I love this season and all that collides in this week. Thanksgiving breathes life into thankfulness for things that aren’t things, especially family traditions. I woke up, after somewhat sleeping in, pressed two exquisite espresso shots into my mug, steaming heavy cream and honey into my mixer. The small tv on our counter streamed the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade all morning just to catch one impressive talent display—the Rockettes. This tradition has been in my family for as long as I can remember. Sure, my sisters and I loved to follow the floats and pick out who lip syncs and who is doing the real thing. But there is nothing that radiates the holiday season quite like the Radio City Rockettes kick-line.

My two sisters and I all grew up in dance. Madeline, the middle sister, was the ballerina of the family, and built like one too. For me it was more of a creative expression blended with an athletic hobby. Given the opportunity to perform at recitals, competitions, and clinics propelled me in the sport. We loved going to clinics together to learn new choreography, one of which was taught by a Rockette. Her tap heels were much taller than ours, which felt tall compared to the cute shiny tap shoes all the kids wear. It was a big deal to get to tap in character heels, but these didn’t stand a chance to the Rockette elegance, class and style she had. Yet there was still a glimmer of hope in my eye that, if I worked hard enough, I could be a Rockette.

All this to say, when Thanksgiving morning came, I didn’t cry tears of agony or sorrow for things I haven’t done. You can take this as my admittance that I never became a Rockette, or even came close to the audition. You see, we learned that for the kick line to appear so even and precisely in-sync, there is a height range one must be in order to be a Rockette. I never made the height range, nor do I think dancing could have been a full-time career. However, I relish every moment watching the girls perform with their perfectly coordinated high kicks, and stylishly svelte costumes. This tradition is my most cherished, no matter where we spend Thanksgiving.

Being in Arizona this year, Grams and I had a bit of a different view, but a grateful one. We were thankful to spend time with dear friends and construct our famous appetizer spread (another tradition). Thanksgiving is just the start of what’s more to come. Every cowboy knows that before Christmas, there’s Cowboy Christmas—one of Las Vegas’ largest events and certainly the one with the most cowboy hats. For many of our friends, it is tradition to attend the NFR (National Finals Rodeo), as contests start as soon as next week. And this, friends, is where we come to the cornerstone event which ignited the blog Wild Hearted Drifter.

Since releasing my first post a mere two weeks ago, I’ve received quite a bit of feedback, all which I’m glad to receive. It can be challenging constructing something new, finding the right tone, voice, and essence in writing. There’s an art in being prepared, but not too prepared. One thing I was prepared for was the name. Wild Hearted is all fine and dandy, but drifter? Have you read synonyms for drifter lately? Let me save you the search engine:  vagabond, bum, wanderer, hobo, tramp, transient, among other endearing and affectionate descriptors. I chuckle even typing the words because this was the most prayed after piece in the decision to start the blog. But before we can get into why drifter had to be a part of it, we must go back to the year 2022, a year that forever changed my journey.

I had been living in Montana for a couple of years. Roping and my horse had become very much part of me. One of the first people I met was Tiffany Wagner, who needs no introduction, and most of the time, in her humility, does not want one. When I first met her, she came over to the arena where I rode to break in some calves. I asked her, “Where do you live?” Her response, posed as a question, warrants a laugh out loud to this day, “Where DO I live?” She said it with ambiguity, but confidence, and I knew she had a story behind it. I quickly learned that she spent her summers traveling with team ropers, not just as a driver, horsewoman, and cowboy wrangler, but also for her expertise in roping, and sensitivity to spirituality from the Lord. There was a reason she was well known in and out of the arena. If you needed something in your roping, chances were, Tiffany knew exactly what to say, and more importantly, how to pray.

Her lifestyle was one I immediately admired. She lived small out of her horse trailer, cowboyed for her family and friends and then became a Sunshine Cowgirl in the winter months, roping in Arizona, then back to the ranch in the spring, and on the rodeo road in the summer. All of this to do not for herself, but for others. She mentored me a lot, and still does to this day, but her answer to my question with a question, sparked a small ignition which lit the flame for what I would begin to do in my own life.

It was January of 2022. Cold, bitter, and snow covered in Helena, Montana, I had the warm fuzzies and stars in my eyes. I had just bought my dream horse, Cash man. The tears had barely dried from gratefulness from that transaction. I was so thankful to call a horse so good mine. I was thankful to his owner, Dallas, that she trusted me with her favorite horse at the time, and that she was confident we would be great together. You have no idea as a brand-new cowgirl what that meant to me. I can’t even write this without the tears in my eyes swelling again. I had written my first goal of the year down on December 31, 2021:  Buy my first horse. Three days later, God had checked that one off the list with the best horse I knew of at the time. I had to call Tiffany to tell her. The horse was goal number one on the list, but there were other goals that followed. If I really want to rope, what did I need to do? Tiffany quietly, but firmly guided me by saying, “You are going to get where you can rope year-round. You can’t physically rope in Montana in the winter like you need to. You have to find a way to get to Arizona, or somewhere that allows you to rope in the winter.”

Whether my tears had froze or just dried up, there was now a pit in my stomach. Another move? Hmmm…I thought I would live forever in Montana, marry a cowboy, and ride off into the sunset. This was my 8^th move in 8 years. But I trusted Tiffany. And trusted God that if He called me to this sport, He was going to call me through it. The job I had at the time wasn’t going to put me in the position where I could be that mobile. But I was willing to do whatever it took to get to the next level, even if it meant leaving the place I thought would be permanent, and the company I thought I would make a career out of. I began to pray, every day, that if God wanted me to move forward, that he would prepare the way and that I would be positioned to go wherever He needed me to.

Remember, if God calls you to it, He will call you through it.

The white blankets that had tucked the mountains to sleep, began to loosen. The best part of the year in Montana was coming—summer. Job opportunities had sprung up but none of the right ones. I had started cleaning my closet in the house I rented at the time, picking up each summer garment and deciding if it deserved real estate in my rather extensive collection of clothes. As I sorted, a small voice in my mind questioned, “Would you put it in the closet of your living quarters horse trailer?” I didn’t have a living-quarters, much less my own trailer. I still had the little borrowed bumper pull, which suited my needs well for the local jackpots I went to. But that little question clung to me. A living quarters horse trailer? Why did I think about a closet in something I didn’t own? This lifestyle I had been praying for was not just a change in flexibility of geography, it was also a change of housing. Of course, if I was going to live multiple places, travel with my horse, and truly be mobile, a living quarters horse trailer made perfect sense. I could write about it and share my adventures along the way. This small question became a big ask for confirmation as I continued to press on towards my roping goals.

The promised summer of Montana came, along with heat. I wasn’t doing much job searching, continuing to do the job I had to the best of my ability. And it was going phenomenally well. The week of my birthday in July, I got the call I had been praying for. I was very open in pressing the company for exactly what I wanted as far as living arrangements in their job offer. I would only take this role if I could go to Arizona in the winter and rope. Jay, who I now work for, said the best words I could have heard: “I don’t care if you live in Tahiti. I need you to hit your goals. However you choose to do that is up to you.” As we discussed the position and job transition I knew in my heart this was it. I got on my knees and thanked God for an answered prayer, and prayed that He would guide the transition. I knew this was from Him, and that no steps of many could have ordained this calling.

It was both exhilarating and wild to take the leap into the unknown. There was a lot of stability in the job I had worked for many years. God was calling on me to lean into Him in this season, and build the life I had been asking Him for. I wrote, prayed, and journaled a lot, but nothing of a blog stirred yet.

The next coming weeks of transition were grinding. Relationships were tested. My faith was tested. But I knew I made the right decision. My old laptop and former brand wear was turned in and I had several weeks of vacation before I began the next endeavor. God couldn’t have scheduled this better, as I had a trip already on the calendar. I spent 10 days in Northern Italy with my free-spirited friend, Giulia Tacchino.

It was my first launch over the big pond. The culture called to my heart so deeply. Everyone was so proud, so themselves, never questioning, just doing. They made it look cool and effortless. Confidence and authenticity were woven into the fabric of the people and places I went. The trip was both a lightening on my heart and an impression into my vision. I was going deeper into the current of my calling, and I was confident in that decision.

Reality came back to me as I got back to Montana, started in my new sales role, and traveled for fall business meetings and holidays. It hadn’t hit me yet that this job move would start additional shifts to the nomadic zip codes of my life. I started researching living quarters horse trailers, still thinking Montana would be one of my zip codes. I had set another move on the back burner, not at all anticipating what God had in store.

God is always on time, but a lot of times, He comes in last minute. -Marilyn Hickey

I had just finished spending Thanksgiving with my family in Nebraska. Time tugged at my heartstrings. Nebraska had changed since I had left in 2015. It seemed like a place I wanted to be, rather than had to be. What once felt like a boring fence around all my dreams and ambitions to leave, became a gate. I had the job which allowed me to live wherever I wanted whenever I chose. I had briefly talked to my parents about coming back to Nebraska, sometime in the future, after I had my living quarters trailer. I drove about 90 miles west on I-80 when I knew that Nebraska was calling me home. I called dad and said, “I know we talked about the horse pasture being ready next summer, but would it be ok if I moved home before Christmas.” Without hesitation, he warmly said, “Check your weather. I’ll have it ready whenever you want to come home.” Dad always has a tradition to be the guy in your corner whenever you need him.

Recalling the calendar of events seems beyond any schedule I’ve had since. It had already been a second half of the year to remember. A big 4^th quarter push was on the horizon, but first, another adventure was brewing. My friend and boot business boss-lady, Paige, was meeting me in Las Vegas for the NFR.

I spent a much-needed afternoon in the spa, waiting for Paige’s arrival. So much life had happened. So much change was happening. But I knew it was right. There was a lot of faith that was required of me to continue to see where I needed to be. But I was tired. Nebraska was a place I avoided. I hadn’t really connected this new life I was creating to the place I grew up. I had stacked hay bales at some of the best horse places around, but never rode in their arenas. Would I look like an idiot coming back? I even had bad dreams about Nebraska. The reoccurring nightmare I had was losing everything and being forced to move back. I had attached my success in the roping arena to being in Montana. The negative connotations I had associated with Nebraska were fear based and false. Nebraska was a part of my story, coming back into the fold, and no person or place could keep my success from me. How often do we hold onto things that we think make us successful, but in reality are keeping us from believing God for what only HE can do?

Paige flew in late at night, and I picked her up from the airport. We decided we wanted to do some shopping at Cowboy Christmas, but overall, didn’t want to spend our time doing typical Vegas things. Neither of us are drinkers, but we both appreciate a fine steak. Paige was all-in on my horse trailer living idea. Both of us could make do with less, but always fancied the more. We loved talking color schemes, layouts and knew we needed to stop by a few booths at Cowboy Christmas for more inspiration on my “tiny house.” Paige has a lot of experience sharing her own story, and I knew she would be insightful with blog ideas.

The first day we shopped weaving in and out of deep conversation, gathering goodies and good ideas along the way. By early evening, we found our way to a hotel steakhouse with two bar seats and a front row big screen view of the rodeo. Our bartender was attentive and we were dressed to the nines. He asked where our men were? Paige let him know hers was at home, as she showed her vintage ring. And mine? Well, he sure can’t wait to meet me. 🙂

The next morning, we set out for our fancy coffees and sustenance before we looked for the trailhead. Paige had been on this hike before and was my guide for the day. She knew it was all worth it for the view at the end:  an expanse of the Vegas Strip from on top of the red desert rock we were on.

Hiking and heart talks filled my lungs. Paige had her own stories of wild-hearted leaps of faith in her business, which encouraged me. The elevation began to change from ground level shrubs and desert to steep slick rocks and collisions. We ascended, knowing the view awaited us. More people came into view, and we knew we must be close. There, all of a sudden, we were on top of the rocks, looking down onto the expanse. It made the busyness of Vegas seem so far away, like another world. We weaved around people catching glimpses of different parts of the desert, until something odd came to our attention. A small black box towards the end of the rock where we stood, situated out in plain sight, puzzled us. What on earth is this? Is it a bomb? Should we be afraid? A small group had noticed also, and curiosity got us both. We walked down to it, carefully unclipping the top.

Inside, were pens and paper, to write a note for yourself, or for someone else. The pen wrote what my heart had been confirming: God-I can’t wait to watch you do what you do.  He has got it planned. He has it written in His book. He knew I’d come to this place, see this view, and release myself to go where He was asking me to.

Full hearted and empty stomached, we got back to the city to freshen up, get back to our steakhouse and front row seats. Paige had been curating our trip to her Instagram and a mutual friend had messaged her stating, “Claire is the wild hearted drifter everyone needs in their life!” Our friend Haley, whether she knew at the time or not, breathed life into the name I couldn’t shake:  Wild Hearted Drifter.

And as you well know, this wouldn’t officially become paper until two years later. But that brand set on my heart. I was curious about it. Wild was in my nature. Full hearted was in everything I did. But drifter? Fully aware, and you also, to the synonyms of this whimsical yet worrisome name I still couldn’t shake it. Going to the place where I knew things made sense, I asked God again, if this part of the name was right. Many times, when I want to go deeper into prayer, I ask God to take me into the current of His thoughts. I imagine myself like a trout, right in the current where the water moves. I don’t just want to be in the water, or on the water, I want to be in the current. There lied the answer.

Although the definition of drifter doesn’t at all describe me, that of a drift boat fits. The boat is designed to be used in rivers. The current guides the boat, while the construct allows it to move over rocks without damage and oars provide some guidance in direction.

This Wild Hearted Drifter is on direction from God’s current. I was made to go over rocks, be in areas only a current could pull. It doesn’t mean I have no direction, but rather a current direction. When God says go, I’m living the life that I can pick up my ropes and go as quickly as needed.

Sometimes the directions of your life can be hi-jacked by the negative thinking you allow to take up real estate. Don’t look at the rocks. Don’t fear the current. Look at the open water, let the current guide you, and propel you into your calling.  

Drifters are agile, free to go where needed. It is a gift to feel at home so many places. My home is in the heart, where the calling calls from. And soon, my physical home will be a living quarters horse trailer. A drifter may not have the best connotations according to Google. It’s all in how I was positioned to go through this season and probably not forever. This is the season to follow the wild current, be in the right boat (or trailer), and the right direction. Something about the drifter name that should be repulsive, is redemptive. God made me free to go, drifting yet specifically directed, so I figure I ought to! All this to say, this is the reason for the Wild Hearted Drifter, at least the drifter part. And I’d hate to break tradition.