We don’t have a pin in Estes Park.

If you looked at the map hanging in our living room, you wouldn’t know we’d ever been there. No silver marker. No visual proof. Just empty space in the middle of Colorado.

Most of the time, when we stand in front of that map, we’re not even looking there anyway. Our eyes drift to Europe. To future trips. To places we haven’t been yet.

Estes Park doesn’t come up.

But it should.

Not because of where it is.
But because of what started there.

About a month before that trip, Christina and I had just gotten back from Hawaii.

Like most big trips, it gave us space to think. To talk. To say the kinds of things that feel obvious when you’re away from real life:

“We should do this more.”
“We need more time like this.”

“We need to be more intentional about us.”

And like most trips, the moment we got home, real life was waiting.

Everything we had left behind was still there. Responsibilities didn’t pause just because we needed a break. The rhythm picked right back up.

That’s usually where those conversations fade.

Not because they weren’t real.

Not because we didn’t mean them.
But because we don’t act on them fast enough.

There’s this idea, sometimes called the “rule of 72,” that says if you don’t act on something within 72 hours after you learn it, it probably won’t stick.

In the past, I’ve always looked at this as a hard-and-fast rule rather than a simpler principle of follow-through. The main point being: act. Sooner rather than later. Because even the best of intentions have an expiration date.

Estes Park didn’t happen within 72 hours—but it was still within that window where it mattered.

We did a quick search and found a spot we could set up the camper for the weekend. I pulled the camper from storage the night before and parked it in front of the house. The next day, while I was still at work, Christina packed it with everything we would need for the weekend.

We didn’t wait for the perfect time. We just made it easy to leave.

When I got off work, we didn’t sit down. Didn’t change. Didn’t ease into it.

I pulled my truck in front of the camper, hooked it up, and we just… went.

I was still wearing my work clothes. I hadn’t transitioned out of anything. I don’t even think I made it into the house except to use the bathroom before leaving.

And maybe that’s the point.

We didn’t pause to become a different version of ourselves to take that trip.
We just…went.

It was about a two-hour drive to Estes Park. Pulling the camper into the mountains was always a little more stressful than pulling it to the lake. Hills. Mountain passes. All the things that made me focus a little harder on the drive, and any little noises the truck might make. We made small talk along the way. Talked about our days. And just enjoyed the ride.

After a couple of hours, we made it. It was our first time there. Entering a new location for the first time is always special.

People had always described it as sitting in a “bowl,” surrounded by mountains. I remember looking around as we drove through town and understanding what they meant.

It wasn’t a big, emotional realization.

Just a simple thought:

“This is really cool.”

We stayed at a pretty big RV park. Something we didn’t usually do. We were used to state parks, with a little more space, a little more quiet, and fewer amenities.

This one had full hookups—power, water, sewer. The works. A little bonus compared to what we’re used to.

Except that, since we weren’t used to full hookups, we didn’t have everything we needed to use them. Which meant an unplanned trip to the hardware store to pick up a potable water hose and filter so we could connect to water instead of filling our tanks.

An hour later—and a brief learning curve—we were hooked up and ready to go.

But the trip wasn’t really about the setup. The location. Or whether we were in an RV park or a state park.

It was about what we did once we were there.

We slept in.

No alarms. No kids. No schedule. No one needing anything from us.

We could have stayed in that camper all day if we wanted to.

And for once, that would have been completely okay.

But we didn’t. We got up, had our coffee, got cleaned up, and then went for a walk through town. We mostly window-shopped, checked out the old mill and water wheel, and then found a small pizza place by the river for lunch.

Nothing about it stood out from the outside. Just another spot in town.

But inside, we ended up at a table by the window, facing each other, with the water moving just beyond the glass.

No plan. No next stop. No timeline.

Just a table, a view, and time.

We ordered a pizza and enjoyed the time to ourselves. It wasn’t busy, so there wasn’t any rush.

I don’t remember how long we stayed.

But I remember sitting there, looking across at Christina, with the river moving in the background, and thinking—without saying it—

“This is what we needed.”

After lunch, we found a bench by the river.

And we sat.

The water wasn’t calm. It was loud. Fast. Rushing past in a way that made everything else feel quiet by comparison.

We didn’t pull out our phones.
We didn’t try to turn it into anything.

We just sat there, side by side, listening.

No one needed us.
Nothing was waiting on us.
There was nowhere else we had to be.

And for a while, the only thing that mattered was the sound of that river moving past us.

There’s something about moments like that—when everything else goes quiet, and all you’re left with is what’s right in front of you.

Looking back, I don’t think that weekend was just something we decided to do.

The timing.
The opportunity.
Even the willingness to step away when we did.

It feels more like something we were given.

A reminder, maybe.

That what we have—this marriage, this time together—isn’t something to assume will take care of itself.

When we got married, we held onto the idea that what God brings together isn’t meant to be pulled apart. That a strand of three is not easily broken.

And sitting there by that river, without saying it out loud, it felt like we were being pulled back into that.

Not in a big, dramatic way.

Just a quiet nudge:

“Don’t neglect this.”
“Make time for this.”
“Protect this.”

And for once—we listened.

At some point during that weekend, without saying it out loud, there was this quiet realization:

We’re really doing it.

Not planning it.
Not talking about it.

Actually doing it.

Later, we took a drive through Rocky Mountain National Park.

Most of it was quiet. Just the two of us, winding through the mountains, taking in whatever came around the next bend.

It was the kind of beautiful you don’t really talk through—you just notice it together.

At one point, we noticed dozens of cars pulled off along the side of the road.

So of course, we slowed down.

Wondering what everyone was looking at.

We pulled over, too.

And that’s when we saw them—elk, several of them, off in the woods.

Far enough away that everything felt calm. Respectful. Like we were just passing through their space for a moment.

It wasn’t something we could plan. Just something you notice if you’re paying attention.

And somehow… here we were.

If you asked me today where we reconnected after coming back from Hawaii, I wouldn’t point to a landmark.

I wouldn’t point to a view.

I’d point to a weekend that didn’t even make our map.

It didn’t earn a pin.
It didn’t become a destination we revisit in stories.

But it became something else.

It became the first time we followed through after realizing what we had been missing.

Four years later, we’re still doing it.

Not perfectly. Not constantly. But consistently.

Finding time.
Choosing it.
Protecting it.

I can’t say for sure what would have happened if we hadn’t taken that trip.

Maybe we would have followed through later.
Or in a different way.

Or maybe that conversation in Hawaii would have faded, as so many others do.

But we didn’t wait.

We acted while it was still fresh.
While it still mattered.
While we still felt it.

We don’t have a pin in Estes Park.

But we’re still living what started there.

Adventure, on Purpose.