Sure is an adventure, isn’t it?

What brings you joy? 

For me, it’s wandering beneath 80-foot aspens, the air crisp and laced with the scent of bonfire smoke. A beanie rests on my head, my L.L.Bean puffer vest holds in just the right amount of warmth as I tramp across the golden forest floor. Add my mom beside me, and it’s a perfect Sunday.

The trees are mostly bare now in Colorado, with only a few still shining bright, not quite ready to give in to winter. Autumn here is a blink — the leaves shift from vibrant green to deep gold to brown in less than three weeks. But if you’ve ever been lucky enough to visit during this magical time, you know how otherworldly it feels, like anything is possible up here among the aspens.

We come across a clearing, a small grassy knoll where an ancient piece of mining equipment has lain to rest. Mom rests her hand on the antique metal and inspects it. “How cool!” I slug water from my Hydro Flask and wipe the lingering droplets from my mouth with my sleeve. 

“Yeah, the kids love it. They could spend hours jumping from it. We’ve done picnics, forts, you name it.” I smile as I reminisce over our summer memories. 

The evergreens around us are draped in their annual sprinkling of golden aspen leaves; nature’s Christmas tree. I almost reach for my phone to cue up some holiday music, then remember we lost service a couple of miles back.

 A carving on a distant aspen catches my eye. I crunch through the leaves to take a closer look, hearing Mom’s footsteps just behind me.

As I approach the tree, I look up; it’s a giant, its white branches soaring into the bluebird sky. Running my hand along the inscription, the bark smooth under my fingertips, I read out loud “TC 98. Huh. It can’t be 1998, can it? That’s over 25 years ago.” 

Mom sidles up beside me, her eyes narrowing. “Of course. Look how big this tree is, it’s old.” She throws her head back, assessing the towering beauty. Her eyes drop and scan the area around us. I watch as they focus on another aspen, farther back, she walks over to it. 

“Look at this one, 1983.” 

Sticks crack underfoot as I join her. A breeze floats in, casting yellow and brown leaves to the ground. Sure enough, “Norwalk Calif. OG ‘82 ‘83” is etched into the white bark. 

“It’s older than me!” I laugh. “But how can that be? The inscription is eye-level. If it were really that old, wouldn’t it be at the top of the tree?” (This might be a good time to tell the reader that science has never been my area of expertise. Clearly.)

Mom straightens her shoulders, a telltale sign that she is excited to impart wisdom. “See how the letters are warped? Look closely, you can see the original carving, but the words are now puffed out like bubble letters.” 

Leaning in close, I make out the original marking: dark brown lines hidden deep in the bulbous bark. “Yes, but still, wouldn’t this part be at the top?” 

She shakes her head. “A tree grows from the tips of its branches and roots, not the trunk itself. The trunk just gets wider over time. That’s why this carving looks so distorted. The branches and roots at the ends are what’s technically new.”

My cheeks puff as I take in this new piece of information. I let the air out slowly, “fascinating.” 

“It is, isn’t it?” Mom looks at her watch. “Should we head back? The game starts in a bit.” 

I nod, tightening the straps of my backpack. “I still can’t believe you root for the Vikings after all these years. Do you even know who’s on the team?” I nudge her playfully with my shoulder. 

She laughs. “Honestly, no, but I did love Fran Tarkenton back in the day. He was the QB. Oh, did I ever tell you about the time I won flag football in college and…”

“Won a keg of beer for your team? Yes,” I laugh. 

Mom smiles, shakes her head. “It was a big deal; I was one of the only women to play.” 

As we descend the mountain, I notice more inscriptions on aspens set back from the trail — Buzz 2010, DJ BJ ‘09, Aconti 2010. This isn’t a particularly well-known path; you have to do your homework to find it, or live nearby. I can’t help but wonder about all the people who’ve stumbled upon this hidden trail, and, as writers do, I immediately start imagining their stories.

What brought them here? What are they up to now? Would they remember leaving these carvings all those years ago? 

The rumble of a truck engine breaks the silence. I glance over my shoulder to see an old Ford bumping its way toward us, dipping in and out of the rutted dirt road. I step off the trail and into the trees to let it pass, offering Mom my hand for balance.

“Must be hunters,” I say, holding a nearby trunk as my boots sink into the soft earth.

Sure enough, a toothless man in an orange vest smiles out of his rolled-down window. “Well, sure is an adventure, isn’t it?” He laughs heartily as his truck’s suspension inches closer to death. A teen boy in a Day-Glo sweatshirt grips the oh-sh*t bar beside him, laughing.

I giggle and wave, watching his rusted Ford disappear around the bend.

“I love how happy that man was, broken truck and all,” I say to Mom.

As we near the UTV that will take us home, I can’t help but think about what he said: Sure is an adventure, isn’t it?

The old adage says life is short. Sure. And if that reminder helps you get out and enjoy it, then keep it in your back pocket. But, thanks to the toothless hunter, I was also reminded that life is full. Full of adventures and memories, both big and small. Whether it’s a camping trip with Buzz, DJ, and Aconti, a hunting trip with your teenage son, or a Sunday hike with your mom, it’s all part of the adventure. That’s what feels worth remembering.

What did you do today that was an adventure? Maybe it was as simple as trying a new coffee shop.

Here’s to noticing the beauty in small adventures, and the people who remind us they’re everywhere.

Happy November.