[Editor’s Note: Again, I have reached back into my archives to dust off an old piece of writing, this one from April of 2017. A lot has changed in my…
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A little bit less of a nomad now, Jared still likes to refer to himself in the third person.
The sun spills into the small dining/sitting area as it rises above the distant mesa. The sky is void of clouds and blends seamlessly from grays to periwinkles and salmons…
“I’m skeeerd” I say. A twinge of over the top whininess tries to mask the actual fear behind my humor. I don’t climb a lot of overhangs, so, in addition…
My neighbors got a “new” truck last summer. The white, extended cab, Ram 2500 with an eight foot bed sits and idles its diesel engine on the street; there is…
Home is where you find it and where you make it; that is what I try to tell myself. I sit in a curvy, plush Victorian-esque rocker, worn on the…
I could hear Anna cussing even though I was twenty yards behind. “There are two parties ahead of us.” It was exasperated and whispered, but the words drifted down through…
Years of outdoor education have helped build a habit of referencing things by cardinal directions and their ordinal “in-betweens”. “Use the entrance on the south door” I might say to…
Editor’s Note: This piece evolved from some prompts I had in a writing class I took two years ago from author Katherine Standefer. Pieces of the current news coverage have…
Editor’s Note: I wrote and published this post in 2014. It has always been one of my favorites and so much of what I have reflected on still resonates with…
Thick, pungent smoke billowed from between the two pieces of wood. First, wispy and upward in strung out curls, then heavy, grey, and everywhere. The lungs, laboring from the arms’…
Devil’s Slide rises almost 800 feet above my boyhood hamlet of Stark. As a child the deciduous forest that stretched northward across the railroad tracks from our house felt immense.…
Any time my friends and I end up at Del Taco in Las Vegas at midnight, there has got to be some sort of story. “Well, what do you want…
Editor’s Note: On the table by the window here at 616 Washakie sits a sun faded copy of Daniel Doan’s book, Our Last Backpack. It was a gift to…
The slots rise hundreds of feet upward, the narrows windy, twisty, sandy, muddy, straight, steep, flat, red, black, orange, grey, everything in between all those. These cleaving slices through the…