Some forks feel familiar.

Not because they are the same—but because something in you recognizes them.

This was one of those.

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After Eileen died, I moved to Salem, Oregon.

A close friend, Rick, and his wife Jackie offered me something I needed more than anything at the time—a place to land.

I was grieving.

Not just the loss of Eileen, but the life we had built together. Everything felt uncertain. I was moving forward, but without direction.

During that time, a counselor suggested I attend Alcoholics Anonymous—not for alcoholism, but for support.

That’s where I met Alice.

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She had also experienced loss.

And that was enough.

Two people, both trying to find their footing again.

We began talking. Then spending time together. Coffee after meetings. Long conversations that didn’t require explanation.

Eventually, we built a life together.

It was a good life.

We shared simple things—our pets, bike rides along Minto Island, and travel when we could manage it. I continued supporting my Tahoe clients while connecting with a startup in Seattle, helping bring early online systems to the vacation rental industry.

I could work remotely.

We were stable. Comfortable.

For a long time, that was enough.

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But something began to feel familiar.

The Willamette Valley is beautiful—but also gray. Wet. Overcast for long stretches of the year.

And over time, that began to wear on us.

Life was fine.

But it no longer felt fully alive.

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We began visiting Central Oregon.

Bend. The high desert. Open space. Sunlight.

Something shifted.

It reminded me of a feeling I had known before.

---

Ali started looking at properties.

One stood out—a modest home on several acres in Crooked River Ranch, set in a dramatic canyon. Smaller. Simpler.

But extraordinary.

There was one problem.

We didn’t know if I could work there.

Reliable internet—essential for my job—was uncertain at best. No one could give us a clear answer.

It was a familiar kind of uncertainty.

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We had a choice.

Stay where life was predictable.

Or take the risk again.

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We chose to move.

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The Road We Took

We left Salem and settled into Crooked River Ranch.

And almost immediately, something felt right.

The light.
The air.
The openness.

The internet worked.

The job continued.

But more importantly, life changed.

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This time, the move was different.

In Tahoe, we were searching.

Here, we were choosing.

---

Life became simpler.

Better.

The high desert gave us something we hadn’t realized we were missing—space, clarity, ease. The community was welcoming. The rhythm of life felt natural again.

It didn’t feel like we had escaped something.

It felt like we had arrived.

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The Other Road

In another version, we stay in Salem.

Life continues. Stable. Predictable.

And slowly, the gray days continue to stack up.

Nothing is wrong.

But something is missing.

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Looking Back at the Fork

Some forks return to you.

Offering another chance to choose.

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I had taken a leap once before.

This time, I recognized it.

And trusted it.

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Not all risks are reckless.

Some are simply a return to what you already know is right.

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This became more than a move.

It became home.