As we stare at the stars in awe,

My hand strays towards yours, and our fingers, brush.

A moment of hesitation and bated breath

Then our fingers find their places with each other

And intertwine.

The stars seem to flicker brighter

Perhaps they are smirking or smiling or beaming at our quickly beating hearts.

Or maybe they are just gaseous balls of fire,

So distant they may not be real.

But tonight, they are as real as can be.

Pure diamonds in the inky night,

Far distant but oh-so-near.

Your hand squeezes mine as I look at you and smile.

For a moment,

The briefest moment,

The night seems to hold its breath as everything is utterly still.

A perfect moment in time

I seek to capture this memory, for nothing lasts forever.

Time will keep ticking, always onward-

And morning will soon arrive.

You’ve got one life to live, but if you do it right, it’s enough. To do it right, you need to be someone of action. Someone who takes chances and makes mistakes. Someone who isn’t afraid to go the extra mile to see what’s just over the hill. Your feet may be sore at the end of the day, but your heart will be full and your mind filled with memories to last you a lifetime.

Some people live a life of “somedays.” They are so caught up in making plans for the future that they forget about the present. Some things need to be planned for and it’s true that you need to secure yourself for what’s ahead, but what good is life if you are doing nothing but anticipating what comes tomorrow? You will completely forget about where you are today.

People who are spontaneous are often looked down upon by others. They are usually regarded as a bit zany or disorganized or irresponsible. I choose to look at them as the real life-livers. They are the ones who don’t shy away from taking chances. They buy the last minute plane tickets or go to the concert on a whim’s notice. The meet up with new people are reach back out to old friends. They will leave the dishes for later, just to go see a sunset. I like these people.

Everyone has their “mountain” that they wish to someday climb. This can be many different things for many different people. For some, it actually is a mountain that they plan to summit. Other’s say they are going to write a book or start a business. Some want to play guitar or get shredded or move to a new country. Other’s want to ask that person out they’ve always fancied or apply for a dream job or even just mend a broken relationship.

But so many people (most, I would argue) never actually summit their mountain. Most never even attempt a climb. They are too daunted by the challenge or maybe are just too comfortable with their current place in life. Their “tomorrow” becomes a “someday” which eventually becomes a “never.”

So I ask you this: what is it that’s stopping you from climbing your mountain? Why won’t you just pack up your bags and lace up your boots and start hiking? It’s going to be a challenge, but the first few steps are always the hardest. You will save yourself from the anguish of regret simply by starting your climb.

Are you guaranteed to make it to the top? Absolutely not. But I can promise you that the view from even partway up is much grander than the view from the bottom.  

“Go out to the woods and hike, you hippie!”

So that’s what I did. Off to the woods, off to the mountains, off to the meadows, off to the valleys and ridges and open spaces where the sky is so big a man could lose himself staring off into the infinity of the universe. Where God himself seemed to have come down from the heavens and made a playground big enough for only Himself to play in. Where you feel so infinitely small in the vast wonder of it all that you realize your place in the entire universe may be so insignificant that you for a moment hesitate and wonder if anything you do even matters, in the grand scheme of things.

And so hike I did. The days were many and long. The miles were hard and tedious. The pack was heavy and cumbersome. But my steps never faltered and my resolve never swayed.

What was the purpose of the hike? I was not running from anyone or any thing; nor was I hiking to escape myself or even find myself. I am not quite sure the reason yet myself. Perhaps it was something I wanted to do for the simple enjoyment of it all. Maybe I desired to gain a taste of freedom from the concrete jungles and clockwork schedules. The sense of grandeur and my adventurous spirit surely played a role as well. I wanted to be places where a man felt free. Where he could stride unhindered, into relative unknown, and pretend he was off conquering great lands in far-off places where no human had set foot before.

Perhaps it was all of these things; maybe it was something else. Regardless, I hiked on. Day and night, my spirits grew higher. My soul felt free as can be, perhaps freer than it had ever been before. Traffic lights and corporate meetings, skyscrapers and car payments, monotonous social gatherings and daily phone calls, they all felt as if they were some figment of my imagination-some dreamt-up concoctions of a crazy person who was drawn to such things.

The blisters went from few to many. Muscles were sore every evening and to say I was uncomfortable often would be an understatement. Legs and lungs alike burned upon summiting each peak. Each one was well-worth it however, as each peak rewarded me with views as spectacular as any known to man.

This seemed to be what it was all about-being completely present in the here and now, with few cares in the world. Meals eaten at night around a single-burner stove, passing out each night on a paper-thin mat, gazing up at the stars high overhead. Life could not get much better than this. Alone, in the mountains, with no one but the creatures of the wild and God for company. Peace.

What causes a man to head out into a rainstorm? To leave his perfectly cozy, warm and dry home, to rush out into the storm, not even pausing to put on his rain jacket, but to get soaked to the bone wearing nothing but a flannel shirt? Where does this instinct arise from?

Similarly, why is it that every time a snow storm blows in and the flakes fall thick and fast, that said man wants to do nothing more than throw on his best pair of trompin’ boots, grab a pair of thick gloves and perhaps a scarf, and race out into the swirling maelstrom of white flakes? To wander to and fro on the abandoned city streets? Or if he is more of a country dweller, to tramp aimlessly through the muffled solitude of forest and field, being completely content with his own company, finding pure joy in watching his tracks get smothered by fresh flakes? He eventually returns home, feet weary, gloves and hair soaked, and a bit shivery. But his eyes, oh how his eyes flash and gleam! Something is awake within him, something which modern society does not stir up, not ever!

The lazy summer heat is idyllic; the beautiful autumn days when the leaves drift slowly downward are dreamy; the clear, crisp January days are a reprieve. But none of these compare to the icy gales of a November windstorm or a June thunderstorm blowing in from out across the western plains. The primal nature of a man lives for these events. Perhaps it is a break from the normal monotony of life, where the “civilized” person locks the doors and shutters the windows in fear of the oncoming unrest. Where the drone of the office quickly becomes forgotten amidst the crackling bolts and stinging rain droplets against a naked face. Man wasn’t made to be locked in a box all day; nay, he longs to embrace the wild desires of his adventurous heart, and the oncoming storm provides just the perfect outlet. The winds and rain and sleet and ice provide the perfect foil to man’s tame existence in everyday society, where driving a comfortable sedan, drinking decaf coffee, and using a proper greeting in an email is the norm. But for a moment, such a glorious moment, the man stands out in the pouring rain, matted hair obscuring his vision, water coursing down his back, damply shivering in the chill air-and he is happy. His spirit soars amongst the towering thunderclouds, as his eyes flash wildly in the wan light. A smile spreads across his face, and he, with his clothes askew and with seemingly all sense of decency long-forgotten, allows himself to open up and feel, truly feel, what the true joy of being alive is. The grand moment is not bound to last forever, but for now, it is enough, and the man relishes the moment for as long as he dares, before returning to his warm and comfortable hearth.

What drives man? What causes us to strive for greatness, to do big things, to push the limits of the human body, to explore unknown lands, conquer unclimbable peaks, start multi-billion dollar companies, create great stories, write complex texts, create tall buildings, explore the reaches of space, solve unsolvable formulas, or win impossible battles? Why is there an unquenchable thirst in the souls of man that pushes us to never stop exploring? It is almost as if we are cursed to push the limits to the final frontier and beyond. It is never enough for us to settle. Things can always be done faster, bigger, better, and more adventurously. Records must be broken. Lands must not remain unexplored. Every single mountain in the world must be summitted, and then again, but this time, faster.

Why don’t we just sit around and bask in the accomplishments of our forefathers? Is it not enough that they have won the day for us, getting us to our place in modern society where comfort and ease are the orders of the day? Where the term “adventure” is thrown around so loosely that a late-night fast-food run counts as such?

For many today, this is all they need. Cake and circuses, my friends. Free entertainment and cheap food abounds. Plentiful are the comforts and few are the stressors, meaning that one can coast from day to day in ease and comfort.

This isn’t enough for some though. A minority these days, yes, but there are still some who’s blood runs red hot at the thought of such explorations of old. Some call them nomadic or vagabonds. Others say their heads are too far up in the clouds. They say to put your head down, invest in your 401k, work a safe job in a safe family home, don’t get too anxious about seeing far away places lest you forget about “your roots.” The roots are of course your average little town and your average little life, that everyone else is living as well. Shut up and work, comrade, TV and social media are adventuresome enough for you!

What is the cure for the wanderlust? Is there an answer for this question? Must a man seek out the wilderness? Must he immerse himself in his noble pursuits of knowledge, of art, of engineering, of explorations? This is partially rhetorical, yes, but I also think the answer presents itself as the question is being asked.

Much deliberation is given to these thoughts. One is always “one bad day away from dropping out of society altogether for pursuit of more visceral endeavors.” One grows weary of society.

A walk to the river, a walk to the light. The river is a place of rest, of peace, of solitude. It courses ever so swiftly through the cut-banks, down towards the greater reaches of the Mississippi. Along its way there, it passes through pastures, forests, under bridges, along roadways, and through sleepy farming towns.

The river doesn’t particularly care where it travels, nor does it particularly care about what you think of it. All it does is flow onward, day after day and all through the night.

The first man to find a river must have been captivated by it, this moving, flowing entity. So unusual, compared to the local pond that he frequented and drank from. They are so different and really so odd compared to other forms of water. Most lakes or ponds you might come across can indeed be special in their own right. Aye, they are some of my favorite places, indeed. But none hold a candle to the charm and mystique and calming restfulness that a river provides.

It’s hard to say, exactly, what draws a man back to a river so often. He thinks he knows all the bends, all the holes where the fish lie, all the dead-limbed trees submerged in their watery graves and every single boulder, rock and pebble along the bank. The man thinks he has conquered the river; yes, he thinks he has mastered the Wild Beast and has staked a claim to make it his own! He fancies himself as a cowboy, a tamer of wild stallions in the form of a coursing waterway.

But just when the man gets so bold to claim such things, the river once again plays its hand and reasserts its dominance over him. Often times it may be a new tree in the water or a collapsed bank which once held many a fish. Or occasionally the waters will run stained and dirty, hampering him from observing the structure he is so dependent on when chasing his quarry. And yet other times still, these measures are not enough, and the river is forced to take some more drastic measures…

The man wades carefully along the bank, picking his way in thigh-high stained water, feet scrabbling relentlessly amongst the slimy boulders below, desperately trying to maintain traction. He’s walked this section dozens of times, he thinks he knows where every rock is and how to put his feet just so, that he can make it safely through this fast section.

But the water is stained today. It is a little higher than usual, after a previous day thunderstorm. And the man’s wader boots don’t have quite the grip they used to. So out goes one foot, then another, as they miss their purchase on the rocks. Down goes the man into the river, in a great cacophony of splashing water and several choice words. The man is unhurt and unharmed, no equipment lost and an ego that will eventually recover.

As the man drags his wet self to the bank, shivering in the brisk evening air of late-April, he grins to himself and nods his head respectfully towards the river. ‘Tis the nature of a river, as it must maintain its frame as the mysterious and powerful, ever-changing entity that it is. No foul play was this! Simply a display of power by the mighty force of nature-a reminder to always give due respect lest you be swept away, destined to swim with the trout forever.

Much has been writ about the many joys of river exploration, particularly when it comes to the pursuit  of the legendary trout.

While the delights are many and the adventures grand, life is not all blissful ease on the trout stream. There are “occupational hazards” one may encounter from time-to-time (and often very frequently). One of the most infamous of all hazards is the Mosquito.

Affectionately referred to as the state bird of Minnesota and Wisconsin, these little buggers have been the source of much suffering, agony, pain, annoyance, hardship and near insanity of many a determined trout fisherman.

I believe that our mind tends to “black out” the memories of mosquito hordes found on trout streams, for anglers never cease to return to their favorite bends and holes, regardless of the needle-nosed companions they are sure to encounter. Many a promising trip has been utterly ruined by these frightfully annoying blood-suckers. At times it seems that no amount of bug spray, citronella, DEET, campfire smoke, or other crazy home remedy will keep them at bay. They are masters at mounting uncoordinated but ruthless attacks at all parts of body, whether exposed or not. Their strategy is in numbers. Swat one and ten more appear to take its place! Woe be to any exposed skin.

Of course, one should not underestimate the power of the Lone Drone, either. An effective means to torture someone would surely be to amplify the sinister high-pitched  humming of a mosquito and play it repeatedly. It’s enough to make a man want his ears lopped off by old St. Peter, for the sole purpose of never hearing this sound again.

Still, if one can tolerate these vicious critters, good fishing is sure to be found. Of course at its core, a river is a wild place, so it makes sense that one will encounter challenges that will push you far past your level of comfort. And no matter how bad the swarms get, a trout fisherman is sure to return to his favorite stream, for when the trout are biting, nothing can be allowed to get between an angler and his quarry! Bring the bug spray, throw on a bandana, roll down your sleeves, and get ready to suffer!

Don’t even get me started on ticks…

It’s a thunderstorm day

Waiting for the inevitable

The humid days, the building clouds

Skies as dark as caverns dim

A dead calm settles over the countryside.

Houses are shuttered, windows fastened shut, doors closed fast

Silence settles

Dead silence. So still, so calm, so humid.

It’s a pause in time, a deep breath-

And then the plunge

Raging winds and upturned tree leaves

Clouds bursting, showering the land below with sheets of rain

Thunder rumbles, lighting flashes, trees thrash to and fro.

The Tempest is upon us!

A violent, furious attack has been launched-

And then the tapering. Steady rain, now-distant thunder, infrequent flashes.

It is over. The tension is gone, the cool evening extends its greeting.

Wet grass and slick pavement are all that remain.

Life resumes

And the dance beings again.

Two strokes on the right, four strokes to the left,

Keep it steady now lads, paddles in check!

Bend your backs and move those arms,

We’ve miles to go though we’ve come so far!

Two to the right, four more on the left.

J-strokes so nice, don’t get the packs wet!

It’s a banner day on the flowage clear,

The sun is high, no storms to fear.

Wind at our backs; spray in our face,

Come on now boys, pick up the pace!

The miles melt off, our camp in sight,

We’ve got food and drink and merry times tonight.

Four more to the right, guide her in slow,

The canoes are sturdy, but be careful though!

Backwater, backwater! We’re drawing ashore,

Now lend a hand with the chores and more.

Dusk draws nigh, get a fire built!

Break out the flannel and sweaters and quilts.

A drink for you and some steak for me,

Rest now lads, for we’ve earned our keep.

Have you ever stared, in wonder of it all?

At the singing robin, the lamenting dove, the soaring eagle.

The mighty pines, cloaked in emerald spears, or the purest of pure waterlilies.

Have you ever paused, awestruck, unable to speak, at the sight of the Great Vistas?

Where your heart pounds fast and hard as something primal awakens within?

Have you ever gone the extra mile, just to see what’s over yonder?

What’s beyond the next peak, the next riverbend, the next tree line?

Have you ever left to seek the solace of the woods? The tranquility of the valleys?

Have you ever-

Or have you been too busy, caught in the rush?

The hustle, the bustle, the ticking and the tocking,

The hemming and hawing.

Decisions, every. Day.

What to wear, what to say, who to see, where to go.

I must be on my way! I have no time for the wonder of the day.

I am late once more, my eggs are burning! The kids are crying, my heart’s not yearning.

I have no time for trees or lakes. Parks are a waste of precious space.

Give me my phone, some internet, some wine. Let me be; I have my shows, you see.

A sigh from me as I stroll slowly away.

I get lost in the woods. Go try it; today.