20 ~ March 2026




Driving back home over the passes, I feel a little overwhelmed—in the best way—by how incredible this trip to western Colorado and southeast Utah has been.

Ridge has matured a lot more out here. I think it’s the miles and the variety: slot canyons, sandstone overlooks stretching over endless valleys, towering alcoves, open camps under big skies. He’s taken it all in. Even the time in the kennel mattered—watching me ride out on horseback, learning patience, learning that I always come back. Something clicked for him.

Something clicked for me too.

Somewhere along these roads, I realized one of the best decisions I’ve made in my later life was not rushing into another relationship—and the boundaries those can entail. I gave myself the space to figure out what I actually love—and then to live it.

And it turns out, it’s this.

Wide open landscapes. Quiet. Movement. A couple of border collies running ahead and circling back. A life that feels like freedom instead of something to manage.

And somehow, it’s even better because it isn’t everything.

Because there are also the dance halls. The music, the people, the contrast of it all. Dust and silence one night, rhythm and laughter the next. It balances me in a way I didn’t expect, but now wouldn’t trade.

It’s Wednesday. I’ve been gone a week and a half, and I’m already looking forward to Thursday night at the Rose.





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I’ve written countless essays trying to explain why I choose this life—one of solitude visiting mountains and canyon country, in a home I paid off a decade or two ago. I’m sorry for beating this to death, but it is clearly a cycle of thought I haven’t quite finished. Watching the new Taylor Sheridan series Madison on Paramount—with its themes of grief, family, and seeking a new start in the wilderness—finally gave me the push to articulate the "why" behind the "now." It isn't about running away; it's about what I'm bringing with me. Here it is:


Maybe the reason I’m so content now—living quietly, wandering with my dogs—is because I already lived a full life with someone else.

We were together twenty-six years. The first four, before the girls arrived, felt like something pure and unmistakable. We were in love, certainly, but more than that, we were companions. We didn’t require much beyond each other and a shared task.

Entertainment was simple: being together. We hiked the trails just outside of town or rode our Honda Trail 90’s up there, worked in the garden until the light faded, coaxing life out of the soil. I can still see those Biedermeier columbines—delicate, improbable, quiet proof of how good we once were.

We had dogs back then, too. I used to run out into the adobe badlands and disappear behind a low hill while she waited in the truck with them. They’d grow restless, shifting and whining as they watched me recede into the distance. Then she’d open the door. They would tear across the earth—barking, yipping, full of purpose—until they found me.

Later, when the girls came, our world widened, but the center held. We walked through town together or took them onto those same trails, carrying them until they could walk the rhythm we had already established.

We are strangers to each other now. The people we were then might not even recognize the people we have become. But that doesn’t undo the history. Those days aren't coming back, any more than our youth is coming back. I know that. But they don’t feel lost; they feel kept.

And perhaps that is why I am able to live the way I do now—quietly, simply, with my dogs and chickens and a life built close enough to the mountains to feel their pull. I don't believe I am waiting for something to begin. I carry something whole with me. It isn't unfinished; it's something complete, the well I draw from in this quiet life.