The trip was as long as this story to be told must be.

I have taken many long road trips, but none of them came close to being as extended as the journey I took when I was 7 years old. A ride that lasted for over 2 weeks, and an experience I shall never forget. Weaving through the US and on the road for roughly 5,000 miles in total, or maybe even more.

Born and raised — I grew up on a farm in the cicada singing sticks of South Carolina. The house my family lived in was a relic of the past, and is since now leveled to the ground. Possibly due to the fact that after we moved, there was residual energy left behind refusing to let anyone else inhabit it. A haunting footprint — a haunting left by souls still wandering in multiple locations.

Life was rough as the sticks outside, and as suffocating as heat you could see with the naked eye.

“You don’t know what you don’t know.”

I didn’t know how breathing a new air felt.

But the young lass I was had a dream starting to simmer amongst that heat. I was always told to pray and that my prayers would be answered. I prayed different than how my mom probably thought — but I would see mine answered with others unheard. To truly pray, you must be the one to hear and respond to yourself. The universe and our power to bend it.

So since the moment I perceived my own thoughts and the impact in my consciousness and words — I prayed for snow. A blanket of silence laid over the rubble.

Every. Single. Night.

Years pass.

My mom confronts me on the most unsuspecting of days. Which I suppose is usually how a prayer works. Like an evolution — an energy you send into the Schumann resonance that takes shape so slowly that you can not see the evolution of that energy taking place until it finally meets the focal point.

I remember the doubt in her voice. Telling me, “We are moving to Alaska. Your years of prayers have been answered.” I have always been an open book. I told her that “snow” was my daily prayer, even when she encouraged me to pray for other things.

I was immediately stoked, but not surprised. Every word spoken enacts a change. Even in microscopic ways and speeds before we can see them.

She tells me that we are driving there in my father’s truck. That we would take our time to see some of the world on our way there.

Got more than I prayed for. But the universe has its own way of answering in ways you intentionally wouldn’t expect.

Gotta stay on your toes!

So there I was, in a truck with five people and a corgi — slowly weaving on our way to my prayer, and leaving everything I had ever known behind.

Well, almost all of it. My family came as well of course. After all, I was only 7.

We had made too many stops and scenic routes for me to count. I remember seeing Mt. Rushmore, and thinking to myself, “Why on earth would they do this to a mountain? Could we not have left the mountain be?” Little did I know, the unscathed mountains I would soon come to witness were not far from me. Because my first incredibly fond core memory of this trip was about to take place in Montana.

It was the first time on our long journey that my father opted to indulge in a place to stay that didn’t feel soulless. We took refuge in a magnificent cabin lodge near Glacier National Park. Everything smelled of wood and there were fur blankets on the bedding. The last I expected compared to all else I had known — later to find out it was not really for us, but an indulgence for my father.

I guess it’s impossible to not inherit some traits from both parents.

Thankfully out of all my father’s qualities, I inherited his taste for a long stay in a wood cabin with nothing to do but stare at mountains. As well as his taste to take a hike up one, and stand only a few feet away from one of the largest native populations of mountain goats. Close enough to greet. Close enough to touch.

I remember meditating on a porch at the lodge with my handy sketchpad, closely observing and taking in all the patterns and shapes of the snow. I was content, even seeing these snows from afar. Seeing them all as different shapes and animals, and the peak was an astounding resemblance of a wolf.

I sat for hours. I drew it. I cherished every fiber of the moment I had alone with the mountain interacting with my thoughts. Little did little me know — these mountains would only grow larger as the expedition continued.

After a hardy stay at the lodge, we packed our things and treaded forward to the Alaska Highway.

Don’t even get me started on the Canadian border. It seems that my father was carrying things with us on our trip they didn’t take lightly. I remember thinking, “Everyone always said Canadians were so nice, what is going on?”

A soul as old as time, and a brain busy as bees — With the trusting innocence of a child.

There was a small shack before the treacherous highway’s beginning. There was merchandise everywhere, all describing the road ahead as something to “survive.” The only rest stop for miles. We would be living in the truck again for awhile. In the midst of the mystery — this place called “Alaska,” I was restless. My body refused to let me sleep. Refused to let me miss a single moment.

We were driving through in the later end of the year. I noticed the skies grow dimmer with every mile. Until the dead of night came — pitch black. The only light remaining came from the headlights, the dashboard, and my Gameboy as I played Happy Feet. Thinking, “If this is the snow in Antarctica, what will the snows of Alaska be?”

I felt my body betray me. My vision viewing my Gameboy to keep me awake began to blur in and out. I did not want to miss a single snowflake fall if we came across it. There was no resting snow on the floors of Montana, as the cold had not passed its way through there yet. Nevertheless beyond my control, I became so exhausted I have no recollection of the moment I passed out with my head on the window. I only remember feeling it creep up on me, as I said my ritual prayer for every night for over half a decade.

“Let there be snow.”

My cheeks grew cold. My eyes begin to flicker. All I could see in my waking state was a beam of stark white. “Am I dead?” I thought.

My mom began to shake me awake in eagerness, saying:

“Ezra!! It found you!”

I open my eyes to see us parked, and buried deep in the thickest, softest pillows of snow. It was not predicted to snow on our path in September. I’ll never forget how my mother worded it.

The snow found me. The universe accepted the invitation.

All your first experiences as a child are similar to as if you were tripping balls 24/7. Everything also feels so much larger when you are so small. But it does not change memory, and it does not change it from being true. Truth is in our perception and experience. The snow descending from the clouds were as large as my head. I would stake my life on it.

Out of all the years I later ended up living in Alaska, I had never seen a snow like the one I witnessed that morning in my entire life.

I begin to sob in glorious thanks to the universe for answering my call. Years of dedication to one single manifestation. One manifestation that gifted more than I even knew I was praying for. A gift I was eager to give back to.

There are truthfully hundreds of “trips” I could write about to answer this prompt. And so much more detail I could add to the mix. But when it comes to some of your first pivotal moments growing up — they shape you for the rest of your life. Making the rest of your life itself, the “longest trip” you have ever taken.

A trip I am still taking to this day. As the years I grew up beside the tallest mountains in America — which inspired me to begin writing. Attempting to describe feelings beyond words. The long trip, that is the very reason I am creating on my own personal writing blog today.

I pay homage to the snows, mountains, and all living things of Alaska that shaped me into an immense part of who I am — and continue to become.

A few months later once I turned 8, I wrote my first poem in awe of Alaska and a manifestation come true. “Listen to Alaska”

Life is a circle.

Almost 20 years later, the poem is featured on my homepage. A writing blog — one that little Ezra manifested for years, for it to take place from an inspiration that has existed my entire existence. For it to come to life, and to awake something that never truly fell asleep.

All things in divine timing.

A true gift does not expect anything in return.

But one gift can change everything.

The snows of the mountains urge me to write until Ezra’s final breath.