Last week, I found myself standing in the same Colorado town where I spent summers as a kid.
The same mountains. The same river. The same dry air that always smells like pine trees and sunshine.
I was about Rye's age the first time my parents brought me to Leadville, Colorado.
Joel + Rye In Colorado
Every summer, we'd pack up and head west. We'd rent an old Victorian house in the small mining town and spend our days outside. My parents were runners, so most mornings started earlier than I would have preferred. There were hikes. Runs. Long days in the mountains. At the time, I didn't always appreciate it.
Looking back, I realize those summers shaped me more than I knew.
My siblings and I would spend race days helping at aid stations, swapping water bottles, bandages, shoes, whatever runners needed. We learned how to work hard. How to be outside. How to be uncomfortable. How to keep going.
This year, I wanted Rye to experience a little of that same magic.
Not a polished version of the Great Outdoors, and not the resort version, either.
The real version. The Colorado I remembered.
Rye Fishing
We spent our days whitewater rafting, zip-lining, horseback riding, fly fishing, and hiking. We woke up with the sun and always had an adventure planned for the morning.
One thing I've become increasingly aware of as a parent is that you have to replace the phone with something.
An oar.
A fly rod.
The reins of a horse.
A deck of cards.
Something that requires both hands and all of their attention.
The funny thing is, kids don't need much convincing once they're given something better to hold.
After rafting the Arkansas River, we'd stop for lunch on the rocks. We'd peel off wet gear and sit in the sun eating turkey sandwiches. In the afternoons, we'd split up and wander. Everyone finding their own version of adventure.
At night, we'd sit around a table together.
Dinner. Campfires. UNO.
The simple things.
And somewhere during the trip, I realized I was no longer remembering the story.
I was helping create it.
The things I remember most from my childhood aren't the gifts I received or the places we stayed. They're the experiences. The traditions. The feeling of being together.
Those are the things that get passed down.
As we head into the season for celebrating fathers, I'm grateful for the summers my parents gave me, and even more grateful for the chance to pass a few of those memories on to Rye.
Here's to the adventures that shape us, and the people who bring us along for the ride.
— Joel