The Where...

Why I Chose Colorado

There are places you end up in life because of circumstance, and then there are places you end up because something in your bones keeps tugging you there. Colorado, for me, has always been the second kind. Not a whim, not a random pin on a map — but a slow, steady pull that started long before I ever knew I’d follow it.

I grew up split between two worlds that couldn’t look more different on a postcard, yet somehow lived side‑by‑side inside me. One half of my childhood was spent in the desert along the Texas–Mexico border — a place of dust, heat, mesquite, and wide‑open skies that felt like they went on forever. The other half was spent in the deep greens and rugged mountains of the Pacific Northwest — a world of towering trees, cold rivers, and rain that seemed to fall with its own kind of rhythm. Those two landscapes shaped me in ways I didn’t understand much until later. The desert taught me grit. The forest taught me patience. Both taught me how to pay attention to the land.

And tucked somewhere between those two worlds were the memories of visiting my grandfather, grandmother, and some of my dad’s side of the family in and around Delta, Colorado. I didn’t know it then, but those visits planted something in me — a familiarity, comfort, a sense that Colorado was a place where the two halves of my upbringing could shake hands and settle in together. High desert and mountains. Dry air and pine trees. Space to breathe and room to build.

Drifting Farther from Family

As I got older, life did what life tends to do — it scattered me. I moved around, chasing work, chasing opportunity, chasing myself, really and whatever version of stability I needed and could manage at the time. And with every move, it felt like I drifted a little farther from family. Not intentionally. Not because I wanted distance. It just… happened. One day you look up and realize you’re living a whole life in a place where nobody shares your last name, your history, or your stories. That kind of quiet can get heavy.

Back in 2014, I was in a good place in life. I had a great job with a well-known company in the North Dakota oilfield, and I had just bought a beautiful house that sat high on a ridge looking down into the northern plains in the Black Hills of South Dakota a house I loved — a place that felt like it had been carved out just for me. But even with all its beauty, it wasn’t home in the way I needed home to be. Not anymore. I wanted my family to be closer. I wanted roots again.

In 2020, by the time COVID rolled in, that heaviness that I mentioned before had settled deep. The world was upside down, and like a lot of folks, I started taking stock of what mattered. So I did something that felt both reckless and absolutely necessary: I sold the house I loved, packed up Mom, Tess, and Belle, and headed west to Oregon.

The Pacific Northwest: Familiar, But Not Home

The Pacific Northwest was familiar, almost comforting. The trees, the rain, the mountains - all felt like revisiting an old chapter of my life. But after a short while, I realized that familiarity isn’t the same as belonging. I loved the land, but we unfortunately just didn’t get feeling of being “at Home” there. Out, a little east of us, however, was a wholly different story, and one that I really had not paid nearly enough attention to. My brother, my nephew, my dad, and my stepmom — “Ma,” as I call her — were all down in Texas. And as time passed, the more I understood that the familiar land can feed your soul, but family keeps you standing.

Much of what happened next would never have been possible without, in no small part, the concern, love and support of my brother and nephew, offering to open their home and a place to stay to me and the pups— and with more kindness than I ever expected from near perfect strangers, my remote coworkers in Oregon — I now had the cash i needed and made the move to Texas. It wasn’t easy. I had to leave Mom behind in Oregon for a bit, which was hard for her. But eventually fate would swing back around into my or I guess “our” favor, and when I got an unexpected opportunity to get my old job back in the New Mexico oilfields, I was able to bring her down to with me and the pups. It wasn’t perfect, but it was closer. And sometimes closer is enough to keep you going.

The Long Search for Land

All the while, through all those moves, all those jobs, all those miles, there was one constant: I kept searching for land. Not just any land — raw land. A place where I could build something with my own two hands. A place without a mortgage hanging over my head. A place that was mine in a way nothing else had ever been.

I’d been looking since my days working in the North Dakota oilfield, scrolling through listings during breaks, imagining what life could look like if I ever found the right spot.

Colorado kept calling. Not loudly. Not urgently. Just steady. Like a quiet voice saying, “When you’re ready.”

And eventually, I was.

Finding the Right Place

When I finally found the land — this mix of high desert surrounded by dramatic mountains, pine trees, and lakes — it felt like stepping into a place I’d already known. The best of both worlds. The dry, open air of my childhood desert. The rugged, pine‑covered mountains of my Pacific Northwest years. A landscape that felt like it had been stitched together from the pieces of my life.

It wasn’t just the land, though. It was the timing. It was the need for a fresh start. It was the desire to build something stable for Mom, for Tess, for myself. It was the chance to create a home that wasn’t borrowed or temporary or dependent on a volatile oil market and company’s payroll. A place where I could put down roots and know they’d stay put.

Colorado offered that.

Colorado felt like that.

And the more time I spent here, the more I realized that choosing Colorado wasn’t really a choice at all. It was the natural next step in a long line of steps that had been leading me here all along.

A Land That Doesn’t Pretend

There’s something about this state — especially the part I’m in — that feels honest. The land doesn’t pretend to be easy. The weather doesn’t care about your plans. The wind will rearrange your day whether you asked it to or not. But there’s beauty in that kind of straightforwardness. You learn to work with the land instead of against it. You learn to slow down. You learn to pay attention.

And in return, the land gives you something back — a sense of belonging that isn’t flashy or loud, but steady and real.

That’s what I wanted for Fire, Iron and Spice, too. A place where food, stories, and home all meet in the middle. A place where the recipes taste like they were cooked by someone who’s lived a life, not just followed instructions. A place where the homestead build isn’t just a project, but a family journey — one that folks can follow along with, learn from, and maybe even feel inspired by.

Colorado gives me the space to do that. The space to build. The space to grow. The space to take care of my mom the way she took care of me. The space to honor the dogs who’ve walked this frantic, bumpy and winding road with me — Tess, 11 years old and still by my side, Belle the playful, goofy, renegade, gone way to soon - on her 9th birthday, now living forever in my heart. The space to create something that feels like it was made by hand, because it is.

Coming Home

Choosing Colorado wasn’t about escaping anything. It wasn’t about running away. It was about running toward something — toward family, toward land that felt familiar, toward a life that made sense again.

It was about coming home, even if home looked different than it used to.

And now, as I stand on this land — this mix of desert and mountain, memory and possibility — I know I made the right choice. Colorado isn’t perfect. No place is. But it’s honest. It’s beautiful. It’s challenging in all the right ways. And it’s exactly where I’m meant to build this next chapter.

So that’s why I chose Colorado.

Because sometimes the land chooses you right back.

NEXT: The Why... a.k.a. The Plan

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