Cano's Castle in Antonito, Colorado
by Karon -

Leaving Colorado, Finding the Unexpected

Well, the day finally came to leave Colorado. Over the past several weeks, the mountains had become part of my daily life, always there in the distance no matter where I went. I’ll miss the cool mornings, the “Christmas trees” in the landscaping, and the simple comfort of waking up to mountain views. Colorado had begun to feel like home, and I wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye.

On my way out, I decided to visit Great Sand Dunes National Park. The drive from Colorado Springs seemed incredibly long as I meandered up to a higher elevation. When I finally reached the park, it was so odd to see massive sand dunes right at the base of the mountains. A group of young people had just finished sandboarding down the dunes and were loading up their car. I can only imagine how challenging it must have been to climb the dunes multiple times. I was content just to walk in the dunes a little and take photos.

The oddness of the dunes was just the beginning of the odd sights I would see over the next 24 hours. The drive from the park took me across the San Luis Valley, which looked sandy and desert-like. Oddly enough, it is also a thriving farming and ranching region. As I drove along looking at fields of crops interspersed with fields of sand, I drove into a sandstorm that was intense enough that I had to slow down considerably just to see the road ahead.

After about an hour, I arrived at my oddly unique hotel for the night. The hotel had a very retro vibe and the exterior of the lobby looked like architecture right out of the fifties. The rooms all opened to the parking lot, and the back had large windows so that guests could watch the drive-in movie owned by the hotel. All of the rooms had a speaker so that you could hear the movie. Each room was named after a movie star. Mine was Spencer Tracy. It felt like stepping back into another era, and I couldn’t help but imagine families pulling in for the night during the heyday of American road trips.

The next morning I began my drive to Albuquerque. Along the way, I spotted a sign for Colorado’s oldest church and, on a whim, made a quick right turn. That detour led me to Our Lady of Guadalupe Parish in Conejos, the oldest church in Colorado. Founded in 1858, the parish began with a small adobe chapel before the current church was completed in 1863. Rising unexpectedly from the rural landscape, the church felt almost cathedral-like. The doors were open, so I stepped inside and was immediately struck by the beautiful stained glass, artwork, statues, and marble altar. I took a few quiet minutes to pray and reflect. Standing there, I found myself thinking about how many lives had intersected in this place over the past century and a half. Although a fire destroyed much of the interior in 1926, the church was rebuilt on its original site and remains an active parish today. It was an unexpected stop, but one that added a meaningful moment to my journey south.

Next to the church, I discovered a beautiful prayer labyrinth at the El Santuario de los Pobladores — the Sanctuary of the Settlers. What I first thought of as simple sculptural accents turned out to be striking bronze bas-relief panels that frame each meditation chapel. Each one represents a Mystery of the Rosary, drawing visitors into the story of Jesus’ life and ministry in a very direct, visual way. The panels are the work of three renowned Valley artists and honor the Spanish mission saints as well as the Virgin of Guadalupe, tying the space deeply to the spiritual heritage of the region. As I walked, I also noticed additional bronze sculptures placed outside the labyrinth itself, depicting mission saints and quietly extending the sense of devotion into the surrounding grounds. Each chapel I stepped into held its own artwork and atmosphere, and I found myself discovering them one by one as I moved through the space, almost like the labyrinth was unfolding the story in real time.

I drove on to the town of Antonito where I stopped to see Cano’s Castle. I was pleasantly surprised by the intricate, almost shimmering construction of the structure, built from a striking mix of stone, concrete, and layers of recycled materials. While it’s often described as being made entirely of beer cans, that only tells part of the story — sections of the castle also reveal stonework and a broader patchwork of salvaged metal, glass, and found objects, all carefully assembled into textured walls that catch the high desert light. The longer I stood there, the more I noticed hidden patterns and unexpected materials tucked into the walls.

The castle was built singlehandedly by Dominic “Cano” Espinosa, a Vietnam veteran who spent more than three decades shaping the structure as a personal act of gratitude and survival. He has described it as his way of giving thanks to God for making it through the war, and that sense of devotion is embedded in every layer of the work. What began as a private expression gradually grew into an expansive, ongoing folk-art environment — part tribute, part spiritual offering, and part lifelong creative calling.

What makes it even more compelling is the way it rises in unexpected forms and towers, each one feeling both improvised and intentional at the same time. It is less a single “castle” than an evolving work of outsider art — beautiful, slightly eccentric, and deeply expressive in the quiet landscape of the San Luis Valley.

I stopped and took a few photos in town. There always seems to be something quietly quirky in these high desert places, as if the landscape itself invites a different kind of imagination.

Not long after, I crossed into New Mexico and began noticing homes partially tucked into the earth, almost like they had grown out of the mesa rather than been built on it. Curious, I pulled over at the Earthship Visitor Center, and what I found there felt like stepping into another version of what “home” could be.

The Earthship Biotecture Visitor Center is part of the larger Greater World Earthship Community near Taos, a sprawling 600-acre-plus experiment in off-grid living created by architect Michael Reynolds, who began developing the Earthship concept in the 1970s. These homes are built into the earth using an unexpected mix of recycled and natural materials — tires, bottles, cans, adobe, and glass — designed to work with the environment rather than against it. What stood out most was how self-sufficient they are: solar and wind power, rainwater collection, greenhouse food production, and internal systems that recycle water and waste all work together to create a home that can function independently of traditional utilities. Inside, the temperature stays remarkably steady year-round, held in that quiet 60–70°F range by thick earthen walls and thermal mass.

Standing there, it felt like I had left Colorado and stepped into a different kind of story — one where sustainability, creativity, and necessity all meet in the middle of the desert. Over the past 24 hours, I had walked on towering sand dunes, weathered a sandstorm, slept beside a drive-in movie theater, wandered through a historic church and labyrinth, explored a castle built from recycled materials, and toured homes built into the earth. If this was my introduction to New Mexico, I couldn’t wait to see what came next. Farewell, Colorado and hello, New Mexico!

by Karon -

Being Open: My May Project

I’ve always been open to adventure. Life has taken me to places I never imagined, introduced me to people I never expected to meet, and given me experiences that once felt far beyond my comfort zone.

What surprised me about May wasn’t a new found willingness to try something different. It was how openness showed up in quieter ways.

Unlike previous months, I didn’t begin May with a specific challenge in mind. Looking back, though, I can see a theme woven throughout the month. It became a month of being open—open to conversations, invitations, friendships, and the unexpected moments that often arrive when we slow down enough to notice them.

I tend to move through the world quietly. While I enjoy people, I’m not usually the person who strikes up conversations with strangers. Yet somehow this month felt different. I found myself more willing to engage, more curious about the people around me, and more open to the connections that can happen in ordinary places.

I lingered over conversations with people I might normally have greeted and moved on from. At one gift shop, I chatted with a woman who had recently gone through a divorce and was returning to college as she figured out her next chapter. In another, the conversation centered around the unique aspen branches the owner had cut, dried, and used to display her merchandise. These weren’t life-changing conversations, but they added richness to my day and reminded me that everyone has a story.

As the conversations continued, I began to receive—and accept—invitations. One morning, three local regulars at a coffee shop invited me to join them. Normally, I would have politely declined. Instead, I pulled up a chair and spent the next hour talking with them about everything from local history to life in Colorado. They seemed to know everyone who walked through the door, and by the time I left, I felt less like a visitor and more like part of the community.

Not long after that, I met another nomad who happened to be pet sitting next door. Since then, we’ve shared meals, walked our pets together, and explored the area. One evening she invited me over for Thai food, which turned out to be a surprise celebration for my upcoming birthday.

Being open wasn’t just about people. It also showed up in my willingness to try new experiences. A temporary membership at a luxury gym gave me access to a recovery lounge filled with therapies and equipment. Some, like red light therapy and hydromassage, were already favorites. Others were completely new to me. The cryo chamber was a little intimidating at first, but it quickly became one of my favorite parts of the experience. The sensory deprivation float pod also felt a bit outside my comfort zone, yet it turned out to be surprisingly relaxing. The cold plunge, however, still has me negotiating with myself.

That same openness also influenced the way I explored Colorado. Instead of filling my calendar or planning every detail, I found myself following curiosity. A drive to Red Rocks, a morning in Golden, a walk around a new neighborhood, or a spontaneous stop somewhere that looked interesting often became the highlight of the day. I even drove up to Cripple Creek to see the Thomas Dambo troll. Because of my fear of heights and unfamiliar mountain roads, I had been hesitant to venture too far from the main highways. One day, though, I decided to go for it. Some of my favorite moments this month weren’t planned at all.

Looking back, I don’t think being open meant doing more. In many ways, it meant doing less.

This season of slow travel has given me the gift of time—time to linger over conversations, explore a town without an agenda, develop new friendships, and try experiences I might otherwise have rushed past.

Perhaps that is what surprised me most about May. By slowing down and being more present, I began to notice opportunities I might have otherwise missed—conversations, friendships, invitations, and experiences that arrived unexpectedly. None of these moments were extraordinary on their own, yet together they became the story of my month.

May reminded me that sometimes the richest experiences aren’t found by doing more. They are found by being fully present for what is already right in front of us.

Red Rocks Park and Amphitheater
by Karon -

Days Like This in Colorado

While I was in Rockport, Texas, I joked that my condo was a geographical oddity because everything seemed to be four minutes away—the beach, HEB, the arts district. Here in Colorado, I’ve found another version of that. Only now, everything seems to be about thirty minutes away—Boulder, Red Rocks, Aurora, Golden. It has made for some really great little day trips.

One morning I headed to Red Rocks Park and Amphitheater. When I arrived, I was literally in awe! In my mind, rocks are small. These were massive red boulders. Now to be honest, I expected big red rocks and beautiful scenery, but somehow the landscape was even more dramatic than I had imagined.

The park road winds upward through a short tunnel carved into the massive boulders before reaching the upper parking area. From there, you walk up and over the crest of the rocks before the amphitheater finally comes into view. I arrived at about 7:00 am one chilly 49-degree morning. There were several people already there walking up and down the steps at the theater. I walked about halfway down the rows of seats, sat down, and closed my eyes. I could only imagine how beautiful it would be to sit out here under the stars and listen to a concert. I imagined that the natural acoustics of the boulders would be unforgettable.

I walked around taking in the views and trying to capture the beauty all around me. The red rocks against the impossibly blue sky felt almost surreal. Off in the distance, I could see the Denver cityscape. I felt small standing among the massive boulders while the distant city skyline seemed tiny by comparison.

After driving around and stopping at different points to take more pictures, I stopped at the gift shop and hiked a little way down the Trading Post Trail. I was surprised by a mule deer crossing the path up ahead of me. I love seeing animals in their natural habitat, though at that proximity I was thankful it wasn’t the bear I’ve secretly been hoping to see. Just a few minutes later, a chipmunk darted in and out of the scruffy shrubs and disappeared behind a rock. I wasn’t quick enough to get a picture of either of these animals, but was happy to have been present in the moment.

After leaving the park, I took a little detour over to Golden, Colorado. I stopped at Mama Bear’s Diner for breakfast and then drove to the historic district. I walked through town and found myself crossing a bridge over Clear Creek—famous for gold mining during the Colorado Gold Rush. I was pleasantly surprised by the walking trail that flanked the creek on both sides. Big boulders in the creek created small rapids. I wandered down the path, crossed a couple of bridges, walked through a historic park, and eventually made my way back through town, stopping in small shops along the way. This was a perfect day, and Golden quickly got added to my list of favorite small towns!

I left Golden and drove the “about 30 minutes” back to my home base. There’s something about these little day trips—the hiking trails, mountain towns, wildlife encounters, and unexpected moments—that has made this stay in Colorado feel really special already.

by Karon -

Wandering Through Niwot

I have always loved exploring—little antique shops, small towns, the outdoors. Antique shops had a certain mystery about them because you never knew what you might find. I still have an old perfume bottle that I bought in an antique shop when I was eighteen. It was in a small lavender box with all the wording written in French. At that point in my life I dreamed of visiting Paris and that little bottle was sort of a touchstone for that dream.

Fast forward a lot of years, and I have traveled to many destinations (not Paris yet). Somewhere along the way, our dreams change and evolve, and so it went with Paris. Italy became my love. I’ve visited twice and would still love to live there. But for now, I am content with my current plan. A slow nomadic lifestyle.

I still love to explore. I have realized with this current stay in Arvada, Colorado, that much of my exploring involves being outdoors. Whether it’s walking through a new small town or visiting a state park, I love to be out in the fresh air. This week also brought a few chilly, rainy days. I happily spent a couple of days curled up with hot tea, books, movies, and a fire in the fireplace.

Even though it was overcast with a chance of rain, I ventured out one morning to the sweet little town of Niwot. It almost felt like stepping back in time. Massive Plains Cottonwood trees lined the streets, making the town feel like a place that had quietly stayed true to itself for a very long time. All throughout town were large hand-shaped chairs painted in unique designs that invited visitors to stop and sit for a while. Bronze bears and foxes peeked out from behind a bush here and there in the landscaping near businesses. Flowers trailed from baskets on streetlights and window boxes on storefronts. Niwot quickly became one of my favorite small towns!

Osmosis Art Gallery was one of my first stops in town. I loved the idea of osmosis… soaking up inspiration and creativity just by being in the presence of the art. The process seemed to begin before I even entered the gallery. There were all kinds of whimsical art pieces on the lawn, including two of the large hands that I had seen throughout town along with brightly colored whimsical birds and flowers. The gallery was full of eclectic art with everything from paintings, to pottery, to handmade soap and jewelry. Just the kind of fun, quirky gallery that I love!

As I walked into Wise Buys Antiques in the historic district, a bell chimed. I slowly walked through the shop hoping to find some little thing that I just had to have. I wanted to collect something from this little town that I had been so charmed by. I looked at the pink depression glass and thought of my Aunt Jewel. I think hers had been green. I was suddenly reminded of all of the delicious meals at her house as a kid. I love how just seeing an item can produce a sweet memory. I picked up a well-worn Nancy Drew book and flipped through it thinking of how I had loved to read these books when I was about ten. I wondered how many hands had held this particular book. I didn’t find anything that I could justify adding to the bins and suitcases I travel with and decided to wander on to the next shop.

My next stop before wandering back to my car was The Little Bird. Another great little shop! While browsing the unique clothes and gift items, I chatted with the owner about the pronunciation of Niwot and what had brought him to town. I thought about how this little town was really close to my perfect town. I found a little gift for a friend and then went back out into the cool air.

As I returned to my car, I thought about how at eighteen, exploration had looked like dreaming about faraway places and collecting little reminders of where I hoped life would take me. These days, I seem to find just as much joy wandering through small towns, noticing tiny details, and allowing myself to move a little more slowly through the world.

by Karon -

My First Week in Colorado

The water was almost a sapphire blue with snow-capped mountains rising in the distance, and I remember thinking—this is not a bad way to start the day. I was out for a morning walk at the neighborhood lake on my first full day in Colorado when I spotted a large, white bird floating on the water. As I got closer, I couldn’t believe my eyes—it was an American white pelican. They were the very same birds I had seen during my stay in Rockport, Texas. They wintered there, but I thought they were coastal water birds and had no idea that a few months later I would be seeing them in such a landlocked region.

As I continued my walk around the lake, there were lots of other water birds. Canadian Geese swam by, some with their goslings trailing behind, and Mallards drifted on the water while huge carp spawned near the shoreline. The crisp 52-degree air felt perfect for a morning walk. The Texas heat I left behind a few days earlier was just a memory now. As I came around a bend in the path, a bench appeared. I sat down feeling very blessed to be back in Colorado and simply savored the moment.

After a while, I returned to my temporary home and cooked myself a healthy breakfast which included a toasted slice of lavender sourdough bread that my host had prepared for me. I thoroughly enjoyed every bite.

Then I plopped myself into a lounge chair on the back patio and watched a squirrel sift through the fallen birdseed looking for a morsel. The trickling fountain, chirping birds, and melodious wind chimes created the perfect spot to read for a while before enjoying a little nap in the fresh air. I felt like I didn’t have a care in the world and nothing that I needed to do. This gloriously relaxing morning was just the thing I needed after the long drive.

As the week went on, in addition to walking and relaxing on the patio, I ventured out for some sightseeing. One day I made the thirty-minute drive to Boulder and shopped at the Pearl Street Mall. Such a “Colorado” experience. Pearl Street is a pedestrian mall with lovely shops, galleries, and cafes offering outdoor seating. It was a perfect day with crisp, clean air, sunshine, and mountains in the distance. There were sculptures and nature features designed into the walkway along with flowers and trees. I especially loved the sculpture of the mama bear with her cubs along with the boulders placed here and there.

Even though I am typically drawn more quickly to paintings, a small sea-blue turtle caught my eye as I walked into an art gallery. It looked like origami. As I walked further into the gallery, there was a whole body of work by artist Kevin Box that embodied the same style. This section was all white and each bronze origami sculpture had an unfolded version. These artworks spoke to me in a soft, familiar way that immediately took me back to my time in Japan with the delicate, intricate paper artworks. Only this artwork had a strong, solid feel to it. I loved the idea of giving permanence to a delicate form of art.

On another day I explored Olde Town Arvada. The downtown area is sort of a smaller, quainter version of Pearl Street, with a real hometown feel. I stopped for chai tea and felt genuinely welcomed by some locals. Just a short walk from the coffee shop is the Arvada Flour Mill, built in 1923 by Eugene Emory Benjamin along the railroad tracks at the southern edge of town. The mill operated through the 1950s, though much of its machinery was already older, having been brought in from another mill. Just down the tracks stands the old water tower, a simple but iconic reminder of Arvada’s early days, and together they give a glimpse into the town’s history as a small but active agricultural and railroad community.

In less than a week, I had already found my rhythm here with short trips exploring, quiet walks, and time for relaxing. My next local adventure was a visit to the Sculpture Field which is a rotating exhibit of outdoor sculptures at the Arvada Center for the Arts. The center itself is large and beautiful with outdoor seating and a children’s interactive sculpture garden featuring a large, colorful dragon. There was also a pond with a path and permanent sculpture installations. As I walked through the field, I found myself contemplating the inspirations behind the artworks as I scanned the QR codes and read about each piece. I am always fascinated by what motivates artists to create that particular art in that particular medium. I love the inspiration I feel when I have the opportunity to see an eclectic collection of artworks.

In one short week in Colorado, I have settled in, found my rhythm, viewed some amazing art, and made a few meaningful connections. It seems that I am learning how to really relax into slow travel and this nomadic life. I am looking forward to my next four weeks in Colorado!

.

by Karon -

On the Road Again, Heading a Little North: Texas to Colorado Road Trip

So, I am on the road again after a three-week visit with my son and his family. I am heading out for about three months with stays in Colorado and New Mexico. I’m really excited because I haven’t been in Colorado for about 25 years and the longest I had ever stayed was about a week. This time, I will be there for five weeks! As I started out on this trip, my heart was full from time with my grandsons and the previous month with my mom.

A friend gave me this little ornament. We’ve been friends for about 25 years. She is traveling with me in spirit.

My first stop on this trip was a short visit with my sister who lives near Dallas. Time with people I love has become so precious to me. We didn’t do anything elaborate, just some shopping and lunch, and then a dinner with her and my niece. Even though the visit was brief, being with my sister feels restorative and grounding.

From there, I headed toward Palo Duro Canyon State Park to see the “Grand Canyon of Texas,” the second-largest canyon in the country. A large, dark cloud hung low in the distance and before too long, I found myself driving along the edge of it. I hoped I would get past the storm and find sunny skies, but the dark cloud faded into a sky that was completely overcast.

Driving through the flat stretch of the Texas Panhandle, everything feels wide open and almost unchanging—and then, almost without warning, the land drops away. Pulling into Palo Duro Canyon State Park, it feels like stumbling onto something unexpected. The canyon opens up in layers of red and orange, stretching out farther than you think it will. It’s quiet in a way that’s hard to describe—no rush, no noise, just space. I noticed how the canyon looked a little different every few minutes. Almost as soon as I arrived, the rain began.

What stayed with me most wasn’t just how big it is, but how steady it feels. There’s something grounding about being there, like the canyon has been doing its thing for a very long time and doesn’t need anything from you. I stood there, taking it in—the stillness, the openness, the feeling of being small in a good way. It’s the kind of place that gently reminds you to be present, without forcing it.

Then it was on to a quick stop at the Cadillac Ranch. This is something I’ve wanted to see if I were ever passing through—and here I am. I really didn’t know much about it—just that there were old Cadillacs nose down in the ground that had been painted.

Seeing it in person was even more fun than I expected. The cars are completely covered in layers upon layers of spray paint, and people were out there adding their own colors and messages, so of course I added a little paint of my own too. Even though it was 42 degrees with a light rain, there was a connection with the other visitors. We shared cans of spray paint, took photos of each other with the cars, and laughed with a group of four men on motorcycles who were out in that unexpected weather. Those brief connections with strangers make my time on the road feel a little more connected.

I later learned the installation was created back in 1974 by an art group called Ant Farm, and the Cadillacs are buried at the same angle as the pyramids of Giza, which somehow makes the whole thing even quirkier. What I liked most was that it isn’t meant to stay the same—the artwork is constantly changing with every traveler who stops by.

My day of travel ended with an overnight stay in Trinidad, Colorado, and dinner at a Tex-Mex restaurant that was a little different from the Tex-Mex I’m used to.

After a bit of sightseeing the next morning, I started the drive toward Arvada, where I’ll be staying for the next couple of weeks.

By the time I reached that stretch of the trip, it felt like this first leg had already given me more than I expected—time with people I love, a reminder to slow down, and a few moments of quiet that seem to stay with you long after you leave. Not a bad way to begin three months on the road.

by Karon -

The Beauty of an Ordinary Week

This week gave me nothing extraordinary to write about, yet it has been full and rich in all the right ways.

I am currently back at my son’s place—my nomadic home base.

It has been a slow-paced week of Legos, flower picking, and imaginary play. I’ve been immersed in the ordinary lives of my three grandsons. In just nine short days, I’ve watched a jiu jitsu class and a flag football game, taken a quick trip to Palestine for lunch and a hike through the annual fairy garden trail, and simply been present for everyday moments.

On the drive to Palestine, we told stories about them when they were little, their dad when he was little, and even a few stories from my own childhood. We laughed at silly things and listened to favorite songs. It was one of those simple days that means more than you expect.

This week, I’ve also been trying to walk at least ten minutes after most meals, along with a longer walk on many days. I’ve been sorting through a few things too, hoping to travel lighter on my next trip.

And I’m loving the freedom of not being weighed down by things.

This new life didn’t just change where I lived—it changed how I live.

I now lean into things that I used to think were flaws. Like being an introvert. I savor that time alone to recharge. I used to push against that and now I embrace it.

A few days ago I sat in the sunshine by the lake and just felt the warmth on my skin and listened to the gentle sounds of nature. I no longer feel the need to rush.

With the fast-paced life of teaching as just a memory now, I can fully breathe. I am deeply content with traveling and living alone. Having the space to breathe allows me to savor the moments with family and friends.

I’ve roughly planned the next several months: Colorado, New Mexico, North Carolina, and stops in between. I’m excited for what’s ahead. I am envisioning mountain hikes, lakes, and room to embrace slow travel. There will be time alone and some visits with family and friends.

But for right now, I’m grounded in the moment, with two more weeks here with my grandsons. I’m treasuring these days of sitting outside to watch the sunrise, hearing the rain on the roof, and listening to them play nearby.

by Karon -

A Week in Bandera: All of Us Together

For a couple of months, I had been thinking about this week.

Planning it. Imagining it. Holding it quietly in my mind.

A week in Bandera, Texas— a former home. A place where my kids grew up, where school days and ordinary routines once filled our lives. I pictured the things we would do, the places we would return to, the feeling of stepping back into something familiar.

And then it came.

And just as quickly, it was gone.

Isn’t that the way with the moments we look forward to the most? They arrive with so much anticipation, and then they pass in a blur, leaving behind something harder to name.

Amy and Corey stayed the full week with the boys, while Ryan and Jackie were only able to be there for a few days. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that, for a little while, all five of my grandsons were together.

And not just them—but all of us.

There is something incredibly special about having your children and their families in one place at the same time. It doesn’t happen often, and when it does, you feel it. In the noise, in the laughter, in the simple act of everyone sitting around the same table. It meant more than I can fully put into words—and I know it meant just as much to my mom to see everyone together.

There is something about that—watching them run, play, eat, and just be together—that settles into a place deeper than memory. It’s not just what we did. It’s what it felt like to witness it.

We filled our days, of course.

An Easter egg hunt and picnic with my mom. Another day, we picked her up and took her with us to Wildseed Farm, followed by a quick stop at one of Fredericksburg’s many wineries. A cousin dropped in for a visit, adding another layer to the gathering. These weren’t big, dramatic moments—but together, they created something full and rich.

We walked into town, slipping easily into the rhythm of Bandera. Lunch at the OST, still standing as it always has. Ice cream from the General Store. Trying on cowboy hats at the Cowboy Store, because how could we not?

Down by the river, the little boys threw rocks and sticks into the water, completely content in the simplest of ways. Nearby, my oldest grandson and his dad went for a swim. Different ages, different ways of experiencing the same place—but all part of the same memory being made.

We visited the Bandera Natural History and Art Museum and its dinosaur walk—something added after we moved away more than ten years ago, so it was new to us. It was really fun, and honestly felt a little unexpected in a small town known as the “Cowboy Capital of the World.” A reminder that even the places we once knew so well continue to change.

And breakfast at El Jacalitos—the “little shack” that isn’t so little anymore—still serving the kind of breakfast tacos that somehow taste like both the past and the present.

It was a full week. A busy week.

But more than that, it was a reminder.

That places hold stories, but they don’t stay the same.

That time moves forward, whether you’re ready or not.

And that sometimes the most meaningful moments aren’t the ones you plan—they’re the ones you feel while they’re happening, knowing, even then, how fleeting they are.

by Karon -

Halfway Up Enchanted Rock: A Sunrise Hike in Fredericksburg, Texas

An orange glow was beginning to peek over the hills as we approached the entrance to Enchanted Rock State Park. After two months of getting used to temperatures in the 70s along the coast, the morning air in the 40s felt downright cold. Despite the chill, we began our pre-sunrise ascent up the granite mountain.

My niece Mary is an avid hiker, and we had made a simple plan. She would continue all the way to the summit while I stopped about halfway up to sit on the rocks and take photos as the sun came up. I had a feeling the halfway point might be the perfect place to take it all in.

It felt good to be out in nature on a cold morning watching the day begin. Enchanted Rock is such an iconic part of the Fredericksburg area. Each year hundreds of thousands of visitors come to climb this massive dome of pink granite, which formed more than a billion years ago. Rising about 425 feet above the surrounding terrain, the rock stands at 1,825 feet above sea level — a bit of a contrast from my recent morning walks along the flat beaches of Rockport.

Sitting on a large boulder about halfway up, I thought about the Big Tree in Rockport and how I am drawn to natural things that have survived through centuries. Standing in their presence makes you pause. You can’t help but wonder about the stories they could tell if they could talk.

And sitting there watching the light slowly spread across the Hill Country, it struck me how brief our presence is in places like this. People come and go, taking photos, climbing to the summit, and heading back home by afternoon. Yet the rock remains — silent and steady — having witnessed centuries of change. There is something comforting about that kind of permanence in a world where so much of life feels temporary.

I looked down and could barely see the structure where we had started. My legs felt strong and steady, and the climb up had seemed surprisingly easy. I really wanted to continue to the summit, but I knew the descent on the granite could be slippery, and my shoes weren’t really the type I needed for it.

I quietly wondered if I was truly being logical and practical — or if it was my old fear of heights creeping in. The climb down had always been the scariest part.

I decided I would come back another day after buying more appropriate shoes. For now, I settled back onto the warm granite and turned my attention to photographing the amazing scenery around me.

As the sun slowly rose above the hills, the granite around me began to glow with soft shades of pink and gold. Early morning hikers appeared as tiny silhouettes moving across the dome above me. The Hill Country stretched out in every direction, rolling layers of blue and green fading into the distance. It was quiet in that way early mornings often are, before the crowds arrive and the day fully begins.

After a while I spotted Mary making her way down from the summit. She was full of energy and stories about the view from the top. I was happy for her and just as happy with my decision to stay where I was. My morning had been exactly what I needed — a quiet place to sit, watch the sunrise, and take it all in.

Sometimes the most meaningful moments aren’t found at the summit, but halfway up a mountain, sitting quietly on a warm piece of granite and watching the day begin.

Mary’s picture from the summit.
by Karon -

From the Coast to the Hill Country: Leaving Before You’re Ready

As I drove past Boerne, I began to see the hills. I almost felt I was seeing the area for the first time (even though we lived in this area for years). The hills looked hillier. Maybe it was the contrast from being by the sea for two months. I was struck by the thought of how we grow so accustomed to the things in our daily life that we don’t even see it anymore. Being more observant is a gift that comes with this nomadic lifestyle. I feel more awake and in tune with my surroundings.

The drive had seemed long, but I was now in the last hour. I thought of how I had not really been ready to leave Rockport. I had hesitated to begin packing as if that would delay the inevitable. There was a painting class coming up that I really wanted to take at the end of March. There was a volunteer opportunity at the Little Theater starting in a few days. I never made it over to the uninhabited island for shelling. I didn’t take a boat tour. How had I let these things slip by? I had packed and loaded anyway.

I have discovered with travel there are always things left undone. The more places you explore in one area, the more you realize you want to do. I found this in Vicenza. I found this in Japan. The more you learn and really live in an area, the more things you uncover that tourists miss. Somewhere along the way, maybe while I was living in Japan, I began to slow down. To really explore the hidden and off-the-beaten-path kind of places. No, now that I think of it, I think it may have begun in North Carolina with the little coastal towns.

Whenever it began, I really developed a love for just driving to a destination with a few things on a list to see and then meandering through the town and stopping when something caught my eye. Many times it would be something that I just absolutely had to photograph.

Now I am beginning a month in Fredericksburg. I will spend time with my mom. Take her outside and talk about the trees beginning to bud out and the birds. We will decorate a little for Easter and have some quiet meals together. I will structure in time for me as well. Time to walk on Cross Mountain. Maybe I will get a temporary membership at the gym. I will try to find a couple of opportunities to listen to live music. Maybe I will even brave that alone. Meandering through some art galleries is a must. And hopefully the wildflowers will start blooming while I’m here.

Even though I really wasn’t ready to leave the coast and I loved my time there, I am learning that I rarely leave a place because I am finished. I leave because it is time. And each time I go, I begin building a small rhythm in the new place — a favorite walking path, a cozy coffee shop for chai tea, a few quiet rituals — knowing that before long I will feel the tug to move again. Perhaps the ache of not being ready is simply proof that I was fully there. As I top a hill, the cross on Cross Mountain comes into view.