It hit me halfway up a ridge where the wind made the aspen leaves quake like a nervous first date. I was 19, riding one of our ranch horses—an ornery old gelding named Chief—leading a group of tourists along a trail that never failed to stun me no matter how many times I walked or rode it. The San Juan Mountains stood jagged and resolute in the distance, the kind of backdrop that makes you believe frontier romance isn’t just something cooked up by novelists like, well, me.

But let me back up. I hadn’t planned on guiding trail rides that summer. My aspirations leaned more toward big stories and bigger cities after my first year of college. But my dad asked if I’d help out on busy weekends, and guilt (or maybe just the promise of free steak dinners) got the best of me. I didn’t realize that an ordinary day on horseback would become something much bigger—a moment that would change the way I saw myself, my passions, and my purpose.

If you’ve ever been hit by a moment of joy so startling it feels like slipping into a warm hot spring on a cold night, you’ll know exactly the sensation I’m describing. It wasn’t just happiness. It was recognition. This was something I loved.

The Irritation Before Inspiration

Let me clarify something: trail guiding isn’t all romance and John Wayne swagger. There’s a lot of sweat, dirt, and reality. On any given day, you’re squinting into the sun, trying not to get too snippy with an out-of-shape dad struggling in cowboy boots for the first time. Or worse, you’re nursing a horse who has decided stopping every two minutes to snack on grass is their entire personality.

There’s also plenty of awkward small talk. I’d ask things like, “What brings you to Telluride?” And I’d hear the usual: anniversary trips, family vacations, someone pursuing their idea of a bucket list moment in a B-movie Western. It was charming but repetitive, like rewatching Groundhog Day, minus Bill Murray to make you laugh. On the surface, none of this screamed joyful calling. More like summer job that pays OK.

But joy works in sneaky ways.

Trail Talk Therapy: Where It All Clicked

About halfway through that particular ride, Greg—one of my tourists—confessed something remarkable as we crested that windy ridge. Quietly, he mumbled, “You know, I can’t remember the last time I talked to my wife without either of us being distracted.” She was riding just ahead of us, chatting with another guest. “But being up here,” Greg looked around the way someone glances at a miracle, “it’s different. It’s just easy to... talk.”

And there it was.

When Greg and his wife rode side by side after that, their easy conversation floated back toward me. I didn’t catch every word, but their laughter carried more clearly than anything else on that mountain. And as a writer—the kind of person who looks for stories in cracks and corners—it hit me: I’d just helped these people connect in a way neither seemed to have expected.

Yes, my job was to guide them safely through switchbacks without anyone landing on their backside, but it was also to make space for moments like these. I wasn’t just walking trails; I was unraveling silence and facilitating joy—for them and, as it turns out, for me.

Finding Your Own Trail of Joy

Looking back, I realize moments like that ride were my foundation for what I do now: tell stories about relationships, connection, and the landscapes—both literal and emotional—that shape them. Whether I’m recalling a miner’s flirtation in a ghost town or dissecting the power balance in a modern couple’s arguments, it always comes back to this simple truth I’ve learned: joy comes when you see how what you do affects others, even in small ways.

If you’ve stumbled across your joy—or you’re still figuring it out—here’s what I’d suggest:

1. Start With the Small Stuff
It wasn’t the San Juan Mountains alone that brought me joy. It was watching people rediscover something in themselves—curiosity, intimacy, even humor—in a place where phones don’t buzz and to-do lists slip out of mind. Pay attention to those little flashbulb moments in your own life. Maybe it’s making coffee for someone, painting something only you’ll see, or sharing a goofy joke that brightens someone’s day. Those are breadcrumbs leading you to bigger joys.

2. Connect It To Others
For me, joy wasn’t solitary. Sure, the mountains are gorgeous, and riding a horse in solitude can feel heroic in a Lonesome Dove kind of way. But the joy came from what I could contribute to others. Think about how your unique skills or passions nudge someone else toward a better moment. It doesn’t need to be grandiose; it just needs to be real.

3. Lean Into What Comes Naturally
I’d always loved storytelling, but it took a literal trail ride to realize that narratives aren’t written just with pen and paper. They take shape in how we guide others, how we speak, and how we listen. There’s often something you’re already doing—naturally, effortlessly—that connects to what makes you feel alive. Keep leaning into that.

From Passion to Purpose

By the end of that summer, I wasn’t itching to leave the ranch as much as I expected. Oh sure, I was ready for showers without horsehair in the drain and social opportunities involving people my own age. But there was this lingering sense of purpose that followed me into fall.

And now, years later, I know that day on horseback showed me not just what I love but why I love it. I write, I teach, I guide—not because I feel like I have all the answers but because there’s something beautiful about letting someone else peek down the trails I’ve explored. Whether it’s a historical anecdote about prospectors or a hard-earned relationship tip, my joy is in passing those stories along.

So no, not everyone’s joy is hiding on the back of a horse in the Rockies (although let’s be honest, it’s an excellent start). But here’s what I can promise: when you find your joy, it won’t just feel like something you want to do. It’ll feel like something the world needs you to do. And when that moment comes, saddle up. It’s a ride worth taking.