Geological Contraband and Other Truths
The Rock Hustle
Somewhere off the exit to Red Rocks
On the way to Red Rocks, I saw a weather-beaten sign that caught my eye—something about a site of geological interest. The lettering was faded, the kind of marker you’d miss if you blinked or weren’t the type to care what kind of rocks the earth spit up. But I do care. Or at least, I do now—because all five of my kids are rock hounds, and somewhere along the way, they suckered me into this life.
I pulled into the first parking lot off the exit, just to figure out what the sign was talking about. That’s when I realized: I was looking at it. The Dakota Hogback. A tilted, ragged ridge of stone—an ancient thrust of sedimentary layers that looks like the earth folded itself like a piece of paper and just left it that way. When they cut the highway through it, the layers stood exposed like the pages of some prehistoric ledger, each one holding a record of millions of years. You could see the eras stacked like cordwood.
It was clear the place had seen better days. The sign was rusted out, the path barely marked, and the gravel lot was slowly reclaiming itself into dust. No gift shop. No overlook. Just stone and silence.
But I got out anyway. Because Megan had said she wanted a red rock.
At first, I called her to see if she wanted to pick one herself over FaceTime. She said no—told me to surprise her. That’s when I realized: if I came home with a rock for just Megan, someone else would be disappointed. So there I was, in the dry heat and altitude, wandering around this fractured spine of the Rockies, stuffing my pockets with rocks. Interesting shapes, sparkles, striations—something for everyone.
I’m sure TSA’s going to have a real laugh at the scanner.
Interstate rock smuggler. Cargo pockets full of geological contraband.
Just a guy trying to make his kids smile.
A Guy Who Watches Clouds
Maybe that's who I am. Maybe that's my purpose.
One night a few weeks ago, Jamie asked me something that stopped me in my tracks:
“If you stripped away all your titles—dad, fiancé, body shop guy, adjuster, son—who are you?”
And I didn’t have a good answer.
I’m almost 50 years old. You’d think I’d have something better to say.
But what came out was:
“I like staring at clouds.”
It felt lame. Like a non-answer. Like I should be more by now.
But then today, everything changed just a little.
I was walking a trail a mile high, surrounded by that surreal, otherworldly terrain they call Red Rocks. The rock faces burn orange and blood-red in the late afternoon sun, jutting out of the earth like giant fossilized waves. The ground beneath your feet feels dry and ancient, like it's been holding stories for a thousand years. You can hear your own footsteps here—your own breath. Even when other people are around, there’s a silence to this place that holds space for you.
That’s where I met the rabbit. Not running. Not hiding. Just sitting there, on the edge of the trail, watching me like it was my turn to be still. So I stood there and stared back. And for a long minute, we just… were.
Later, I caught my first mule deer. across a small field—close enough to see the breeze lift its coat. It didn’t flinch. Didn’t even glance at me. It moved like it knew I meant no harm. And I stood there watching, feeling like I’d been invited into something sacred.
And suddenly, that “lame” answer didn’t feel so lame.
Because maybe I am that guy.
A guy who slows down.
Who notices things.
Who walks trails not to conquer them, but to feel them.
Who stares at clouds, watches animals, and lets nature speak without interrupting.
And maybe part of my purpose—maybe the thing I actually bring to this world—is being willing to share that. To write it down. To remind someone else to stop and look up.
Maybe that’s the answer I was looking for all along.
Golden Hour
I sat there through golden hour, not rushing, not scrolling—just waiting.
A famous photographer once said the key is knowing when not to shoot. Just sit. Wait. Let the light settle in, let the shadows stretch, let the world turn amber and soft. The magic isn’t in the lens—it’s in the patience.
And maybe you don’t need to be a photographer to appreciate that.
Maybe you just need to be the kind of person who notices.
Who sticks around long enough to see the world go gold.
Who knows some moments aren’t meant to be captured—just witnessed.
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