Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
One of my great mentors taught me that when you are at a crossroads and have difficult decisions to make about how to spend your time or which path to take, you should choose the thing you will remember most. This advice—choosing the path you will remember—has in many ways shaped my life and become my mantra.
It was this mantra that caused me to stop and consider turning onto a one-lane dirt road, late on a blazing hot summer afternoon, deep in the middle of nowhere in eastern Colorado.
The dirt road stretched as far as I could see. Along the left side was a long line of cottonwood trees. To my right was an old wooden sign, covered in vines, that just a few minutes before, caught my eye. Carved into the sign was the word AMACHE.
I took my foot off the brake and the car slowly rolled forward. As it picked up speed, a dust plume rose behind me, obscuring everything in my rearview mirror.
It seemed like I'd been driving forever when the road abruptly came to a dead end. As I stepped out of the car and surveyed my surroundings, there was no evidence of what had happened on that spot more than 70 years earlier. Except for a small, tin-roofed pavilion that housed historical signs and placards, there was nothing—no other cars, no other people, only silence.
I walked over to the pavilion, started reading the markers, and immediately became engrossed in ...