What Montana Taught Me About Moving Forward

I went to a dude ranch in Montana – it was a place I have been wanting to go for 30 years. I loved it more than I was expecting and I also came home thinking differently about how I approach my life.

Through archery, fly fishing, horseback riding, and clay shooting, I found myself practicing qualities I often talk about: focus, consistency, commitment, and the willingness to adjust.

Out there, those words became physical. I could feel the difference between forcing and allowing, between being distracted and paying attention. Each activity offered its own lesson, and each gave me something to bring home.

Archery: Give Yourself Something Clear to Aim For

Archery brought my attention to the relationship between focus, consistency, and adjustment.

Having a target mattered. So did how I approached it. A clear intention could only take me so far if I changed everything from one attempt to the next.

There was value in repeating the fundamentals, noticing the result, and making an adjustment. A missed shot gave me information I could use on the next one.

That sounds straightforward. Yet in everyday life, I can turn an imperfect result into a much larger conclusion.

A conversation doesn’t go as hoped, and I question my ability. Something takes longer than expected, and I question the direction. One disappointing outcome can suddenly become a verdict on the whole endeavor.

Archery offered a more useful response: pay attention to what happened. Adjust something specific. Try again.

I thought about how much more I could learn if I spent less energy evaluating myself and more energy observing what I was doing.

Fly Fishing: Stay Calm, Stay Loose, Stay Committed

Fly fishing invited a different kind of attention.

The words that stayed with me were calm, loose, and committed.

I love that combination. It captures a way of approaching something that matters without gripping it so tightly that tension takes over.

When I care about an outcome, my instinct can be to add effort. Concentrate harder. Push more. Make something happen.

But effort has different qualities. There is the effort of staying present and responsive, and there is the effort of trying to control every part of the experience.

Fly fishing made me consider how often I confuse tension with dedication.

Could I care deeply and remain relaxed enough to respond? Could I stay with something even when the outcome wasn’t immediate? Could I allow a little room for timing?

Those questions travel well beyond the river.

They apply to building a business, writing a book, learning a skill, and having a conversation with someone I hope to help. I can prepare, participate fully, and remain committed while allowing the experience to unfold.

That is a quality I want more of in my life: steady attention with room to breathe.

Horseback Riding: Notice What You Communicate Without Words

Horseback riding brought the lesson into relationship.

I became more aware of nonverbal communication - how much can be expressed through posture, movement, tension, and attention.

We often think communication begins when we speak. Yet we bring a great deal into an interaction before the first sentence.

We bring our pace. Our uncertainty. Our willingness to listen. The way we occupy space. The way we respond when something feels unfamiliar.

Riding reminded me to notice those things in myself.

It also brought my focus to where I was going – committing to the direction of where I wanted to my horse to go. There is something powerful about looking toward a direction and committing to it. Attention becomes less scattered when it has somewhere to go.

I thought about the moments when I say I want to move forward while continuing to look backward - reconsidering an old decision, replaying a disappointment, or searching for reassurance that the next step will be safe.

Sometimes I need to look toward the path I have chosen and give it my attention.

That doesn’t mean ignoring what is happening around me. Riding also calls for responsiveness. Commitment and listening belong together.

I want to bring that combination into my work with people: a clear intention, awareness of what I am communicating, and enough presence to respond to the person in front of me.

Clay Shooting: Examine What You Expect

Clay shooting returned me to focus, consistency, and adjustment, with another element added: expectation.

What did I expect as I prepared?

Did I approach the attempt with an openness to succeeding? Or was I already rehearsing a miss?

I don’t believe expectation guarantees an outcome. But I noticed that it was part of how I entered the experience.

There is a difference between being ready to learn and being preoccupied with proving that you can’t do something.

That distinction matters when we are beginners. It also matters when we are experienced people entering unfamiliar territory.

It is easy to carry an old conclusion into a new attempt:

I’m not good at this.

This probably won’t work.

Other people have a natural ability I don’t have.

Once those thoughts take up our attention, there is less room to notice what the next attempt actually requires.

The lesson I want to keep is to arrive prepared, give myself a fair chance, and use the result as feedback. Success can teach me something. So can a miss.

Either way, there is another opportunity to adjust.

Bringing Montana Home

What struck me about these activities was how fully they asked me to participate.

I had to pay attention to what I was doing in that moment. There was less room for the mental noise I can carry through an ordinary day - the unfinished task, the future concern, the question of whether I am doing enough.

I was learning. Sometimes getting it right. Sometimes adjusting. Being a beginner without needing to turn that into a statement about who I was.

That felt freeing.

As I build this next chapter of my life, I want to remember what I practiced in Montana.

I want to give my goals a clear direction and approach them consistently. I want to notice when commitment becomes tension. I want to pay attention to what I communicate without words. And I want to enter the next attempt with enough openness to discover what is possible.

The practical question I brought home is simple:

What does this moment need from me?

Sometimes it needs focus. Sometimes an adjustment. Sometimes a clearer commitment.

Sometimes I need to loosen my grip and let myself learn.

Montana gave me a place to practice all of it.

Now the practice continues at home.