📖 Falling Forward: The Trip That Lit the Fire

I’ve spent the last 20 years chasing someone else’s story. “Saving the princess,” so to speak. In that time, I hadn’t caught a single fish. Camped a handful of times — and by camp, I mean pull up, pay a fee, pitch a tent, and sit lakeside. I hadn’t set foot on a real hiking trail since before my son was born, unless you count the time I hoofed it around Disney World.

So what made me think I could head off into the backcountry for a survival-style camping trip?

I did.

I had faith.

Zero patience — but plenty of reckless optimism.

After a little light research, the sticker shock set in. Quality gear isn’t cheap, so I pieced together what I could from Walmart, Sierra, and Scheels. I won’t deep-dive into the gear here (unless you guys want a future breakdown), but let’s just say 90% of it wasn’t made for backpacking. My pack weighed about 70 pounds… for one night.

Yeah — you ultralight folks can laugh. It’s fine.

I picked Lory State Park, just outside Fort Collins. Far enough to feel wild, close enough to bail if we needed to. A quick 2.5-mile trail led up to a backcountry site perched on the peak. Perfect, right? Mid-March, no fires allowed, but we were ready. Or so I thought.

The Trailhead:

We got dropped off at the gate (no escape hatch for us). Paid for parking even without a car, grabbed a map, made a dad joke, and hit the Well Gulch trail.

Doubt settled in quickly — visions of snacks, a PS5 controller, and a warm couch danced in my head. But one stubborn thought propelled me up the mountain:

I had to show my son I could do it.

So he’d believe he could too.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

We hiked past a tiny waterfall, paused on a wooden bridge, then pressed into the shade of the canyon. The incline came fast. Breaks became frequent. Grayson started to crack, small comments about his pack and how this was harder than expected.

But we climbed.

Switchbacks (which we’d learn by name from a passing hiker) stacked up like hurdles. We didn’t admit our exhaustion — just passed praise and pointed out loose footing. I carried both of us up those damn switchbacks with sheer stubbornness.

A stranger passed on his way down.

“Almost there. Just a few more switchbacks — rain might roll in though.”

That last half-mile felt electric.

50 feet. 20. 10… 3… 2… 1.

We made it.

Dropped our packs, groaned, shouted in victory.

And then we saw it — the valley below bathed in orange winter sunset, the jagged peaks glowing like they were painted by fire.

Accomplishment. Exhaustion. Pride. Pain. Beauty.

All of it hit us at once.

Then the wind did too.

We set up camp fast. Our cheap Ozark Trail tent went up, sleeping pads inflated, bulky sleeping bags unrolled. A portable stove warmed up rock-solid bagged Chinese food. We huddled in the tent, ate, laughed about the wind, and watched a movie on my phone.

Grayson smiled, his face wind-chapped and miserable.

“Love you, Dad,” he said.

And then his mom called.

When she asked, “Want me to come pick you guys up?”

Grayson looked at me with a hopeful grin.

“Do you, Dad?”

I gave him the out.

“Let’s pack up and head down. If you’re ready, we’ll call it.”

He jumped at the chance.

We packed fast, raced the wind and coming darkness.

My solar lantern was dead, so we hiked out by phone light, the crunch of gravel under our boots.

And in the middle of my own self-doubt and disappointment, I heard his small voice:

“Thank you, Dad. That was so fun. If it wasn’t for the dang wind, we would’ve stayed all night.”

Tears hit my beard, unseen in the dark.

“Yeah, buddy? You wanna do this again?”

He grinned.

“Of course, Dad. I loved this trip with you.”

The rest of the walk down, my chest swelled with pride.

5 miles. Camp set up. Meal cooked. Laughs shared.

There was no failure — only a first spark.

Sometimes it takes a silent walk or a tiny voice to shake the doubt from your boots.

That night, as I fell asleep, a dream came to me — of a moose in the wild, my family beside me.

I didn’t know it yet, but something inside had changed forever.

Until next time, friends — keep your feet dry, and hope you get to sleep with the rainfly down.