Driving toward our “Happy Place,” my two dachshunds yapped with excitement from the backseat. Max kept “talking,” letting out those dramatic shrieks of delight he’d made since puppyhood whenever he realized we were headed somewhere special—just like when he was little and knew we were going for a walk along the horse trails. Mitzi scooted to the back window of the HHR—also known as Honey’s Hot Ride—searching for the best view. From her perch, she stared intently at the rolling countryside rushing past us.

Maybe they were feeding off my energy, because I was just as excited.

It had been over a year since our last visit to my favorite little cabin in Beulah, tucked into the pines of southeastern Colorado. I needed mountain time. Autumn had begun to paint the hillsides, and I couldn’t wait to see the aspens glowing in their golden fall colors.

The drive from my home on the Colorado prairie to the mountains is short, but it always feels like entering another world. As we left the house and headed toward town, traffic slowed us down as the after-work crowd made their way home. 

When I booked the cabin, I’d planned to leave school, grab the pups and our gear, and make a run for the mountains the minute the last bell rang. But sometimes life rearranges our plans.

The weekend before our getaway, I caught a nasty bug. It was finals week at school, which meant extra grading, late hours, and students with last-minute questions. I pushed through it all, determined to have my grades posted before our trip.

By Wednesday evening, it was clear the cold had turned into a full-blown sinus infection. My throat burned, my head pounded, and I was running a fever.

I remember thinking, How in the world am I supposed to run away for the weekend like this?

Canceling wasn’t really an option. My reservation began the next evening, and it was too late to change it. So I FaceTimed the virtual doctor, who prescribed antibiotics and an inhaler and sent them to my local pharmacy. Unfortunately, the pharmacy had already closed for the night.

Grabbing my phone, I dialed the school’s sub-finder and silently prayed someone would pick up the job. After messaging my principal and finishing my plans, I crawled into bed.

Max and Mitzi immediately burrowed under the blankets, taking their duties as tiny bed warmers very seriously. Soon, I was fast asleep.

The next morning, I woke before my alarm. After tweaking my lesson plans to make them sub-friendly, I pulled on a faded pair of jeans and a soft lavender T-shirt.

When I stepped into the living room, Mitzi was waiting in her usual spot, perched like a princess on the overstuffed armchair. She always wanted one last cuddle before I left the house.

“Good morning, Stinkerbelle,” I whispered, scratching behind her ears.

A few minutes later, I grabbed my keys and headed to school to make final preparations for the substitute.

When my coworkers saw me, they immediately scolded me.

“What are you doing here?” one asked. “You look awful! Go home and rest.”

They were right. After finishing what I needed to do, I drove home and wondered whether the trip had been a mistake. My original plan had been to visit one of the mountain parks for a picnic and a short walk, but hiking was definitely out of the question.

Still, I reminded myself, I didn’t need to hike. I could sit on the porch with caramel pumpkin spice coffee, breathe the mountain air, and watch my Muttley Crew explore the pine forest.

Once home, I packed the car and waited for the pharmacy’s text saying my prescriptions were ready. While I waited, I curled up in bed and took a long nap.

Later that afternoon, after picking up my medicine, we finally headed toward the mountains. Even though I felt miserable, I couldn’t wait to arrive. And it turned out to be exactly the medicine I needed.

The mornings were frosty and quiet. I would wrap myself in a quilt, sip vanilla chai tea, and sit by the fire while listening to audiobooks or writing in my journal. Max and Mitzi took turns curling up beside me like small furry heating pads.

Through the big front window, I watched the sun slowly rise through the tall ponderosa pines. The aspens shimmered in brilliant shades of yellow and gold.

I remember sighing out loud one morning.

“Now this,” I said softly, “is exactly what I needed.” 

One morning, before we even climbed out of bed, something magical happened.

Soft movement outside the French doors caught the pups’ attention. Max’s ears perked. Mitzi lifted her head from the pillow.

Several curious deer stood just outside the glass, their dark eyes peering quietly into the bedroom. For a moment, we all simply stared at one another.

Then Max erupted into barking. Mitzi joined in immediately; her tiny voice full of fierce determination.

The deer sprang back in surprise and bounded away into the trees.

Max puffed out his chest like he had personally defended the cabin from intruders. Mitzi looked very pleased with herself. I couldn’t help laughing. “Good job, pups,” I told them.

In the afternoons, when the sun warmed the air, we spent our time outside in the yard. I stretched out in the sunshine listening to my audiobook; this fall, I had been enjoying Alice Hoffman’s Practical Magic series, while the pups explored the forest around the cabin.

Max’s hunting instincts were in full swing. He spent hours staring at one particular spot beneath the cabin, convinced some mysterious creature had taken up residence in the crawlspace. From the scratching we’d heard earlier drifting up through the floorboards, my little detective might have been onto something.

Mitzi wandered more slowly, stopping to sniff every pinecone and leaf she encountered. But she never strayed far. She was a mama’s girl who liked to keep me within sight.

Every evening about an hour before sunset, we gathered on the front porch.

The pups scampered across the yard, while I watched the fading light beam through the ponderosa pines. Across the road, a grassy field shimmered beneath a grove of aspens, their leaves trembling like golden coins in the breeze.

Beyond the field, the Wet Mountains rose quietly against the sky.

As the sun dipped lower, the peaks turned soft shades of amber and lavender. Pine shadows stretched across the hillsides, and the ridgelines faded into hazy blue silhouettes.

It was breathtaking.

Wild turkeys often wandered into the field at dusk, pecking through the grass for seeds and insects. Eventually their slow caravan marched up the driveway and across the yard, clucking softly as they searched for a few last morsels before disappearing behind the cabin to roost for the night.

Max would whine in frustration, desperate to chase them. Mitzi stood guard beside me, barking, her tiny warnings.

Those quiet evening rituals quickly became my favorite part of the day.

The mountains have a way of healing things that medicine cannot. Even though I spent much of the weekend sniffling and moving slowly, the peace of the forest, the warmth of the fire, and the steady companionship of my little dogs worked their quiet magic.

By the time Sunday arrived, I felt rested in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

Now the kettle is warming again, and I will sip another cup of chai tea and rest beside the fire. Outside, the pines sway gently in the mountain breeze. Soon, the pups and I will head back out to our backyard paradise.

And as the fire crackled and the pines swayed outside the cabin, I realized that sometimes healing comes wrapped in mountain air, golden aspens, and two little dogs who never leave your side.