On Sunday, I impulsively drove myself south, to McCormick's Creek State Park. I had convinced myself that the journey would be worth it, that I'd be taking advantage of two things: first, "free admission day" to all state parks; and second, the beautiful weather. The day certainly was pleasant: it was mostly sunny, lightly breezy, and had temperatures hovering around the 75-degree mark. I hiked the park's longest trail, a two-mile trek horseshoeing to the north, over the creek and around the caves. It was green. It was verdant. I saw many a squirrel chasing one another, arguing with one another, twitching their bushy tails in anticipation or warning. There were robins and woodpeckers and wrens and cardinals and red-winged blackbirds. The trees enveloped me in a checkerboard of light and shadow, and--when I spotted a group of ferns huddled in the valley--I couldn't help but think, Why is this not Montana? And it hit me--my wanderlust. Damn it. My wanderlust hurts again.