(Elias is in there somewhere)
Coffee, chocolate milk, Lumineers. I think we’re ready.
Get out more : Montana
Spending the weekend in Fort Benton, Montana, where the sunrise never gets old.
Get out more : Thermopolis, WY
Hangin out in these mountains and surrounding hot springs for the weekend. Be back Sunday.
Reel Rock 12 : Official Trailer
“You never had an excuse in the first place.”
Agreed.
180 Degrees South : Conquerers of the Useless
"My whole life I've been drawn to open country. I always come home a little different."
Recommended by one of my favorite friends, Eric Beard, this film has become one for the top shelf.
"If you compromise the process {of adventure}, you're and asshole before you get there and your an asshole when you get back."
and
"The word adventure has been overused. Adventure is when everything goes wrong. That's when adventure starts." We paused the film at the point and my wife added in, "When fear overcomes the excitement and you start to doubt. That's adventure."
Love that.
"It's easy for us to blindly consume when we don't see the effect it has on other places. The hardest thing in the world is to simplify your life. It's easy to make it complex."
So good.
The soundtrack ain't bad either.
Neither is Jeff Johnson's photography.
Kinda makes me want to pack up and head out on some great adventure.
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : The Mountains have a Way : Get Out More
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The Mountains Never Lie
But this picture does. Completely. Judah even picked up on it, "What's so great about cranes?" he asked. But he didn't see what I saw: a little cropping on the left to cut off the construction, a kneeling down to place the bush in front of the house, and of course, a clever little title about fresh mountain air on a crisp fall day with the family.
Never mind the highway behind us or the golf course to the far right.
You don't see those things, only Judah and I do, but in recent days I've begun to wonder if, over time, he won't see them either. Rather, when he stumbles across this picture, I wonder if he'll only see the blue lake and towering mountain. If instead of talking about the construction that surrounded this picture, he'll recall surprising his auntie at University, picking out pumpkins at an old pumpkin patch farm, and playing UNO, in a cabin, long after Dad wanted to go to bed. I wonder if, when he looks back on this weekend, he'll remember the singing to our family's favorite tunes, reading Harry Potter in the front seat of the van, and watching tumble weeds bounce across the windy roads. Because, at the end of it all, the crane doesn't matter, and his mind will subconsciously crop it out.
However, when I look back on this weekend, I will forever see the cranes, the squeaky breaks that I can't afford to fix, the meals we had to budget, and the gas we had to syphon from some car in the middle of the night because we couldn't afford to fill our tank. But so what. It was worth it. And I'd do it again next weekend if I could.
Judah wasn't sheltered from those things, he was there with us, listening to our conversations and having to hear "no, we can't afford that." He even held the hose to the car while I sucked the gas out, but I don't think he'll remember those moments, and if he does, he will for sure remember them with a different tone, just like when I was his age my dad lost his wallet during the first few days of our two-week journey out West. I remember him losing it, looking for it, and I vaguely recall a discussion between him and Mom as to how to handle it. But that's it. What I remember more is the camping, the hiking, evening fires, eating every meal, sleeping warmly, and playing cards with my family. Whatever happened to the lost credit cards and driver's license, I've never known; how Dad payed for everything never crossed my mind, because it never seemed to cross his. And we had a great time.
By the way, Judah and I never syphoned anyone's gas, so relax. We did, however, pee behind the KOA cabin instead of walking to the bathroom. Which isn't even close to the same thing.
On the drive home, with The Lumineers blaring, I had some time to think about the weekend, and one of the thoughts that crossed my mind was this: what if kids collect memories of family and security not because they're sheltered from the harsh realities, but because they experience them with their parents, along side their parents, watching and evaluating, and then responding and feeding off of how they respond.
What if Judah and Eden and Zion hear, over and over, "we can't afford that" but still experience a great time with rocks, simple lakes, and free parks? What if while they color and draw the scene that passes outside their window, they overhear Mom and Dad discussing - arguing even - budgets and plans and schedules, then watch them kiss and laugh and reconcile? Doesn't that teach them how to argue? How to work through conflict? And how to find the simple joys amidst life's many limitations?
Doesn't that teach them how to be human?
I think so. I think it teaches them that Mom and Dad are fallible, that we make mistakes and seek forgiveness, and that we don't need money or gadgets or things to enjoy life and each other. I think it instills a sort of subconscious safety-net for their fragile minds that reminds them that no matter how much they fail or struggle or fall short, we're still here, that we're still a family, and as such, we're gonna go camping.
In the future, if and when my kids do look back and remember the cranes, I don't want won't lie to them, I won't tell them they're not remembering it clearly or that they just need to remember the lake and mountains and "forget about the cranes." Because they were there. They were part of the scenery, part of the adventure, but we enjoyed the mountains and pumpkins anyway.
Because that's what families do.
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : The Mountains have a Way : On Parenting
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Getting out more : Laramie Mountains
Be back a Sunday!
Before bears hibernate and the kids move out
My friend recently asked, "How's the house coming?" "Slowly, but deliberately," I told him, but that was only partially true because, in all honesty, it's not really going. In fact, it's crawling. Our lamps don't have shades, our kids are sleeping in sleeping bags, and up until yesterday, waffles were made by eyeing the measurements for ingredients - thanks friends for sending us measuring cups!
We don't have much, but we have enough. The desire though, to buy and build and make a home, to design rooms and decorate walls is infectious and, at times, pretty consuming.
It's how we spend our evenings, our weekends, and where we devote our thoughts and dreams until, suddenly, we stop it hits us; we're running out of time.
A few years ago, October 1st became a family holiday weekend, and with most of our kids never having see an American Fall, we planned to continue the tradition this year. But then the van needed work, the cupboards ached to be filled, and the pile of ungraded papers jeered and sneered and sat. So, on the Tuesday before we were supposed to go, we cancelled.
That night, standing outside the van and camper we'd just dropped off at Josey's parents, we argued about the week, the cancelled weekend, and why we even moved back to the States. We had hoped and dreamed for more family time and simple adventures together. Not garage sales and weekend projects.
In an instant, under the dimming sky and beside a row of towering evergreens, I suddenly changed my mind. "Let's go," I said. "The camper may not work, but we have a tent, blankets, and a van that can get us there. Let's just go."
That quickly, the plans were back on. But by the next morning, once again, I had my doubts.
Then, this song came to mind:
What I love about this song is not the lyrics or the immediate significance, but the memory I have of when I first heard it. I was around ten and my dad had taken my brother and I fishing to some northern lake. We stayed in a truck camper, watched the Chicago Bulls win the NBA Finals over the Los Angeles Lakers in a bar that over looked the lake, and for the first time, ate hash browns and eggs, "a fisherman's breakfast."
I remember asking what a silver spoon was and, even at the age of ten, feeling the weight and significance of wasted time and, more importantly, not being able to get it back.
My son turned ten just the other day
He said, thanks for the ball, dad, come on let's play
Can you teach me to throw, I said, not today
I got a lot to do, he said, that's okay
And he walked away, but his smile never dimmed
Said, I'm gonna be like him, yeah
You know I'm gonna be like him
"Yeah," I told myself, "we need to go camping."
By Thursday night, we were huddled and cuddled in a small cabin just outside Casper. Because the cupboards can wait; making a life and spending time with our kids can't.
Yet, somehow I still wasn't convinced. Every time I filled up the van, whenever we paid for our campsite or loaded up on PB&J's, hot chocolate, and dried oatmeal, I felt guilty, nervous, and overcome with doubt. "Is this wise? Am I doing what's best for my family?" Because right now, there is nothing saved for them. No college fund, no two months security savings, and no promise that if the van breaks down I can afford to get them home without calling family for help.
Shouldn't we have just stayed home?
When we pulled into the campsite, "Beware of the Bear" signs were posted and stapled everywhere and each campsite came with a "Bear Box" - a metal box with a small lock meant to keep the bears at bay because, "Bears are scavenging for their last bit of food before they hibernate."
Whenever bears are mentioned, even if it's in passing because one was sighted almost ten years ago, every sound, every gust of wind, and every movement in the dark is a bear coming to feed on me or my children. That night, I slept with the axe nearby. By 3:30 I was up and building a fire because I can only assume they're terrified of fires. If not, I don't want to hear about it. Leave me my simple comforting lies.
My family wouldn't knuckle the sleep from their eyes for another four hours, so I had some time alone, in the dark, with my axe, coffee, and wandering thoughts. And, once more, I mulled over our decision to leave for the weekend.
What's one weekend away? Does it really make a difference?
What's one weekend at home? Does it really matter if we're home or not?
I had no answers. Just doubts. And something was wrestling over there, by the tent, but no worries, it's just Judah going to the bathroom.
"Morning buddy," I say, adding a few more logs on the fire.
"Morning" he mumbles, heading back into the tent.
And the doubts continue, Do my kids even notice? Do they even care?
The answer would have to wait because Elias was starting to fuss and Josey could use a morning of sleeping in and the sun was about to rise, so why not go for a walk?
A half hour later, Elias and I made our way back to the campsite and were greeted by laughter, simple morning conversation, and the snap and crackle of a newly enlivened fire.
We made breakfast, drank hot chocolate, and cuddled under blankets. We talked of bears, why evergreens are called Evergreens, and wrestled with what would happen if our thumbs fell off?
Seriously. What would happen?
For hours, Judah and Eden lined up matches all along the rim of the fire pit and watched as the heat finally won over and set the little red tips on fire and Zion climbed WAY TOO HIGH up a nearby tree because, this is what happens when we get out into the woods and away from home, we find ourselves in spontaneous and unpredictable moments, moments always hoped for and cherished as a parent.
Then it was time to get more wood.
"Dad," Judah said while I stacked a small pile onto his outstretched arms, "Don't forget we need to cut a pile to leave behind."
I hadn't forgotten and was hoping neither had he. Ever since our trip to the Great Wall, It's been a short tradition, leaving behind a "bless you" gift, and has become a staple of our camping adventures. When we returned, arms full of wood to leave behind, our campground neighbor walked over, "to see how many kids you have." he said.
He was a friendly man, as most campers tend to be, and he was out camping with his son. "I wanted to leave three days ago," he says, "but my son wanted to stay a few extra nights, so we stayed." He nods at his son who is a freshman in college and busy tearing down their tent. "I tried camping with them as much as I could," he says, reaching out and tugging Elias' thick onzie, "but I regret not doing it more."
We talked for a bit more about the weather, the fishing in Wisconsin and how we both would rather fish in Canada. Then, he bids us good luck in the coming storm, and heads back to his son, Chrysler minivan, and their long ride home. When they pulled out, he waved, and I felt a little sense of relief.
Maybe we are a bit reckless in going to the mountains when our lives are in chaos, maybe I should have stayed home, worked on the house, and saved money on gas and simple cabins, but we didn't. Instead, we went to the mountains, and I think I'm okay with that because, when it's all over, when Judah, in eight short years, is on to his freshman year or Elias is packing up to move across the world, or my girls no longer fit in my lap and ask for morning hugs, I don't want to "regret not doing it more." I want to be confident that I did my best, that I soaked up every moment and minute I could, and that I worked hard for my kids to always know that they came before things or jobs or financial security. I want them to know that when life was hard, Dad made time for them, and that he took them camping
I want, "{they'd} grown up just like me" to mean they've become collectors of memories, not things. That pockets full of pinecones and shoes full of burrs are more precious than rooms full of furniture or bank accounts full of cash.
In the future, if I have to apologize to my kids, I want it to be because we built too many campfires, spent too much time counting the stars, and collected too many lakeside rocks.
How is our house? It's empty.
How is our life? It's chaotic.
But how are our hearts? They're full. Because for a long and beautiful weekend, we had nothing but each other, the mountains, and a collection of simple moments that will last a lifetime. We had am eight hour car ride in a seventeen year old van where, with the snow swirling outside, my kids sat in the back and talked about whatever kids talk about.
Our hearts are full because we have each other, sweet friends, and few distractions.
Although I'm never really quite sure if what I'm doing is what I should be doing, I do know I can never go wrong with investing in life with family because I wasn't put here to make a living life. I was put here to make a life - for me, and my family.
And sometimes, that means coffee in the mountains, instead of breakfast at home.
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : The Mountains have a Way : Get Out More - Tetons, 2017
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Getting Out More : Jackson Hole
Headed out for the weekend with my favorite crew! Be back Sunday.
Enjoy the weekend!
A cargo ship's ridiculous 30-Day time lapse voyage.
Ever since I was a child, I wanted to travel the world on barge. This video makes the regret palpable.
Jeffrey Tsang is a maritime vlogger, sailor, and photographer on a container ship that travels across the globe. His latest video is a timelapse that captures 30 days of the barge’s journey, tracing its path from the Red Sea all the way to Hong Kong. The 4K video is composed of nearly 80,000 photos which capture breathtaking views of quickly shifting skies, deep red sunsets, and brilliant blue lightening amidst ferocious storms (via).
“Sailing in the open sea is a truly unique way to grasp how significantly small we are in the beautiful world,” says the Canadian photographer. “Chasing the endless horizon, witnessing the ever changing weather, and appreciating the bright stars and galaxies.”
Pay attention, too, to the small captions at the bottom. Pretty great stuff.
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : Getting Out More : A Peace with the Storm : Cycling to the tip of South America
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Danny Macaskill : The Ridge
Sometimes, people amaze me.
Born December 23, 1985, Danny MacAskill is a Scottish trials cyclist, from Dunvegan on the Isle of Skye. He works professionally as a street trials pro rider for Inspired Bicycles Ltd and is one helluva crazy dude.
You can read more about Danny on his website and watch his new video, Wee Day Out where he explores the rural landscape around Edinburgh. The film "sets out to capture the simple fun of a ride in the country with moments of incredible riding and a touch of humor. Danny pulls off never-seen-before tricks, most of which would normally be assumed impossible on a mountain bike, like leaping onto a single train track, turning a hay bale into a giant unicycle, riding over a cottage, and disappearing into a 6ft puddle."
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : Other Guys who will make your palms sweat : Great Wall Adventures
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The Best Road Trip, according to Science
A while ago, Tracy Staedter from Discovery News proposed an interesting idea to Randy Olson, a Senior Data Scientist at the University of Pennsylvania Institute for Biomedical Informatics: use the same algorithm from his Where’s Waldo article to compute the optimal road trip across every state in the U.S.
So he did.
"One of the hardest parts of planning a road trip," Olson writes, "is deciding where to stop along the way. Given how large and diverse the U.S. is, it’s especially difficult to make a road trip that will appeal to everyone. To stand a chance at making an interesting road trip, Tracy and I laid out a few rules from the beginning:
- The trip must make at least one stop in all 48 states in the contiguous U.S.
- The trip would only make stops at National Natural Landmarks, National Historic Sites, National Parks, or National Monuments.
- The trip must be taken by car and never leave the U.S.
With those objectives in mind, Tracy compiled a list of 50 major U.S. landmarks — one in each state excluding Alaska/Hawaii and including D.C., and two in California" (via)
The result is an epic itinerary "with a mix of inner city exploration, must-see historical sites, and beautiful natural landscapes."
"All that was left was to figure out the path that would minimize our time spent driving and maximize our time spent enjoying the landmarks."
Click here for the interactive version
Assuming no traffic, this road trip will take about 224 hours (9.33 days) of driving in total, so it’s truly an epic undertaking that will take at least 2-3 months to complete. The best part is that this road trip is designed so that you can start anywhere on the route as long as you follow it from then on. You’ll hit every major area in the U.S. on this trip, and as an added bonus, you won’t spend too long driving through the endless corn fields of Nebraska.
Here’s the Google Maps of the route: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]
(Note that Google maps itself only allows 10 waypoints to be routed at a time, hence why there’s multiple Maps links.)
Here’s the full list of landmarks in order:
- Grand Canyon, AZ
- Bryce Canyon National Park, UT
- Craters of the Moon National Monument, ID
- Yellowstone National Park, WY
- Pikes Peak, CO
- Carlsbad Caverns National Park, NM
- The Alamo, TX
- The Platt Historic District, OK
- Toltec Mounds, AR
- Elvis Presley’s Graceland, TN
- Vicksburg National Military Park, MS
- French Quarter, New Orleans, LA
- USS Alabama, AL
- Cape Canaveral Air Force Station, FL
- Okefenokee Swamp Park, GA
- Fort Sumter National Monument, SC
- Lost World Caverns, WV
- Wright Brothers National Memorial Visitor Center, NC
- Mount Vernon, VA
- White House, Washington, DC
- Colonial Annapolis Historic District, MD
- New Castle Historic District, Delaware
- Cape May Historic District, NJ
- Liberty Bell, PA
- Statue of Liberty, NY
- The Mark Twain House & Museum, CT
- The Breakers, RI
- USS Constitution, MA
- Acadia National Park, ME
- Mount Washington Hotel, NH
- Shelburne Farms, VT
- Fox Theater, Detroit, MI
- Spring Grove Cemetery, OH
- Mammoth Cave National Park, KY
- West Baden Springs Hotel, IN
- Abraham Lincoln’s Home, IL
- Gateway Arch, MO
- C. W. Parker Carousel Museum, KS
- Terrace Hill Governor’s Mansion, IA
- Taliesin, WI
- Fort Snelling, MN
- Ashfall Fossil Bed, NE
- Mount Rushmore, SD
- Fort Union Trading Post, ND
- Glacier National Park, MT
- Hanford Site, WA
- Columbia River Highway, OR
- San Francisco Cable Cars, CA
- San Andreas Fault, CA
- Hoover Dam, NV
(For some entertainment candy, read through the comments on his blog post . . . people are pretty opinionated on what was chosen and what was not. Especially people from WA. It's a waste of time, but fully worth it.)
Bonus: Road trip stopping at popular U.S. cities
"If you’re more of a city slicker, the road trip above may not look very appealing to you because it involves spending a lot of time outdoors. But worry not, for I created a second road trip just for you! The road trip below stops at the TripAdvisor-rated Best City to Visit in every contiguous U.S. state.
Note: Again, there’s an extra stop in Cleveland to force the route between New Hampshire and Michigan to stay in the U.S. rather than go through Canada. If you’re able to drive through Canada without issue, then take the direct route through Canada instead. But really, Cleveland is a nice city to stop in (ranked #53 on TripAdvisor)."
Click here for the interactive version
"This road trip will more-or-less follow the same path as the major U.S. landmarks trip, covering a slightly shorter 12,290 mile (19,780 km) route around the U.S. Some larger states — like California and Texas — may have multiple cities you’d like to visit, so it’s probably worthwhile to stop at other larger cities along the route.
You may note that cities from North Dakota, Vermont, and West Virginia are missing. Out of the top 400 recommended cities to visit on TripAdvisor, none were from North Dakota, Vermont, nor West Virginia. This is especially interesting because TripAdvisor reviewers recommend cities like Flint, MI — the 7th most crime-ridden city in the U.S. — over any city in North Dakota, Vermont, and West Virginia. I’ll leave the interpretation of that fact to the reader."
Here’s the Google Maps of the route: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]
Here’s the full list of cities in order:
- Oklahoma City, Oklahoma
- Wichita, Kansas
- Denver, Colorado
- Albuquerque, New Mexico
- Phoenix, Arizona
- Las Vegas, Nevada
- San Francisco, California
- Portland, Oregon
- Seattle, Washington
- Boise, Idaho
- Park City, Utah
- Jackson, Wyoming
- Billings, Montana
- Sioux Falls, South Dakota
- Omaha, Nebraska
- Des Moines, Iowa
- Minneapolis, Minnesota
- Milwaukee, Wisconsin
- Chicago, Illinois
- Indianapolis, Indiana
- Louisville, Kentucky
- Columbus, Ohio
- Detroit, Michigan
- Cleveland, Ohio
- Manchester, New Hampshire
- Portland, Maine
- Boston, Massachusetts
- Providence, Rhode Island
- New Haven, Connecticut
- New York City, New York
- Ocean City, New Jersey
- Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
- Wilmington, Delaware
- Baltimore, Maryland
- Washington, D.C.
- Virginia Beach, Virginia
- Charlotte, North Carolina
- Charleston, South Carolina
- Orlando, Florida
- Atlanta, Georgia
- Nashville, Tennessee
- Birmingham, Alabama
- Jackson, Mississippi
- New Orleans, Louisiana
- Houston, Texas
- Little Rock, Arkansas
- Branson, Missouri
Happy Traveling!
For more on . . .
-N- Stuff : Getting Out More : Old Road Signs : Cycling to the tip of South America
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The Mountains have a way
Four weeks today, Judah and I arrived in the states.
Four weeks today, we began our process of transition.
It hasn't been terrible, but it for sure has not been smooth. For any of us. Our kids want to know where they will be going to school and when they'll see their friends again. I want to know where I'll be working and if I will see China again. Josey wants to stop living out of suitcases and random boxes and wonders when life will ever have routine again.
We all want a little bit of clarity but seem to be getting none. Each answer only muddles the future; each day adds more questions, more doubts.
So, we went camping. And, as expected, the getting out helped.
One morning, while sipping coffee and listening to the kids play, I asked Josey what she was thinking. "About the mountains," she said.
"What about them?" I asked.
"I don't know exactly," she looked around, at the kids, the trees, and the snow-covered peaks, "They just have a way about them." She thought for a moment more, "A way of clarifying, ya know?"
I did, and I didn't. So I grabbed my journal, because I didn't want to forget her words. "The mountains have a way," I wrote, and I haven't stopped thinking about it since.
The mountains have a way . . .
Of Simplifying:
A simple fire, the smell of pine, and the birds' morning songs. The sky roles from black to deep blue, to sky, and the fire cracks and pops and spits. Coffee brews.
Kids knuckle sleep from their eyes, the tent-flaps skip and dance to the morning breeze, and slowly, the day begins. More coffee is brewed.
There is little care for the rest of the day, just play, in the land where fallen trees become giant dragons. Where knotted sticks turn to swords or guns or simple things that only a wooded magical dragon could need. Because, in the maze of trees and grass and twigs and dirt, opportunity of imagination is endless.
So scrape your knees and get dirty and yes of course you can climb that tree or turn that patch of dirt into a Nature Town because that's why we're here, to simplify. To rid ourselves of the things that bind us, that hinder us, and that distract us from what matters.
Because the mountains have a way.
Of Stripping Away:
For the past four weeks, we've been reuniting with family, applying for jobs, waiting to be called by hopeful employers, rearranging boxes and suitcases, and trying to move forward but unable to do so because we don't know where we're going to live, because I have not been able to land a job.
But in the mountains, with my family, these concerns slip away - if only for a short while - because instead of checking the inbox or checking missed calls, we're on a hike, sliding down glaciers and watching fish feed on the bugs of the mountain lakes. We read in hammocks and write in journals. I teach my son how to swing an ax and smile when he cuts his first log all the way through - something he never had the chance to do in urban China. The girls laugh and play and cry and talk because the land of dragons is big and dangerous but Mom and Dad are just there, sitting by the fire, so what is there to be afraid of?
We eat simple dinners and sit around the fire, talking, and watch for shooting stars.
Josey and I, for the first time in months, talk about our move from China, because it's quiet, and there is little else that needs to happen. Because the mountains have a way of doing that.
Of Reminding:
I wear a vest that is not my own. It's an old JC Penny vest that is too small, even though the tag says, "XL" - being washed and dried for almost twenty years will probably do that to any vest. I also have two massive green Coleman sleeping bags that have mallard duck print on the inside. They're 100% cotton and each weigh around fifteen pounds. They're terrible for hiking, but perfect for camping. Especially family camping, and they have been for as long as I can remember, because they were my dads.
On one of our many fishing trips, I remember telling my dad that he was different there than at home because he was "more fun. More relaxed." And he was. Some of my favorite memories of my dad came with camping or fishing or splitting wood or racking leaves, and in most all of those memories, he's wearing this vest.
This past weekend, it held my son's pocket knife and carried Zion' rocks.
I haven't camped or fished with my dad in over twelve years, and I miss those times, almost daily. Sometimes, the memories attached to this vest are more than I can bear, because they're some of the best a boy could have.
Which is why I wear the vest and carry the sleeping bags, because even though they are fully imperfect, they're perfect for camping and chopping wood, for cold nights and searching for constellations (which I can never find, minus the Big Dipper).
This vest and these sleeping bags are made for mountains, for camping and making memories, and for family. Because that's what my Dad used them for, so it's what I'm going to use them for. Because the memories they carry are more than I can bear. And I hope, someday, my kids will struggle beneath its beautiful weight.
Of Giving:
Five weeks ago, Judah and I hiked and slept on the Great Wall of China, and the lessons we learned were foundational. This short trip reminded and encouraged us of a few of those lessons. Judah dealt once more with fear, this time of bears, and I wrestled again with feeling expendable. The bears never came, but I needed the voice of my wife and son to get over my pride. Both of them, on separate occasions, considered how we as a family might bless someone outside ourselves. Both of them mentioned our camping neighbors. The day before, they had wondered into our camp. He was from Colorado and she was from Montana and they, along with their little three year-old daughter, Ellie, were planning on staying for several more nights.
"Can we leave a pile of firewood for them?" Judah asked. I looked to Josey and smiled because she had mentioned the same thing a few minutes earlier.
"Of course," I said, "that's a great idea!" So while Josey and I packed up the van, Judah and the girls piled a large stack of wood next to the neighbors fire pit - Eden making sure it was stacked with care and purpose.
Because after a few nights in the beauty of the mountains, the perfect "thank you" blesses others, not ourselves. A lesson I'd have forgotten, if not for the mountains.
My wife was right, the mountains do have a way about them . . . a way larger than any word I can write. Which is probably why we go back. Because, like Whitman wrote about the stars, " . . . When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them . . . How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick, Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself, In the mystical moist night-air, and . . . Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars."
The mountains have a way. And all I can do is stand and look up at them, in perfect silence.
For more on . . .
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Unexpected Kindness
This is the second holiday in less than five months that’s been saved by a stranger. Christmas could have been ruined, but was saved through humility. Mother’s Day weekend could’ve also failed; it should’ve failed, even though we entered the forest fully prepared. But it wasn’t. It was saved by the unexpected kindness of a stranger.