The Small Talisman Amanda Never Leaves Behind

There are things you carry on the road because they are useful, and then there are things you carry because they quietly become part of how you move through the world. 

Amanda’s talisman belongs to the second category, and long before I understood why she kept it so close, I learned that it had already chosen its place in our journey.

We found it by accident during a slow drive through Salida, Colorado, a small mountain town tucked along the Arkansas River, surrounded by the eastern edge of the Rockies. 

We had stopped there on a cool morning in early autumn, the kind where the air smells like pine and cold stone, and the mountains feel close enough to listen to you.

The Market at the Edge of the Mountains

That morning, a local mountain market was set up just off F Street, near Riverside Park. It wasn’t large or polished. 

A handful of wooden stalls lined the gravel path, canvas roofs flapping gently in the wind, locals bundled in worn jackets and wool hats, sipping coffee from mismatched mugs. The people selling goods looked like they belonged to the land more than the market, hands rough, faces weathered, voices calm.

There were baskets of dried herbs, handmade knives, carved wooden tools, stone jewelry, and small objects that didn’t come with explanations unless you asked. It was the kind of place where nothing felt rushed, and nobody tried to sell you anything you didn’t already want.

Amanda moved slowly between the stalls, touching fabrics, studying textures, asking quiet questions. 

I lingered near a table covered in old coins and metalwork when I noticed her standing still in front of a narrow wooden booth at the far end of the market.

The Man Who Sold Charms

The booth belonged to an older man, maybe in his late sixties, with a thick gray beard and skin darkened by decades of sun. 

He wore a faded wool jacket and leather gloves even though the day wasn’t that cold. His posture was relaxed, but there was something grounded about him, like he had spent most of his life outdoors.

Hanging inside the booth were small talismans and charms, each one different, made of stone, bone, wood, and metal. They felt old without trying to look ancient.

Amanda picked up a small charm made of polished dark stone, wrapped with thin copper wire, tied to a simple leather cord. It was no bigger than a coin, smooth from handling, with faint markings etched into the surface.

The man watched her quietly, then said, “That one’s been waiting.”

Amanda looked up, surprised, and smiled politely. “Waiting for what?”

“For someone who doesn’t rush,” he replied, without a hint of performance in his voice.

I raised an eyebrow at Amanda, but she ignored me, turning the charm over in her fingers.

“What is it?” she asked.

The man explained that the stone came from the San Juan Mountains, collected decades ago, and that the symbol etched into it was a simplified protection mark used by mountain families long before the town had proper roads. 

It wasn’t tied to religion, he said, but to intention. Peace when the world moves too fast. Awareness when the trail gets quiet.

“It’s not luck,” he added calmly. “It’s reminder.”

He told us the charm was handmade in the late 1980s by a friend of his who had passed away, and that he had kept a small box of them ever since, selling them only when someone seemed to choose one without asking too many questions.

Amanda didn’t hesitate. She paid, thanked him, and slipped the talisman into her small leather wallet, the one she always carries crossbody, close to her chest.

How It Became Part of Our Everyday Life

From that day on, the talisman traveled with Amanda everywhere. It stayed tucked into the inner pocket of her wallet, wrapped in a folded piece of cloth so it wouldn’t scratch

I teased her once, gently, asking if she felt more protected now.

She smiled and said, “I feel more attentive.”

The Moment I Thought Back to the Snake

Do you remember the hognose snake I told you in the last post, the one hidden under dry leaves in the northern forest, the moment when Amanda stopped me with a hand in the air before I stepped forward?

I didn’t think about the talisman at the time. Honestly, it didn’t cross my mind at all. What I remember is how calm she was in that instant, how she didn’t panic or jump back, but simply noticed something that could have gone very wrong if she hadn’t slowed down.

Later that night, sitting quietly by the van, the image came back to me, and that’s when I made the connection. Amanda hadn’t changed. What had changed was the way she moved through moments like that, with a kind of alert calm that felt practiced, almost intentional.

She reached into her small wallet and took the talisman out. She said, “It reminds me to stay present.” That’s when I understood what she meant by luck.

I still don’t believe the talisman stopped the snake from being there. But I do believe it helped Amanda notice what mattered, and out here, on the road, that kind of awareness is the closest thing to luck we ever really get.