It was our first real vacation as a family.

We were looking for something that would give us time together—away from everything else.

So we decided to go camping.

We bought the gear, reserved a campsite at Paonia State Park, and headed out.

It wasn’t until we got there that we realized just how far out we were.

About 45 minutes from cell service.

No signal.

No backup plan.

Just the four of us and whatever we brought with us.

Looking back, that probably sounds a little ambitious.

At the time, it just felt like something we should try.

The mornings were the part we remember most.

It was June—but it didn’t feel like it.

We had camped down in a grove of trees near Muddy Creek, tucked just below the road—almost like we were sitting in a bowl.

The sun took its time getting to us each morning.

And until it did, the cold just sat there.

Our breath in the air.
Frost on everything.
The kind of cold that doesn’t rush off just because it’s morning.

I was usually the first one out of the tent.

Not because I wanted to be—but because someone had to get the fire going.

That trip, we had decided not to rely on a lighter. I wanted to show the boys how to build a fire the right way. No lighter fluid. No shortcuts.

So, I’d step outside into the cold, gather what I needed, and start working.

Tinder.
A ferro rod.
Cotton balls soaked in Vaseline.

It wasn’t instant.

You don’t just flip a switch and get warmth that way. You have to work for it a little. Pay attention. Give it time to catch.

And slowly… it would.

By the time the fire really got going, everyone else would start making their way out of the tent—wrapped in blankets, still shaking off the cold, coming to sit close.

That fire became the center of the morning.

Not just for warmth—but for us.

And, of course, the coffee.

The days filled in around those mornings.

We fished.
Explored waterfalls.
Made our way over to Maroon Bells.
Let the boys swim in water that Christina and I decided was a little too cold to enjoy.

Nothing about it felt rushed.

We weren’t trying to check anything off. We were just there.

Figuring it out as we went.

At one point, we decided to drive out toward Crystal Mill.

We had seen pictures. It looked like something worth seeing.

The road started out normal enough.

Then it got narrower.

And narrower.

Until it wasn’t really a road anymore—it was more like a ledge carved into the side of a mountain.

Rock wall on the left.
A several-hundred-foot drop on the right, down to the river.

The truck barely fit.

Inside, everything went quiet.

Not because I said anything—but because everyone understood what was happening.

I could hear the gravel under the tires. Tree branches brushing down the side of the truck. Every bit of my focus was on the space in front of me—how close I was to the wall, how close I was to the edge.

There was no place to turn around.

So, we kept moving.

Slowly.

Painfully slow.

Eventually, we reached a spot where the road widened just enough for me to pull over.

I took a breath.

And right about then, a Jeep came over the hill in the opposite direction.

That’s when it hit me.

This was a two-way road.

We asked him what it looked like ahead.

“More of the same,” he said. “About 45 minutes.”

I looked over at Christina. Then back at the boys.

We didn’t need to say much.

We had come far enough.

Turning around wasn’t easy—but it was clear.

So, we did.

And we took our time getting back the way we came.

Later, we learned that road had a reputation - the kind that makes you think a little more about decisions like that.

It stayed with me, but not in a heavy way.

More as a quiet reminder of what mattered in that moment.

By the time we were back at camp, the tension had worn off.

And like most things, it slowly turned into something else.

A story.

Something we could laugh about.

Something that, in its own way, became part of the trip.

There were a lot of moments like that over those few days.

Campfires at night.
Cold mornings that took time to warm up.
At one point, we realized we had forgotten something pretty basic.

Serving spoons.

So, we made a trip into town to pick some up.

And before heading back, we figured we should probably test them—just to make sure they worked.

And what better way to test a spoon than with some ice cream?

Somewhere between the first scoop and the second, it felt less like a forgotten item…

…and more like another part of the story.

Nothing big on its own.

But together, it was something.

It was the first time we had spent that kind of time together.

Close. Unplugged. Without distraction.

And somewhere in the middle of it—not all at once, and not in a way we talked about—it started to feel like something was working.

Like we were figuring it out.

We didn’t know it at the time, but that trip became the start of something.

Camping became our thing in those early years.

Not because it was perfect.

Not because it was easy.

But because it gave us space to be together.

To learn each other.

To build something—slowly, the same way those fires started each morning.

Looking back, I don’t think it was any one moment that made that trip matter.

It was all of them.

The cold.
The quiet.
The tension.
The laughter.

All of it, together.

We didn’t just go camping.

We started becoming a family..