The buzzing of my phone that day might as well have been the sound of destiny knocking. Okay, fine, “destiny” was really just the dulcet tones of a Willie Nelson ringtone paired with my mom’s contact photo from three Christmases ago. But for me, it changed everything.

That Tuesday in May

It was an ordinary Tuesday—mountain air clean, coffee on the brink of burnt, me staring down a blank Word document that was somehow more intimidating than a sky full of lightning over the Rockies. I was in my early thirties, moderately overconfident in my storytelling abilities but painfully uncertain about, well… everything else. My historical fiction novel about a stubborn ranch family trapped in a small mining town had just collected its fifth polite rejection, and I was asking myself Big Life Questions. Could I really make this writing dream happen? Would I ever eat anything besides trail mix and two-day-old chili? And, perhaps most haunting of all, had I dramatically oversold “Western romance” as a niche literary genre?

That’s when my phone rang.

“Mom’s Calling. Should I Answer That?”

My mom, the eternal optimist of the McAllister clan, had a sixth sense for when I needed a proverbial kick in the rear. I briefly considered letting it go to voicemail. But guilt outweighed my apathy, and before I could stop myself, I answered:

“Hey, Mom.”

“Oh, good!” she said, exhaling like she’d been waiting for hours. “Listen, we had a cancellation at the ranch for the weekend trail tour. Any chance you’re free to fill in as a guide?”

Free? Lady, I was drowning in freedom. At that point, I’d written fewer words that month than a fortune cookie factory. I said yes before she could even mention the paycheck.

“Oh, and by the way,” she added, her voice suddenly acquiring that signature mom coyness that suggests secrets are afoot, “we’ve got a special guest joining. A journalist from Denver doing a travel piece about Telluride. Just—be yourself, Gray. You’ll charm their socks off.”

A Trail, A Tale, and a Turning Point

The journalist turned out to be Callie Warner—thirty-five, with a hiking pack that practically screamed “I’m not new to this," and a smile that could’ve sold snow to a ski town. She wore her curiosity as plainly as she wore her dusty boots, asking questions about our family ranch, the San Juan backstory, and even what made me leave—and then come back—to this sleepy Colorado town.

“What’s the one thing you love most about all this?” she asked as we wound our way to a ridge overlooking the valley.

“The quiet,” I said. “Up here, you can hear yourself think. But it’s also the kind of quiet that forces you to answer the hard questions, you know?”

I’ll never forget how she tilted her head, considering my answer like a writer peeling the truth out of a scene. Or maybe she was just appraising whether I sounded creditable. Either way, she smiled. “You should write about that.”

I laughed, thinking she was joking. She wasn’t.

The Article Within the Article

Here’s the thing about life-changing calls: Sometimes, they’re actual phone calls. And sometimes, they’re disguised as passing comments on a mountaintop. But both can shake you up in ways you don’t see until you’re halfway down the mountain—literally or figuratively.

The next Monday, Callie’s email dropped into my inbox. She was submitting her article (a glowing take on Telluride, by the way), but she also had an idea.

“What if I pitched you to my editor?” she wrote. “A piece on the romance of living in small-town Colorado from someone who’s lived it, left it, and returned to it?”

At first, I balked. What could I possibly say that anyone who’s binged “Yellowstone” wouldn’t already know? But Callie knew what I was too stubborn to admit: that I wasn’t just sitting on a goldmine of geography, but stories. Wrangling them into words? That was where I belonged.

From the Mountain to the Page

Two months later, her editor bought the piece. It felt like a fraudster moment. Imposter syndrome wasn’t just knocking—I’d practically reserved it a suite in my brain. Yet writing about my hometown unlocked a part of me I hadn’t fully tapped into, the same way those winding trails make you see new shades of green every time you ride them.

I wrote about the magic of starry nights uninterrupted by streetlights, and the slow dance of relationships forged where everyone knows everyone else’s business. I tapped into my mom’s wisdom about sticking it out even when things feel tougher than they ought to. I wrote as honestly and authentically as I could, and, to my surprise, my editor called it “refreshing.”

So, What Did I Learn?

If you’ve made it this far, bravo—you’re probably wondering what all this has to do with you. Here’s the takeaway: that call wasn’t just about a chance encounter on a saddle. It reframed how I thought about connection. And that, my friends, is something we all need once in a while—whether we’re untangling a strained relationship or staring down career crossroads.

Here’s what I learned:

  • Say Yes When You’d Rather Say No. The opportunities that nudge you out of your comfort zone are, nine times out of ten, the ones worth chasing.
  • Listen to the People Who See What You Can’t. Sometimes, your inner circle is onto something before you even realize it. I owe a huge debt to Callie’s belief in me—and, of course, my mom for always reminding me to keep the phone on.
  • Stories Connect Us. Whether it’s a heartfelt essay about your hometown or late-night talks with someone you care about, vulnerability and truth-telling create the space where real connection thrives.

Just the Start

Answering that particular phone call didn’t just put me on a professional path—I think it reminded me why we open ourselves up to the unexpected in the first place. Callie didn’t stick around the ranch (her heart belonged in the Front Range), but she did teach me to say yes to sharing what we love most about where we come from, and to believe those stories—mundane and messy as they sometimes feel—matter.

When you’re doubting yourself or your choices, stop and ask: When’s the last time you truly gave an unexpected opportunity a shot? Sometimes, the call you almost missed is the one worth answering.

And yes, my Willie Nelson ringtone is still going strong. I never said I was speed-dialing maturity.