We said one last goodbye to the cows, packed up the truck, and made our way to the tiniest airport known to man. We stopped for burgers and a playground pit stop, then hopped on our mini-plane to Denver.
All three kids fell asleep on the flight. I sat there looking at their tired little faces and felt this wave of gratitude. For the cows. For the mud. For the party bus and the 90-year-old tractor. For the friends who became family and a place that felt like home.
The final leg home was smooth (minus a gas delay – oops sorry crew). We made it. We slept in our own beds. And we all dreamed of chickens, cows, wide skies, and maybe—just maybe—going back as soon as possible.
And that’s the kind of trip it was: full hearts, dirty boots, and a firm belief that we’ll be back again soon.
Run Teach Bike 