off of television sometime in the late '80s so we could rediscover the Disney traditions that we'd had as kids. But for the most part our two traditions faded into memory.

Once I became an adult, for some sociological reason I often attempted, usually in vain, to start traditions. I wanted something to happen each year that I could revisit with the people closest to me, and I don't really know exactly why.

While I was in Skagway, the only tradition I ever started that lasted for more than one year was going to the Denver caboose for my birthday.

The Denver caboose is probably my favorite place in the world. Whenever those questions come up on internet surveys where people try to get to know people better by asking them where they'd go if they could be anywhere right now, that's the first place that comes to mind. And the first time I went there was on my 27th birthday.

As I think about it tonight it's hard for me to even start writing about it. I was thinking about how I'm turning 30 this year, and how for some reason society has told me that I should do something amazing for my 30th birthday. I thought I should go on a great trip, and after 2 or 3 places fluttered through my consciousness the one that made me have to stop what I was doing was Denver.

It's hard for me to write about because I'm caught in this middle place now, somewhere between having and not having a home, wanting and not wanting to be in Alaska instead of Wisconsin.

I keep starting to type sentences describing the scenery around the caboose - the trail there, the trail back to the glacier, the sound of the river, the omnipresent evidence of moose, the peace, the contentment.... But when i start to construct the sentences I can't keep going.

I talk about Alaska every single day. It's hard not to compare and contrast the new place i live in with the one I used to. I think about all the things I miss, and all the things I don't. But I'm generally glad that I don't live there anymore. I know that I made the right choice in leaving. In May of 2012 I had started planning to leave; by September I was certain I had to; it wasn't until April of 2013 that I finally did. I needed to. My relationship with Alaska itself is so much like a metaphor for my relationships with the men I loved there. It lasted much longer than it should have, it kicked my ass, I learned a lot from it, and no one was surprised when it was over.

I wanted to plan trips back. I tell my boyfriend about it all the time, and have a longing to return with him, to show him what I loved so much about it. But every time I start planning, I stop. I have this sense that I'm not emotionally "ready" to return to the place where I endured so much tragedy.

But for some reason tonight while I'm thinking about where I would like to spend the turn of the next decade of my life, it's all I can think about.

Which part was the lie? The part where I convinced myself that Alaska was home, or the part where I convinced myself that it wasn't?