day 1—the send off

It feels surreal—packing up your life to fit into a van. Yet there we were, doing the damn thing. All the months of planning, the late-night doubts, and the anxiety over what could go wrong (a taste of which hit us that morning when one of our drawers wouldn’t close) melted away like the fresh snowfall in the Roaring Fork Valley as we turned onto Highway 82.

We were heading west—of course—to catch a glimpse of Utah’s national parks draped in winter’s quiet magic. 

First stop: Arches. 

The journey was mostly bustling highways, with civilization fading in the rearview mirror, until we merged onto the Dinosaur Diamond Prehistoric Highway and felt like we had stepped back in time. The landscape shifted to rolling hills, evenly spaced telephone poles, and an endless horizon.

At the Utah-Colorado border, we decided to stop for a picture. Let’s start a tradition, we thought. What should have been a quick stop turned into a 20-minute delay when we realized the ground beneath us wasn’t dirt but sticky, clay-like mud. Three inches of it clung stubbornly to our shoes, turning every step into a battle. Even Charlie’s paws succumbed to the tenacious earth.

It was a setback, sure, and a messy one at that—especially for the van we had just cleaned—but we couldn’t help laughing as Trent grabbed the ladder to scrape off the mud. A bit of chaos for the books, and our adventure was only just beginning.

We moved along one winding road to the next. The fog hung low, delicately draped over the mix of brown and turquoise hues of the Colorado River.  The red mesas rose dramatically from the water’s shore, their rugged, jagged edges glowing in hues of deep crimson and orange. It’s a landscape that feels both ancient and eternal, a vivid testament to the forces that shaped it.

Nearby, the Sorrel River Ranch stood quietly, its fields alive with 10 to 15 horses running freely.

“You can drop me off here,” Trent said with a grin.

And I couldn’t disagree. Those horses, wild and untethered, seemed to embody everything we were both chasing.

As we entered Moab, we marveled at the charm that accompanies a small town. Motels lined the streets, their flashy signs advertising pools and free Wi-Fi, while restaurant windows were adorned with early-bird specials and decades-old décor.

Knowing we wanted to stay somewhere off the beaten path, we headed south on Highway 191, turned left onto Old Airport Road, and made our way to the scenic La Sal Loop Road. From our research, we knew there would be plenty of dispersed camping along the route—seclusion and solitude were exactly what we sought.

Saying goodbye to Colorado, with the open road unfurling before us like an unspoken promise, brought a bittersweetness. I thought of the impromptu visits and the simple comfort of knowing our loved ones were close. We were leaving that behind—an entire world of warmth and familiarity. But ahead lay something different: icy plunges into bottomless lakes, sunsets that demand stillness, and peaks that remind us of our smallness.

Yes, 2025 would bring its share of missed moments, but it would also hold the kind of experiences that would redefine us.

“This is exactly what I imagined,” Trent remarked. I smiled, feeling the same.

We dreamt of this life for so long—endless nights imagining far-off horizons and untamed adventures. 

All of it felt unattainable. 

And now, somehow, it was ours. A beautiful, unexpected, utterly fantastic reality.