We were on the ski lift at Deer Valley Resort and my guide was telling me about her life, how she came to live in Salt Lake City. She told me she moved from Michigan, that she has no plans of returning to her hometown. I told her I followed a similar path a few years ago when I left New Jersey and moved to California, fulfilling a life-long dream to bask in the blue skies and sunny days under the palm trees, to live beside the ocean. I told her that I bought a sailboat, but that it's now resting on wood planks in the side of my yard outside of Philadelphia, wrapped up tightly under a cover.

Things have changed a bit for me recently – I’ve given up on a hometown and have taken to the road – and she said she thought that was an important asset, the ability to take control of your life and make big decisions. It was a conversation that stuck with me, mostly because I support the idea of basing your life around what you love rather than watching the clock at work and living for the weekend. I skied on, but it was far from a passing thought.

Later, as the lift again carried me up towards the noticeably blue sky for my final run of the four-day trip, I filled my lungs with the fresh, cool air of the spring afternoon. The warmth of the sun enticed me to unzip my jacket halfway down, but once I began my descent and picked up speed I pulled it back up to the bottom of my neck.

Having spent most of the day attacking the mountain, I loosened my grip on the poles and turned down the intensity of my form, standing more upright and easing the aggressiveness of my downhill lean. I made slow, sweeping turns on the quiet trail that led back to the lodge, knowing full well this would be my last run of the year. I kept my head up, taking in the views of the valley. I felt like I was standing on top of the world, looking down upon all of it as if I was its creator.

It was easy to see what the locals loved about their land, and thoughts of the earlier conversation swirled in my head. The views and beauty are one thing, but that’s only half the appeal – the rest is in the attitude of the people who inhabit the area. My friend put it best when she said that everyone wants to be here, that no one arrives by accident. Many people I met over the course of the week decided to move out for “one winter” to work the ski lifts. One, two, three, four, ten years later, here they are, sitting next to me on the lift, going up for another run.

Looking back on my time in Santa Barbara, I suppose that’s what ultimately made me love the area. Not just the ocean and the mountains and the sailing and the wine, but the positive perspective and energy of the people who inhabit the small central coast town. I’ve met people in other cities who spend their time looking for a way to move on, for greener grass. It’s the other way around in places like Santa Barbara and Salt Lake – people spend their time trying to find a way to stay, doing whatever they have to do to remain a part of the culture in which they believe so deeply.

Within the next year I plan on making a decision about where to set up shop, a place I can feel comfortable when I’m not on the road. As I continue my research, I’m finding more and more the most important thing is not where it’s reasonable to live, but where you find yourself connecting with the people on a higher level.

Returning to Santa Barbara in a few days should be a good reminder of that, as was my stay in Salt Lake City. Denver has made quite the impression on me as well - I've been here two days and I already feel like a local. Stories to come, including a visit to arguably the most beautiful music venue in the country.

Photos from that final day in Salt Lake at Deer Valley Resort:

I was driving along a highway in New Jersey with my grandfather, telling him about my recent adventures in Baltimore learning about the War of 1812. Earlier, he had let me read a few sections of his memoir concerning his life growing up in the 1930s. Reading the stories, I grew uneasy with myself.

He could remember details from 70 or 80 years ago, and I can barely recall things I experienced in the mid-90s. What’s wrong with me? Too many happy hours, not enough note taking?

Taking a deep breath last night, sitting out and writing on the porch in the pleasant and mild evening, I realized that there was a very good reason my grandfather could remember more than I: Things have flat out changed dramatically in his lifetime. Everywhere he looks, it’s different. Dishwashers and refrigerators, the Internet and the cell phone. Air travel, dating norms, inflation.

As he would say, it’s a different ball game. Compare that with my life, which is essentially the same as it was when I was growing up. Little things have evolved – no more compact discs, for example – but the major factors remain the same. The windshield wipers on my car have always been automatic and I still store my milk in the fridge. My theory is that as time passes and the world transforms, the memories will grow in significance, both personally and historically. As I sit here with my iPod, I can recall stories about my Discman. That recollection will make my generation laugh, but it will make the next drop their jaws.

It’s weird how things work out. As my mind swirled over this idea of change last night, I began working on my final thoughts on the recent War of 1812 tour that took me all over Maryland. I mentioned in a previous post that sometimes the battle between folklore and fact becomes frustrating for me – each historian seems to have a different interpretation of the same events. Every time you think you’ve wrapped your head around it, someone comes along and shares a different version.

I felt this two weeks ago as I was sitting at the Harris Crab House in North Grasonville, drinking a Red Hook and chewing on some soft-shell crab, looking out over the water (good spot if you’re a crab and beer fan – I’d recommend hanging out on the deck when the weather is nice). A historian was speaking about the specific battles that took place in the area, but I was trying to keep focused on the bigger picture, the things everyone can agree on.

One such thing: 2012 looks nothing like 1812. Although America was technically free at the time, we were still getting pushed around by the British, both politically and physically. Two hundred years later, as the United States stands as arguably the world’s strongest nation, it is easy to look back and immediately notice the individual (slavery, for one) and big-ticket items that are now different, including the transfer of world power from east to west.

I wonder if the British are impressed. They might not be happy about it, but they’ve got to be envious on some level, don’t they? We sort of flew on right past them.

This is the sort of realization that makes history fun for me – seeing how far we’ve come in such a short amount of time. Look elsewhere: Engineering, medicine, food production - we’ve come a long way, my friends.

It’s hard to imagine what we’ll look like in another two hundred.