This blog is for anyone who knew and loved my father, Phil Smith, and for anyone who knows and loves Mary Jo Mayton. It’s intended especially for anyone who believed that Mary Jo ever loved Phil. If she did love him, she wouldn’t have done the things documented here.

We were somewhere along Colorado state route 114 heading to Crested Butte when the dread began to take hold.

Colorado is a beer lover’s mecca. The state boasts 284 craft breweries, or 7.3 breweries per 100,000 residents of legal drinking age, ranking third in the U.S. And its seemingly infinite backcountry is overflowing with numerous trails that begin just around the bend or down a dusty road from many of those breweries.

As the leaves change and temperatures drop, my thoughts turn to winter and my travel planning shifts westward to Colorado, where the high country awaits the season’s first snow and the mountains begin calling. Autumn means it’s time to start thinking about our annual ski trip to Breckenridge, Colorado, a place that has beckoned us back again and again for 15 years.

Sometimes the journey is more important than the destination. My wife, Sandy, and I discovered this when we embarked on a weeklong ski trip to Breckenridge, Colo. The threat of our vacation being canceled sparked an important decision -- and memorable adventure.