I bought a condo in a mountain resort, sight unseen. After 5 years of perks and many drawbacks, I'm ready to leave.

In late spring 2021, I sat on the couch adrift in my living room and asked Cody, “What are we doing here?” He didn’t know — he would never have traded a life in Montana, complete with a farmhouse, acreage, and a doggie hiking group, to live on a Blue Ridge mountaintop where we knew no one.

The plan was to care for my mother, but nine days after I closed on the condo that was now home, she died.

I didn’t just grieve her but also the loss of purpose.

I’d uprooted my life, and there was no plan B.

I bought my unit in a mountain resort sight unseen, congratulating myself on securing a historically low mortgage rate and a price that would have been a steal in the Rockies.

But when I looked at my condo building on evening strolls with Cody, I’d see one light.

I realized I lived full-time in a community with 2,000 properties, most of them second homes and short-term rentals that sat empty much of the time, just as I’d expected mine to be.

Still, the views of Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains pulled me out of bed in the morning and distracted me until the light faded.

But beauty alone doesn’t make a place feel like home.

My home is about an hour southwest of the Charlottesville metro area and a 20-minute drive from the nearest town with any services.

Surrounding mountains and easy access to hiking trails are about all my new place had in common with Missoula, the vibrant university town where I’d previously lived for a dozen years.

My dog and I moved about a year into the COVID-19 pandemic and, even with more vaccine availability, socializing still took place outside … if you had friends.

Cody, who gained fame in the 2014 “Puppy Love” Super Bowl commercial for his heart-rending look, used that expression to make my failure clear.

As an introvert, I could handle solitude, plus I had connections through remote work.

So early on, I made a move that saved us both.

On the resort homeowners’ Facebook page, I posted as Cody, mentioning how much he wanted friends for walks and play.

More than 50 dogs — or, presumably, their isolated people — responded.

Several of us met and launched the Dog Owners Group (DOG), which now has more than 500 members who connect for walks and share information.

Suddenly, Cody and I felt like we belonged.

I pushed myself to attend community events, like wine tastings, where I met others who also needed friends or were new to living in the resort full-time.

Soon, I had other invitations for birthday celebrations, pop-up bocce games, and bourbon-laced eggnog-making chaos.

Within two months, I’d found a tight-knit group who will happily lend a pressure washer, form a meal tree, pick up groceries, and look out for you even if you never ask.

Although I was grateful for the warm, generous community I had found, I didn’t quite feel settled.

Most of my neighbors here seem to be white, married, empty-nesters who are retired or working remotely.

The sameness feels both comfortable and confining.

Not surprisingly, my local dating pool feels tiny, consisting of just about three great guys who have more potential as pals than partners.

Because I work at home and live on the mountain, almost everyone I see regularly shares the same small mountain world — one that’s a long way from a wider mix of people, ethnic restaurants, and cultural activities.

That feeling we’re cut off from life beyond the mountaintop fades each July, when the resort hosts a fabulous monthlong music festival with dozens of performers of different ages, nationalities, and experiences.

For three years, I’ve hosted a clarinetist with the Florida Symphony and a trombone professor and player from DC.

It’s energizing, and it’s a blast, but it all reminds me of the broader world I miss.

It’s also been challenging to stomach the cost of daily life here.

That starts with paying to maintain a vehicle when home is 12 zigzagging miles and 2,800 feet up and down a mountain.

Food, drink, goods, and services all carry a surcharge, the mountain equivalent of island pricing.

I’m not a wealthy outsider here for a weeklong resort vacation — I live here full-time on a middle-class income.

And if time is money, driving 45 miles round-trip to a grocery store, sometimes about an hour each way, is also costly.

For now, I stock my pantry at Costco to limit the number of shopping trips, and take more frequent (and fun) trips to the local farmers market for fresh produce.

For a price high for a gym and low for the resort, I also bought a recreational membership to the resort’s social club to avoid having to travel far to access gym equipment.

On the bright side, sometimes I can simply cross the street to hike or run a section of the Appalachian Trail that could take me to Georgia — or Maine.

Every May, through-hikers stream past my house on their way to the Pine Tree State.

Seeing them fulfilling their dreams reminded me that mine was never a condo in the mountains but a cottage by the sea.

And this time, my new home won’t be sight unseen — I’m headed back this fall for another look at the coastal college town I’ve chosen for our next home.

I might have stayed in the Blue Ridge if I’d built the life I wanted and, let’s be honest, found the right man to share it with.

It’s taken five years, but I’m ready to leave.

And I think Cody will love living by the water.

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