40 plus countries and counting. Five languages. (British, Canadian, Scottish, Australian, and Kiwi. Ok, let's be real. I can fake it in French). I've lived in Hemingway's Paris and explored Mao's Beijing. I've ziplinned lush Costa Rican jungles, and snorkeled everything from the Great Barrier Reef to Iceland's frigid glacier melt off. And to top it off, I've even been to Disney World. I know. In my family's five years of adventures, our trekking has taken us to the ends of the planet. When people ask about our domestic travels however, we all look at our feet, somewhat embarrassed. It's ironic that we can count on two hands how many American states we've been to, including our home state of Hawaii.

I lie. We can count them on two hands and a foot. 15 states. We're all well aware of the fact that we've hardly explored our own backyard. A few summers back though, an opportunity presented itself. An environmentalist, somewhat hippy, former teacher of mine was putting together a camping trip to her home state of Montana. Three weeks hiking through the drop dead gorgeous scenery of Glacier National Park. I like hiking. I like pretty places. I love Ms. Hoe, and I had never been to Montana. Count me in!

Our motley crew of about 20 flew over Fourth of July explosions into Helena. After a few long and hard days spent working around Ms. Hoe's ranch, our caravan was north bound. First stop: the Powwow. Our nights at Powwow were spent under blue Teepees, scattered along a lone and never ending prairie. The distant horizon was dotted with the scraping, white capped mountains of our final destination, Glacier National Park. Harsh winds were relentless with their brutal assaults on our campsite. It was big sky country in its rawest of forms.

The Powwow itself is a sensory overload. It remains one of my favorite experiences from my summer in Montana. Walking to the fairgrounds, the thick and potent smell of cigarette smoke and marijuana filled the air. They were masked momentarily by freshly cooked Buffalo Burgers and Indian Tacos. It's a foodie heaven. The melted cheese that oozed over the perfectly cooked Buffalo patty, accompanied by a mountain of greens, onions, tomatoes, and other heavenly goodies, was nirvana. The Indian Tacos, bubbling out and over the shell with assorted meats and veggies, were something of a feat to eat. It towered over the paper plate, making it bend under its weight. And cheese. Lots and lots of cheese was sprinkled around the taco and plate like snow.

Booths selling everything from traditional hunting gear to games of chance, like pop the balloon with a dart, lined the ever so crowded fairgrounds. It was all centered around an arena, where the official events took place. Native American tribes from around country came to take part in the annual dance competition, dancing and singing the traditional hymns and hums from their home. They did so in colorful, hand crafted costumes. It was quite the cultural experience, and was a great peek into a different lifestyle.

Ms. Hoe's ties with the community, and land, are deep. She seemed to always know just the guy or gal. While at Powwow, she knew just the man to give us an authentic, Native American experience. I had no idea what was going on. It was what happened when you become so deeply infatuated with your ooey gooey, impossibly tasty Indian Taco. Something to do with a sweat lodge? Weren't those the things that people pass out in? That wasn't my biggest worry as I was shoved into the car. My poor, unfinished taco had been abandoned.

There were five or six of us, curious as to what may come of this event. Going to a sweat lodge in the middle of lone prairie land Montana. The drive was short; before we knew it, we were in a forested area, shirtless, and getting ready to take a spiritual journey unlike any other. Besides our little group, there were a dozen or so Native Americans, waiting to start the chants in a language older than the trees themselves. We piled into the little hut, and circled ourselves around a fire. With the crackle of the red and yellow flames, it began.

Gallons of sweat later, we emerged from the little hut. Taking part in a sweat lodge is something of a spiritual journey. Everyone processes and internalizes it differently. For me, I wasn't sure what had happened. Something far out there, and unexplainable. Supernatural? Who knows? What I do know, it was hot. Damn hot, as Robin Williams would say. It truly is something I will never forget, even if I never come to terms what the entire experience meant. God knows what it meant to the others. Our caravan rushed back toward Powwow, our minds full of strange images. Besides the so-awful-they're-good summer pop tunes in the background, we were silent. It was so bizarre to hear such upbeat and modern songs after the haunting and eerie chants of the Native Americans. It wasn't an everyday occurrence to take a religious journey of that ilk along the prairies of Montana.

Ms. Hoe pulled the big, black rental van into the parking lot. The laughter of children and sounds of corny carnival rides slowly brought us back down to earth. For me at least, I saw things in a different shade of color. It's next to impossible what that means, but for some reason, everything seemed different from before. Wandering the booths, lost in my own thoughts, something stopped me. Something holy and divine. I stood in front of the Indian Taco stand, with six bucks in my pocket. It occurred to me that I might as well take part in one last heavenly taco, to help me gather my thoughts. With melting cheese, mountains of meat, greens and other assorted veggies, all blanketed in a soft and warm tortilla, what more could a boy need to ‘gather his thoughts’.

Austin Weihmiller is a member of the Youth Travel Blogging Mentorship Program

Photos courtesy and copyright Jessie Voigts