Return to the Fire That Heals

Jess and I woke up at 3:15 a.m. and got to the airport by 4:30. Groggily, she drove me to Piedmont Triad International Airport. She’s a saint. She even walked me into the terminal to help ease my anxiety about flying. It had been over a decade since I last flew, and there weren’t digital boarding passes or phone apps back then. I made it through TSA, and of course, they needed to pat me down. The large gentleman touched my no-no spot. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I moved away from that early morning groping and found my gate. Then, I waited and waited.

On this first leg of the trip, I was seated in the absolute back end of the plane. I was almost the last person to board, too. I think there may have been a crate of live chickens behind me. I mean, I was way back there. Since I was in the last boarding group, they said they’d have to check my carry-on bag—no room left in the overhead bins. Great! I obsessed over every inch of that bag and packed it as lightly as possible so I wouldn’t have to check it. Ah! The adventure had begun.

Once I disembarked in Dallas, I realized my connecting flight was what felt like ten miles away from the terminal. I kept seeing signs for “Sky Link,” so after hiking at a brisk pace for twenty minutes and getting no closer to my gate, I swallowed my pride and asked for help. A pilot was standing alone, and I figured if anyone knew what Sky Link was, he would. I mean, the sky is his office. He told me it was a train that would take me to my gate. I felt like the country mouse in the big city, but dang it, I was moving fast once I was on that tram!

After getting off the tram, I was only a five-minute walk away from familiar faces. Most of us flew from our home airports and picked up the same connecting flight from Dallas to Missoula. It was awesome to see people I recognized from the internet. My knees are two inches longer than the seats are wide. They throbbed the whole flight. It’s a small price to pay for a grand adventure.

People trickled into the terminal over the next hour, and our number grew to around seventeen. All of us were eager to get to Montana. I sat across the aisle from a former Navy Corpsman on the flight from Dallas to Missoula and immediately knew I was going to enjoy hanging out with this guy for the next five days. He was a wildcard, and I loved it.

Everyone on this trip to Montana was part of a veteran book club hosted by a non-profit called Patrol Base Abbate. The event was called “Return to Base.” The intent was to allow veterans to rest and refit—just like when we’d come off missions and return to the safety of our base. The goal was to promote community and help veterans feel like they weren’t alone. I needed this. Bad!

I almost didn’t apply. My wife heavily encouraged me to put myself out there and fill out the application. I always advocate for others to get help and take advantage of opportunities meant to help them grow, but I never feel like those same things are for me. I often self-isolate and pretend it’s because I’m an outsider. Turns out I’ve just been taking the easy way out by retreating into the safety of my loneliness. I swung big and filled out the application. I figured I didn’t deserve it and wouldn’t get it anyway—so why not fill it out and prove myself right? I was wrong. Thankfully! As I mentioned, my wife is a saint.

When I got the acceptance email stating that not only was I selected for the Return to Base event, but they were also paying for my plane ticket. What?! That was amazing. That’s when the anxiety started rising. I obsessed over packing lists and logistics that were out of my control. I was excited to go, but nervous as hell. Growth happens outside of your comfort zone, and this was way outside mine.

Landing in Montana brought with it a slight crispness to the northern air. The aspen trees, maples, and sporadic conifers dotted among the evergreens were glowing in golden autumn glory. This place was as gorgeous as everyone said. I loaded into a large van driven by my friend Keith with a handful of people I didn’t yet know—but would later consider brothers and sisters. Sitting in the front seat on our two-hour drive from Missoula to the patrol base in Thompson Falls gave me the perfect opportunity to soak it all in. Again, breathtakingly beautiful.

The site in Thompson Falls where we’d be staying was previously a home for wayward boys. Fitting. Many of us, myself included, felt wayward as adults set adrift post-service. I was relieved to see that the bunkhouse had a heater. My sleeping bag was only rated to thirty-five degrees, and the overnight lows were in the upper twenties. Crisis averted. My anxiety was proven wrong again. I dropped my stuff on a cot at the back of the bunkhouse and began to get familiar with my surroundings.

That evening, we had a short fireside chat around a large campfire where we introduced ourselves and shared a quick fun fact. Mine went something like, “Hello, my name is Stan, I live near Winston-Salem, North Carolina, and I have a basement full of tropical frogs.” I set the stage for my weirdness early. There were people from every branch of the military represented—well, other than Space Force, but we don’t count those guys yet.

Patrol Base Abbate is built around interest groups to help veterans connect and build community. Our group was a book club, and we would be discussing The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien. We had structured classroom times around the fire and journaling sessions. We had amazing meals prepared by a phenomenal cook—I was constantly blown away by each one. We ended each day with fireside chats that often went well into the night. The days were further enhanced with morning and evening yoga sessions.

The yoga had me nervous—surprise, surprise. Just another irrational anxiety. I learned a few things during those sessions. First, I suck at yoga, and that’s okay. Second, deep breathing and focusing on a speck on the ceiling can release the tension you didn’t know you were carrying. Lastly, just because something seems weird to me doesn’t mean it won’t help me.

We visited an observation tower at around 7,000 feet of elevation. The air was thin, and I labored up the mountain, arriving in the last ten percent of the group. At the summit, I had an epiphany. Despite how hard it was to reach the top, no matter how much I wanted to quit, I didn’t. We all started at the same place and ended up in the same location. Some got there quickly, and others—like me—struggled. But we all made it. If that ain’t a metaphor for my life, I don’t know what is. The journey may be hard, and I may be late getting there, but dang it, I’ll make it to the mountaintop one day. Trust me—there’s no quit in me.

The next day, we visited a dam and journaled beside the river. The prompt was to write about the first time we felt cool. I wrote about my early days playing shows with my first serious band, According to Perception. That led to a reflection on my mom—how she always believed in me even when she didn’t always understand my creative pursuits. She financed a PA system for the band and showed up to my first shows. I can’t say the same for everyone in my family, but my mom has always been there. I’m truly thankful for that.

The last day culminated in discussions about the book and journaling on the prompts “who let us come” and “who we were there on behalf of.” Truthfully, I didn’t understand the prompts and wrote both entries about my wife, Jessica. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have stepped out of my comfort zone. I was there on behalf of her because she deserves the best version of me, and sometimes that requires me to do the hard inner work.

One of the final events was a sandbag ceremony—an opportunity to memorialize someone we lost. Most people chose someone who died in combat or a fellow veteran. I chose Captain Rodney Thomas, our battalion chaplain. He had a terminal illness but still deployed back-to-back to Iraq with us. Typically, chaplains are dirtbags. I’ve never met one before or since who wasn’t—except Captain Thomas.

He lived the greater love described in John 15:13. He laid his life down because he loved the troops that much. He went on more combat missions than any of us. He offered hope. As a young atheist, I asked him hard questions. He never condemned me. His life preached louder than any sermon. He died the week before we got home, running in a PT formation. His spirit was strong, even if his body gave out.

Ironically, I didn’t intend to talk about God on this trip. But the conversations always ended up there. Around the fire, in the bunkhouse, and on the trails—we were vulnerable. We spoke of war, fear, death, faith, and shenanigans. We cried. We laughed until it hurt. We were reverent and irreverent all at once. It felt like a platoon again. All the archetypes were there. It was beautiful.

I’ve written a lot in an attempt to describe the week I had, but I can’t fully explain how I feel or how good this experience was. I can’t make it make sense—and that’s okay. Trust me when I say: a weight has been lifted. That’s probably why my crazy trip home didn’t affect me—but that’s a story for another day. I felt like a broken cistern pouring out what little I had. And finally, I felt my vessel had been refilled. Here’s to no longer self-isolating—and knowing that if I’m an outsider, it’s because I chose to be. Community is where you build it.

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Stan Lake is a writer, photographer, and filmmaker from Bethania, North Carolina. His work has been published in Reptiles Magazine, Dirtbag Magazine, Lethal Minds Journal, Backcountry Journal, Wildlife in North Carolina, SOFLETE, The Tarheel Guardsman, Wildsound Writing Festival, and others. His poetry collection “A Toad in a Glass Jar” is scheduled for publication in late fall 2024 by Dead Reckoning Collective. He has written three Children’s books and one Christian Devotional book. He filmed and directed a documentary about his deployment in Iraq with the Army called “Hammer Down.” He spends most of his free time wrangling toads.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.