Early September, the six of us declared a six-day weekend. We needed air—new scenery, new sounds, a brief amnesia from the dings and pings that keep our brains on a leash. And yes, I boarded a plane after vowing I’d never do that again. Some promises are meant to be kept; others are meant to be rerouted.

The itinerary was simple: a concert at a place I’d only heard about in passing—Red Rocks. It sits just outside Golden, in a small town called Morrison, where sandstone shoulders tilt toward the sky like they’re still waking up. We landed, exhaled, and let Colorado find the edges of our thoughts.