And then, somehow, something shifted.
On the drive to Estes Park, I accidentally killed a squirrel. Mortifying of course, but it bizarrely seemed to break the tension, and at that point, I was willing to take any improvement in mood from wherever it came.
By the time we arrived, we were surrounded by the most ridiculous scenery. Mountains, pine trees, huge skies, that very Colorado sort of beauty that makes you feel both peaceful and slightly underqualified. There were also elk. Lots of elk. Which should have been charming, except they were enormous and slightly prehistoric, with the air of something that could ruin your day if it chose to.
First lesson of the trip: I am afraid of elk.
And here is something I should probably admit.
I am not sure I was any more naturally suited to this trip than she was. I like being outside in theory. I like a view. I have just never been someone who wakes up thinking, what this day needs is a long hike.
I booked the adventure. I did not necessarily feel equipped for it.
But I knew that going in. I knew we would both be out of our comfort zones, and I had a theory that maybe we would bond over the absurdity of it all. The horses. The fish. The outdoor effort. We might not like all of it. But at least we would not like it together.
The trail ride confirmed I am also afraid of mountain edges.
In England, a trail ride is usually a gentle sort of affair. A path. A field. At its worst, a pony with an elitist attitude. Colorado, it turns out, does things differently.
We spent three hours on horses that were entirely unfazed, picking their way along narrow rocky trails with drops far too close for comfort. I felt like I was on a mountain goat stuck sideways on a vertical drop, held there by nothing more than confidence and tiny feet.
Needless to say, I was at the back of the line, ignoring the guide who was periodically shouting at me to kick my horse to catch up. Absolutely not. One wrong move from one hoof and that was it. Game over. My horse, Phoenix, was carefully considering his foot placements, and I was fully supportive of his decision.
My daughter, meanwhile, seemed entirely unbothered. By the danger. By the drops. By the fact that her horse, Eeyore, spent most of the ride with his nose practically in the arse of the horse in front, despite everyone being told to keep a safe distance.
I found this both impressive and concerning.
Then came the fly fishing, which was supposed to be the absolute non-starter.
Four hours were booked. We managed approximately one, which came to an abrupt end once she had landed a fish.
What followed was chaos. Our screams (entirely of excitement) cut through the peaceful setting, her rod flailing, the fish ricocheting off rocks, and our guide diving around with a net trying to bring the whole situation under control. Eventually, she picked it up, carefully inspected it, decided it was actually quite cute, and then dropped it.
The fish swam off slightly sideways. Which felt fair. It had been through a lot.
But we laughed. Not because it had suddenly become easy, but because it was so ridiculous. The two of us, who would both have quite happily chosen shops and a nice lunch, standing in waders in a Colorado river, traumatizing a trout.
Later, I decided this trip wouldn't be complete without a spot of stargazing, and anything less than doing it in the deep, dark depths of the national park felt like cheating: stars, mountains, meaningful silence, the sort of thing one imagines will become a core memory.
She stayed in the car. I took a short walk on a dark trail, because apparently one fish and one mountain-edge horse had made me briefly overconfident.
Then I saw the bear warning sign.
I have never fully recovered from watching Cocaine Bear. I know this says more about me than it does about Colorado, but the damage was done. I sprinted back to the car, arms flapping, silently screaming, with absolutely no understanding of bear protocol beyond a strong sense that I should not be there.
After counting precisely three stars, we drove the dark, winding roads out of the park discussing how easily one could be buried out there and never be found. Wholesome mother-daughter bonding at its core.
This was clearly not the trip she asked for. And she was not remotely scared of any of it. I, on the other hand, had booked an adventure holiday and discovered I am afraid of elk, bears, mountain edges, and possibly nature in general.
Which may have been the most alarming discovery of all.
Would she choose Colorado again? Not likely.
Will she remember it forever? Probably.
