You ride your bike alone through the woods. You pedal the low-line south, out onto the pavement; the waning gibbous moon is like a wisp of cloud in the late morning sky. You cross the trestle bridge over the river, then turn north; leaves tumble under your wheels.

You cut back into the woods where there is no trail. You use your bike to bushwhack through the tangled growth. You march resolutely along until you’re standing under the towering cottonwood. The sun is overhead now making it hard to find an angle through the bare branches; you squint your eyes and there it is, the eagle nest. You get out your binoculars and study the construction of the eyrie; you touch your hand to the tree; you feel the deeply furrowed ridges of the bark. You close your eyes—a wordless psalm.

You follow a deer path out of the woods. Back on your bike, you head south again. The sun is warm on your black windbreaker, the air cool on your cheeks. You ride back over the river and onto the Owl Trail. You move slowly through the trees, scanning the brush for wildlife, through the Rock Garden, and past the Brickyard.

You ride up the sidewalk into winding streets thick with pickup trucks, leaf blowers, and lawn signs. You turn onto your street, and there shining amongst the houses is your home.

You walk in the front door; the dogs, Bentley and Dozer, greet you with exuberant kisses—every return is a celebration. Up the stairs into Annie’s arms. Love. Together, you look out the picture gallery windows over the river—the view is a pleasure that never gets old.

You take the dogs for their second walk of the day. You circle the neighborhood; Dozer tugs on the leash after fox squirrels; the dogs sniff everything, like reading a book—some sentences more interesting than others.

Annie makes dinner. You sit at the dining room table, Dozer at your feet. Pulled pork, white rice, plantains, and salad with cheese-filled picante peppers. You relish every bite and go back for seconds. You wash it down with a glass of cold water.

You sit with Annie in the fading light and read. You are currently occupied with seven different books: fiction, non-fiction, poetry, history, and philosophy. You keep a notebook and pen close by and jot down words, sentences, and ideas.

You play with the dogs in the downstairs carpeted Romper Room; a game of fetch and chase ensues, broken up by intervals of hugs and kisses.

You climb into bed with Annie and the dogs. Sanctuary. You drink peppermint tea and peruse your books. The dogs nestle into your body; it’s a tight fit with no room to move. Happiness. You turn off the light. Just as you’re drifting off to sleep, you hear an owl hoot—you smile and nuzzle deeper into your pillow.

You stay in bed as the morning opens; you stroke and kiss the dogs. Words come into your mind, and you hold onto and play with them. You watch out the window with Dozer and see a juvenile eagle bank over the trees. You rise and dress in the soft pink light.

You drink a glass of water and pour your coffee. You walk downstairs to the morning table. You look out at the bird feeders—the American goldfinch visits in its autumn hues. You pick up your pen and begin to write.

The push and pull are over. I open my calendar and look at silent, empty pages. I’ve ridden the highway home—out of the seething barrel and into a peaceful inner harbor. I welcome the quiet glory of these days after.

We are going to be grandparents—I’m going to be a grandfather. It won’t be long now. Baby Ella will be here—in California. It’s hard not to be close, not to be there, not to be on call. I always imagined we’d all be in the same place forever, but our family is strung like Christmas lights across the map: a pin in California, one in Iowa, one in New York. The time and miles between are heartrending. A grandchild will make it even more so. From Iowa, Annie and I cheer the kids on, always planning the next visit. And now, on our next visit to California, we’ll hold our grandbaby.

Meanwhile, I’ll be with the mallards down at the pond; I’ll be running along the river, watching the eagles; I’ll be on a bike-hike through the woods; I’ll be lazing on the couch with the dogs; I’ll be watching cottontails grazing in the first light of the day.

A buck makes his way through the yard, steam rising from his muscular body; the woods are bursting with reds, yellows, and oranges. Four American white pelicans circle over the river.

I winterize the house, put the patio furniture away, and detach and store the garden hoses. A new bookshelf is delivered in a slim box—I pull out the numerous pieces and organize them on the floor. I turn on Sade and pick up the Allen wrench; Dozer watches closely and offers his support.

I walk the dogs at sunset via rucksack, Bentley tramples through piles of leaves.

I pick up the dogs to put them in our bed; they are in ecstasy. We fall asleep to the song of the wind. Dozer spends the night sharing my pillow, snoring in my ear.

Daybreak is my alarm clock. I open my eyes to treetops aglow in golden brushstrokes; the river is a sheet of cool blue glass; a hot air balloon drifts across the page.

A Cooper’s hawk is in the backyard this morning, and Annie makes peanut butter French toast for breakfast.

I go for a run along the river, and I see a bald eagle eating a fish on a sandbar.

Birding by bike; the afternoon sun is diffused by an ocean of clouds; white-tailed deer bound through the trees, their tails waving like banners. I navigate the winding trail; my thoughts stream freely and organize themselves.

We spend Thanksgiving with friends, welcomed into their family. Football, turkey, green bean casserole, chicken noodles on mashed potatoes, cranberry fluff, laughter, Yahtzee, and pumpkin pie.

The snow has begun to fall in the gray-blue twilight. I pull out the Christmas decorations; Annie starts a fire in the fireplace and plays Vince Guaraldi on the turntable.

We wake up to animal tracks across a blanket of snow, the dogs rush playfully out into the yard.

The bird feeder activity is at an all-time high; house finch, dark-eyed junco, northern cardinal, white-crowned sparrow, American goldfinch, hairy woodpecker, and more crowd the feeders; a blue jay arrives.

I shovel the driveway and the walkways; I shovel out the apron and the curb in front of the mailbox; I’m out there for hours. My neighbors use snowblowers—they make a lot of noise and smell bad. I sit at my table and write a poem:

Give me a shovel
I’ve got the time
I’ll clear the walks
I’ll clear the drive
I don’t need a motor
I don’t need gas
My work is better
Yours twice as fast
What’s inconvenient
For me, is a joy
Energy and muscle
Is all I employ
You take good enough
And that’s what you get
I like the hard way
I like to sweat

Bentley rests his head between Annie and me in bed. We drink our tea and read; Dozer works a nylon bone at our feet. Thirty days home. I can’t believe I was ever gone that long—all of October, the summer, and all those years. How? This is where I want to be. Where I need to be. The push and pull are over. The scales have tipped.

You ride your bike alone through the woods.

Thanks for reading!

Introducing my Signature GORUCK Skate Ruck. This 18L Double Compartment Bullet Ruck is Overbuilt and backed by the GORUCK Scars Lifetime Guarantee. It’s the simplest and most streamlined ruck for travel.

The extra-durable Nylon Skate Straps are perfect for carrying a skateboard, snowboard, or any other essential items. With five color options, this ruck provides all the pockets and organization you need to travel light and hands-free, including a bombproof laptop compartment to keep your tech safe and secure.

In addition, there’s a Limited Edition Signature Skate Ruck T-Shirt available, inspired by my World Industries Animal Man graphic from 1991.

Get yours here:

https://www.goruck.com/products/skate-ruck

Video by Rob Wallace

Music:
https://mikevandtherats.com

Thanks for watching!

I wrote a poem about my 2024 trip to Normandy, France, with my daughter, Lucy. On that adventure, we rucked 80 kilometers to honor the 80th Anniversary of D-Day. The poem below says what I’m about to try to detail far better.

Rucking is the military-inspired act of walking while carrying a weighted backpack. It’s been a daily part of my life since 2011. During the pandemic, Lucy and I began rucking together—urban hiking—walking and talking through the silent, deserted streets. For us, rucking becomes a bond. So, when I decided to travel to France for the D-Day Ruck, I mentioned it to Lucy, and she was all in. We both agreed it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

We started in Brooklyn, New York, sans rucksacks. We walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and up and down Manhattan as a warm-up. Then we flew to Paris, rented a car, and drove to Pegasus Bridge, where on the eve of D-Day, British Airborne soldiers landed gliders in a daring assault—capturing and holding the strategic landmark which was critical to the success of the beach landings.

From there, we drove in light rain to Grandcamp-Maisy, checked into our accommodation, and walked out to the English Channel. It was a beautiful day, gray and misty. We hiked along the shore to Pointe du Hoc. Though I knew the promontory would be part of our 80-kilometer ruck, I wanted to experience it without a pack on my back and without a time limit.

The path to Pointe du Hoc follows a multi-use greenway trail atop cliffs where tall grass waves in the sea-blown wind. As we ambled along the quiet, rugged coastline, shafts of light pierced the vast, cloud-swirled sky. At Pointe du Hoc, we read the interpretive plaques and memorials, then explored the barbed-wire-strewn battlefield where U.S. Army Rangers stormed and scaled the 100-foot cliff under stiff German resistance. Amongst the bomb craters and German casements, a solemn weight settled upon us. We resolved that when the going gets tough on our ruck, we will think of this place, of what happened here, and persevere.

The next evening, we set out from Utah Beach with people from all over the world who signed up to suffer together. We marched into Sainte-Mère-Église as dusk gathered under the iconic spire of the church where U.S. paratrooper John Steele’s parachute became snagged in the early hours of D-Day. There, we teamed up with Michael Easter for the long trek through the night. We walked down empty rural roads and busy autoroutes under light posts adorned with memorial banners honoring American soldiers. We kept ourselves occupied in conversation as the moon rose, finally arriving at the La Cambe German War Cemetery at daybreak. We paused to rest and refuel with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. As the morning sun brushed across the stones and hedgerows, we pressed on.

As we trekked back to the seaside, Michael went ahead of us with another group. When we reached the beach, we followed the Liberté Greenway again to Pointe du Hoc and then onto Omaha Beach. There, we reversed direction along the cliffs for the final march to Grandcamp-Maisy.

As the sun slowly moved across the sky, it was just Lucy and me. We talked and talked and talked. Any lulls in our conversation became anguished silence, so we kept talking to keep our minds off the pain. About two miles from the finish, when we were at our absolute lowest, I pulled out my phone and played Eye Of The Tiger by Survivor. Somehow, the acoustics of the Normandy coastline acted like a surround sound speaker—music from my phone had never sounded better. The opening riff of the song hit us hard, like a bolt of electricity through our veins. We began walking faster and more purposefully than we had for the entire previous eighteen hours. Following Eye Of The Tiger was Tom Sawyer by Rush, and now we were walking on air. Next on the playlist was my all-time go-to, Over The Mountain by Ozzy Osbourne—I’d skated to that song in almost every single amateur contest I’d ever entered and never lost. The final anthem was Right Now by Van Halen, as we floated across the finish line, Lucy was beaming. Jason from GORUCK laughed and said, Who smiles after walking fifty miles?

We came in at around 19 hours—not even close to being the fastest, but we finished strong, together. Jason and I sat down and had a beer. He said, Some people didn’t think you guys would finish. I met his gaze and said, I’ve never quit anything in my life, neither has my kid. Jason smiled and said, Cheers to that. We clinked our plastic cups, and I thanked him for putting on an event that offered me the opportunity to spend such quality time with my daughter—something I’ll always cherish.

Brooklyn Heights To Pointe du Hoc

DSM to LGA,
Brooklyn Heights to the Brooklyn Bridge,
Brooklyn Banks to Greenwich Village.
KazuNori.
Get up and do it again.

Tompkins Square,
Washington Square,
Little Island to The High Line,
Hell’s Kitchen,
Mama’s TOO!.
Back through Central Park,
Sugarfish.

We’ve got to hold on to these moments,
And make them last.
Before they become the future,
Before they become the past.

JFK to CDG,
Room service: burgers and frites.
Sleep.

A rainy day at Pegasus Bridge,
Grandcamp-Maisy to Pointe du Hoc,
The Liberté Greenway at dusk.

Sundown, head down, wild dreams,
Crêpes and Americanos fuel another day.

Utah Beach to Sainte-Mère-Église,
Marching under a blanket of stars.

Moonrise, 
La Cambe German war cemetery.
Sunrise,
To the most American of shores,
Pointe du Hoc to Omaha Beach.

We’ve got to hold on to these moments,
And make them last.
Before they become the future,
Before they become the past.

Retrace our footsteps once more,
Over hallowed ground.
A lifesaving baguette,
Eye of the Tiger,
The most beautiful walk in the world.

Sunset on the English Channel,
You and me.

Sleep until we can’t anymore,
So happy we couldn’t feel sore,
Crêpes and Americanos,
Back in the car.

Giverny with Monet,
Paris along the Seine,
Penne with smoked salmon and Perrier.

It’s never goodbye, only until next time,
And I Love You Always, my Goose.

CDG to ATL to DSM,
Brooklyn Heights to the Brooklyn Bridge,
Pointe du Hoc to Grandcamp-Maisy,
You and me,
You and me.

We’ve got to hold on to these moments,
And make them last.
Before they become the future,
Before they become the past.

Thanks for reading!

I look out the window of the airplane. I see the green fields of Iowa come into view. I can feel the tension leave my body.

I walk up the stairs of our split-level mid-century house nestled in the trees. I kiss Annie on the lips and breathe her in—I’m home. Our French Bulldogs, Bentley and Dozer, greet me with a joy that makes me cry.

I unpack my rucksack and store it away. Luggage makes the dogs anxious. When my rucksack or Annie’s roller bag comes out of the closet, panic sets in; they know one of us or both of us is leaving, that their routine is about to be disrupted. Their anguish hangs heavy in the house, limiting our trips and the time we spend away, particularly trips together. There are places we want to go, things we want to see, but mostly, we’d rather stay home with our boys.

When I am away on tour, Dozer will carry one of my used socks from room to room and guard it vigilantly until I return. Every slight noise outside the front of the house grabs their attention, and they stand at the top of the stairs, hopeful that it’s me coming back. They whimper and sigh when it’s not. But now I am here. I lie on the floor as they climb all over me, licking and pawing me.

We sit out on the deck with the dogs, perched on a ridge overlooking the Des Moines River. Carolina wrens have made a nest in a hanging flowerpot and are chattering at us to leave. But this is our happy place, and they’re going to have to get used to us.

We make our tea and climb into bed with the dogs and our books for the night. Bentley does circles and paws the blanket to prepare his sleeping area—he’s a professional sleeper and is snoring within seconds, while Dozer works on a nylon bone.

From our first place together on Lake St. in Huntington Beach, California, to here in our treehouse in Des Moines, Iowa, our bed has sailed through the ocean of night filled with cats, dogs, babies, and kids—a vessel of love, family, and togetherness—a shared bed, a shared life. We close our eyes at night with each other in sight.

I’m stroking Dozer’s head in the soft blue light of the morning. He looks like a baby in my arms, content, happy. He snores gently; he feels safe. Bentley nestles in tight to my body like a bolster. Annie rolls over and gently kisses Dozer’s face. These are the moments to make last; these are the moments we’ll wish for in the end, so we live them now.

The highlight of every day for the dogs is their walks. Most days, they enjoy two walks, unless the weather prevents it. On particularly good days, they might get three walks. Bentley knows the routine well and even dictates it. His internal clock tells him when it’s time for a walk, and he starts pressing and begging if there’s any delay. When we finally give in to his demands and ask him, Do you wanna…? We rarely ever finish the sentence before he starts slam-dancing around in excitement, bouncing off our legs and the walls, almost flying like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer: I’m cute, she said, I’m cute.

Dozer likes his walks, too, but whereas Bentley is euphoric, Dozer seems triggered by Bentley’s intensity, pacing back and forth in a seemingly confused frenzy that reminds us of Steve Carell’s character, Brick, in Anchorman: I don’t know what we’re yelling about, loud noises.

The dogs drag us around the block. Bentley knows the addresses of every other dog in the neighborhood and gets an extra pep in his step when he approaches their houses. He dares them to be out in the yard, and if they are, his hair lifts along his spine; he takes a quick bite of the grass and lets out a very non-threatening bark. We laugh every time. Dozer rarely participates in Bentley’s obsession with the other dogs. He has his eyes on squirrels and bunnies. And upon seeing one, he gets down like a cat stalking prey, then bursts forward until the leash stops his advance, and by then the squirrel or bunny is long gone. There’s always a neighbor to comment, Who’s walking who? That old chestnut.

When I get back from a run or a ride, Dozer is there waiting for one of my wet socks. As I peel it from my foot, he licks his lips in anticipation. And those first ten minutes that he has it are the most dangerous ten minutes of our day. Drunk on the vintage, he is paranoid that everyone and everything—every noise, and movement is conspiring to take his precious away, especially Bentley.

Bentley does everything in his power to avoid Dozer’s aggression. Sock or no sock, Dozer is always in his face, exerting his alpha status, to which Bentley will lie down, feigning narcolepsy, close his eyes like a Zen Master, and begin snoring. Dozer stands there confounded.

Now, it’s Annie’s turn to break their little hearts. She travels to Las Vegas for four days to spend time with Lucy at The Dance Awards. Lucy grew up at this annual event, where she made a name for herself and began her dance career. She returns now as a choreographer and a judge. All those years driving to dance class, traveling around the country to conventions, have come full circle. I want to be there too, but it’s my turn to stay home with the dogs. These, I decide, are the dog days.

The car gets parked in the garage, social media apps get deleted from my phone, my laptop is powered off, and I ignore the TV remote entirely. I determine that every minute, of every hour, of every day is dedicated solely to the dogs. These days are an island, where we will live outside of time, where we will spend every moment together.

Bentley, a blue Frenchie with peanut butter-dipped paws and root beer-colored eyes, is a lover; he is sweetness personified. He vocalizes every tender thought in his head and the devotion in his heart with every breath he takes in a sort of never-ending song. Even in his sleep, his lie continues as he snores away. He is happiest on a walk but is just as enthusiastic about curling up on the couch or getting into bed for the night. Once a day or so, he’ll get excited and break out in uninhibited play, but after a few minutes, he’ll retreat to his bed.

Our Christmas baby, Bentley, was waiting under the tree when Annie got home from work on Christmas Eve in 2018. A heartfelt gift from Lucy to Annie for all the years of supporting her dancing: taking her to classes, conventions, photoshoots, and auditions—being there for her throughout her whole journey, and even taking a job specifically to pay for her dance classes. We had two other Frenchies at that time, Bentley’s surrogate grandmothers, Rizzo and JoJo. Three dogs seemed like too many to take on, but little did we know that in just over a year, both JoJo and Rizzo would pass. Bentley was five months old when he came home to us—the last dog left of his litter, and the breeder was resigned to keeping him for himself. Then, Lucy called.

Our hearts broke when we lost JoJo—I watched from a motel room on FaceTime as she closed her eyes and slipped away. We immediately attempted to distance ourselves from the pain of her passing by impulsively buying a puppy, our baby boy, Nuggy. Then, we lost Rizzo a month later, and suddenly it was only Bentley and Nuggy.

Sadly, Nuggy’s life was cut tragically short. He died suddenly in June of 2022, and his death destroyed us. We swore then, in that tempest, that we’d never open our hearts to so much pain again, but within weeks, Baby-Dozer came home to us.

Dozer, a merle Frenchie with a white coat and gray and black blotches, patches, and speckling, got his name from Nuggy, the brother he never met. At night, when Nuggy got into bed, he would plow into our bodies and legs repeatedly. We called this dozering. He did it so much that we often said we should have named him Dozer. So, to honor and remember Nuggy, we gave the new pup Nuggy’s nickname, and as it turns out, he also dozers and reminds us of his beloved brother in so many other ways.

Dozer is a stubborn, jealous, angry boy; we call him Mr. Growley, think: Ozzy Osbourne, Mr. Crowley. He’ll growl if you try to move or direct him physically, or if you touch his butt while he’s guarding a toy. If you stare him in the eyes or make a spastic movement, he’ll rush you as a warning to stop. He never makes good on any threats, but he’s full of them all day long. Somehow, his bad-boy disposition makes us love him even more. And the thing is, when he is in a loving mood, he’s angelic, the most precious little guy ever. But his love is reserved and earned. His favorite time is playing in the main room of our carpeted walk-out basement, which we call the Romper Room. There, we hold games of fetch and chase, and he is in all his glory.

For breakfast, the boys get ground beef mixed in their dry food. Bentley gingerly chews while Dozer, true to his name, plows into the bowl. They must be separated at opposite ends of the kitchen when they eat, as Dozer is protective of his food. If he doesn’t gobble it down in one obnoxious feeding, he’ll guard it throughout the day, growling at anyone who dares go near. He’ll even guard anything he regurgitates, assuming that everybody wants what’s his, even his vomit.

Dinner is ground beef and dry food again. After they eat, they bury their heads in the water bowl for extended drinks and come up looking like they’ve been bobbing for apples, water dripping off their chins like a faucet, soaking their necks and the floor. Dozer’s neck sometimes remains wet and stained for hours afterwards.

It’s late morning, and I’m on my second cup of coffee. A pileated woodpecker visits the feeders. I watch broad-winged hawks chase each other through and around the trees of the neighborhood while Bentley and Dozer snooze in the sun.

I walk the boys before it gets too hot. They want to stop and sniff everything. I let them.

We curl up on the couch. I read until my eyes grow heavy and then join the dogs for a nap. Rain, thunder, and birdsong are the highlights of the day.

After a round of fetch in the Romper Room, Dozer challenges me to chase him, and I pursue him around my writing table. He circles the table, runs for the stairs, makes a cut back, dekes me, and runs past me around the table again, impressed by his own agility. When we finally tire, Bentley moves in; this is his time, the post-play love is his specialty. He licks my face, which I usually cut off after a few licks, but today, I let him lick and lick away.

Before bed, we observe a large white-tailed buck step into our backyard, foraging alongside eastern cottontails as big brown bats dart about overhead. We watch the deer for a long time through our picture gallery windows. The dogs are on edge, their hair standing up, emitting low guttural growls as if to say, That’s our yard.

In the middle of the night, Dozer wakes with a start—he barks and kicks wildly for a second at the foot of the bed, then stands up and comes to me, collapsing into my arms with a deep sigh. We stare out the window into the black woods where fireflies dance. He must have been dreaming about the buck, I know I was—majestic in the golden dusk, his muscular body and fuzzy antlers aglow. We drift back to sleep. Towards morning, Dozer positions himself so that he’s lying across my pillow with his chin pressing down on my skull, making me his pillow. We call this getting chinned down.

Dozer’s chin is formidable—more like steel than bone. It’s heavy and hard, and he lowers it like the lift gate on a box truck. Throughout the day, he will chin down a foot, a leg, a hand, an arm, but his favorite is to chin down my head in the middle of the night. As he does this, he drifts off into REM sleep, and his teeth start to gnash and grind while he shudders and whimpers, snoring deeply in my ear. As painful and disturbing as it is, I find it comforting, and I take it all happily. We sleep together like this into the dawn.

Another storm approaches. I watch with Bentley and Dozer as a family of five raccoons climbs a tree in our backyard and huddles together. The momma is the most enormous raccoon I’ve ever seen, the size of a small bear. Heavy rain and wind pound them, the branches offering little shelter. Dozer looks at me like, Dad, do you see those guys?

Annie is home—our little family is together again. We snuggle up on the couch with popcorn and watch our shows. These are still the dog days.

Midsummer. I get on my bike and go. How far can I ride? How much can I sweat? What can I see and do? I ride south along the Des Moines River, past downtown, around Easter Lake, into Carlisle, through Summerset State Park, across the Middle River, and into Indianola, where I’ve earned my lunch.

The day begins with two red foxes sunbathing in the neighbor’s driveway. Wild turkeys, white-tailed deer, and woodchucks visit the backyard. Dozer sits proudly on my lap, and we watch the bird feeders. A red-tailed hawk soars over the river.

The wrens have hatched. Mom and Dad are feverishly flying back and forth, bringing large insects to the nest while clamoring for us to vacate the deck. We try to coexist, but they’re not having it.

Poems and pushups. I run, ruck, and ride. On the trail, in the woods, ideas come to me freely. Time on the trail, in motion, is as meaningful as my writing time—they feed each other.

Dozer observes, listens to, and pays close attention to everything Annie and I say and do. He is always trying to understand how our actions relate to him. He follows our every movement and word intently. Sometimes at night, just before we go to sleep, he comes close to our faces and tries to communicate with us. When we say, I love you, he attempts to mimic us in his gruff Mr. Growley voice—no, to tell us, I love you. He grumbles the words between yawns and sneezes, and we reward his efforts with praise and kisses. This effort tires him out, and he settles between us, purring like a cat.

I pedal my bike amongst the butterflies to the song of the cicadas. I ride north along the river, past Saylorville Lake and Red Feather Prairie, into Polk City. I grab a slice of pizza at Casey’s and ride back.

We wake up to the sound of tornado sirens, the dogs know what they mean, and we all head down into the basement. We watch the sky turn green, red, and turquoise as wind and rain crash in. I worry about the birds, the eagles. Later, we walk the boys, and trees are down throughout the neighborhood.

I go birding by bike. I ride the High Trestle Trail from Madrid to Bouton. Through the woods, along cornfields, over creeks, and passing through small towns. I see a juvenile eagle carrying a large fish, northern cardinal, American goldfinch—a great blue heron stalks the shallows of the Des Moines River, a pileated woodpecker calls out through the trees. A baby deer watches me cautiously. A frog leaps across the trail in front of me. I smile.

We add a hummingbird feeder to the deck, and word gets out immediately. I sit with Annie, reading books while ruby-throated hummingbirds chirp their approval.

We add a hummingbird feeder to the deck, and word gets out immediately. I sit with Annie, reading books while Ruby-throated Hummingbirds chirp their approval.

Summer is winding down, the wrens are long gone, acorns are falling, and leaves begin to decorate the trail. I watch great egrets migrating over the river. I take the boys out at night before bed and marvel at the full moon behind a screen of translucent lace-like clouds. I shine my flashlight up into the trees and see a raccoon’s glowing yellow eyes watching us from a branch high in the burr oak.

We travel to California for Emily’s baby shower. Leaving the dogs is one of the hardest things we do. People say, Oh, they’re just dogs—not to us. The girl we have watching Bentley and Dozer does an excellent job and often raves about how well-behaved they are. It makes us wonder whether they are better behaved toward her than toward us. While it might seem odd, we find joy in the fact that they misbehave with us; we’re their people.

We stay at Emily and Brandon’s. Lucy is here too; our family is together. Annie and Lucy help Emily prepare decorations for the party, and I help Brandon rearrange furniture. We have dinner at Super-Mex.

I go for a run with Lucy. We park in our old neighborhood in Naples and walk across the 2nd Street bridge into Belmont Shore. We run along the beach and up and down the stairs on the bluffs.

Family and friends gather at Emily and Brandon’s for the party. It’s a perfect afternoon in Southern California. The place looks fantastic—Emily’s talent for interior design and her party-planning skills are on full display, even though it’s her baby shower; she has taken the lead. We catch up with Brandon’s family and reconnect with extended family and friends we haven’t seen in a while. Everyone congratulates me on becoming a grandfather. I can see Emily’s baby bump, and I know that Baby Ella is growing inside her. However, just like when Annie was pregnant with Emily, it’s still hard for me to fully wrap my head around it.

Dusk descends, and the only people left are the immediate families and our niece Abby, who flew in from Pennsylvania. We have pizza in the dining room. It was a beautiful party, and everything worked out. The next time we see Brandon’s parents, we will both be first-time grandparents.

Back to Iowa, back to our dogs, back to our clockwork days of conversation, laughter, and affection. This is the goal: domestic felicity. While we miss our children, our nest isn’t empty; we fill it with a love that continues to grow and endure.

I ride the Owl Trail through South Sycamore to Top Shelf and the Lake Loop Trail in North Sycamore, through the overcast woods. Sunflowers crane their necks towards the diffused sun. I pause at Beaver Crossing and watch the creek flow into the river and count my blessings. I race home to Annie, the dogs, and dinner.

The quiet routine of home—every morning is a painting, every day is a dream. As far as the eye can see, tree tops glow, the river, a sheet of glass, reflects the pink and blue cotton candy sky. The dogs lie at my feet; I pick up my pen and begin to write.

Thanks for reading!

Read my previous journal entries here.

The river is high; the doors are open.

Twilight: consciousness returns me to our bed. I step outside under the waning crescent moon. A cottontail stands motionless. I do too. The first arm of light reaches from the east.

I pick up my pen. So many words, so many thoughts, most escaping. I sip coffee and wait for some of them to return. Dreams speak to me, sometimes in riddles, sometimes plain spoken. Most of it I forget. What I remember, I add to my waking thoughts.

I pedal my bike through the woods. Where trees have fallen, new paths have been cut. I misjudge a feature in the rock garden; I hesitate and fall, sliding down the side of the low ridge. I catch myself and climb back up. A scraped shin, a strained thigh. I get back on my bike and begin again.

I’m standing in a teenager’s basement bedroom. I’m surrounded by Legos, Batman posters, guitars, and amplifiers. Wade plugs in his bass, Jake adjusts his drums, and Josh shoulders his guitar. I yell into the microphone.

The shadows of turkey vultures sweep across the trail. White-tailed deer leap through the brush upon my approach. A great blue heron flies mightily over the river.

I get out a blanket and lie on it in the backyard with the dogs.

Annie and I drive a ribbon of pavement through an ocean of farmland. We cross the Des Moines River in Boone, the Raccoon River in Carroll, and the Missouri River in Council Bluffs into Omaha, Nebraska.

We go book shopping, and my wallet can’t keep up with my interests.

We see Bob Mould at The Waiting Room in Omaha. The songs come in rapid fire: distortion, tone, and sweat.

I drive through the Meskwaki Settlement in Tama County, Iowa, to photograph the old Lincoln Highway bridge on 5th Street in Tama.

I pilot my bike north through the woods along the river. I jog along animal trails out onto every sandbar. I watch the river, great blue heron, and bald eagle. Back on the trail, Rob and Kyle rip past me on their bikes—What’s up, Mike V?

The blackbirds dominate the feeders. The new woodchuck shows up; the old gray one hasn’t been seen yet this year. I’d like to think this new one is its offspring.

I ride out to Grinnell, Iowa, with Annie for lunch. We check out the Louis Sullivan Jewel Box Bank and the B.J. Richer House. We hike the mowed paths of the Jacob Krumm Nature Conservancy.

I ride my bike to Woodland Cemetery to see the giant northern catalpa, then onto Walnut Woods State Park and Purple Martin Lake.

I join the mushroom hunters amongst the trees. Hours pass uncounted. I find my first two morels.

Annie and I fly to New York City for the Bones Brigade Experience event and to spend a few days visiting with Lucy and Hayden. We walk The Highline, watch Lucy teach a dance class, and visit the Brooklyn Banks. We eat bagels, tacos, and sushi. Our bellies and hearts are full.

A buck comes walking through the backyard—his antlers just fuzzy knots on top of his head.

I walk the dogs in the rain.

The old gray woodchuck is spotted under the feeders. Rabbits chase each other through the yard. Red-headed woodpecker, hairy woodpecker, blue jay, wild turkey, and Baltimore oriole visit throughout the day.

We drive to the Amana Colonies in Iowa with Wade and Jenny. We eat schnitzel, then push onto McGregor. We stand on Pike’s Peak and look out over the confluence of the Mississippi and Wisconsin Rivers, then hike down to Bridal Falls.

I look out the window of the American House in McGregor, studying the exposed layers of transportation history: river, railroad, and highway.

We drive the Great River Road north along the Mississippi. We hike out to Hanging Rock at Effigy Mounds National Monument. Train horns sound throughout the Driftless Area.

We drive north, stopping in Lansing for coffee, then into Minnesota. We cross the river to La Crosse, Wisconsin.

We head south; every view and vantagepoint of the Mississippi from every mile of road is awe-inspiring. The Mississippi is more than a river; it’s a realm.

Wade and I hike back up to Pike’s Peak from town, through the woods, along the bluffs. We talk about biking, music, and our upcoming tour. Annie and Jenny pick us up in the truck, and we drive back to the American House for a spaghetti dinner.

Emily and Brandon are in town for a few days, working at Foxcroft Estate. We happily take whatever free time they have to spend with them. Even just driving them to the airport is a family event.

Standing in the backyard, I watch the last arm of light recede from the northern horizon. The day lets go, and night floods in. I get in bed with Annie to the call of the barred owl. I have thirteen books on my nightstand, two dogs in our bed.

The river is high; the doors are open.

Thanks for reading!

McGill nicknamed me Va-llel in 1986; he’s always called me Va-llel. He’s the only person who calls me Va-llel.

The phone rings:

Va-llel, you coming to New York City?

Yes!

Annie and I fly to New York. We check into The Standard, High Line. We take the subway to Brooklyn and spend the evening with Lucy and Hayden. We enjoy dinner, a walk along the East River, and ice cream at the very spot George Washington retreated from Brooklyn.

Somewhere between sleep and wake, I read the symbolism of a dream. My eyes open to possibility.

Manhattan skyline and coffee—I look down Washington Street from the fourteenth floor and over to New Jersey. Lady Liberty’s torch is illuminated by the rising morning light in the harbor.

I see Lance first—of course, I see him first, it’s always as it should be. We hug. He asks about Lucy—Yes, she’ll be joining us later today. He gives me a fist bump for family, for friendship, for skateboarding.

At the breakfast table, we greet George and Ari, and Lance stops by to say hello to Annie. It’s already been a day for the books, and I haven’t even finished my omelet.

Annie and I walk along The High Line, then over to the event at City Winery. Lucy meets us there.

The handshakes, hugs, and stories begin immediately. There is no pretense—I’m a fan as much or more than the next person and grateful to be in the conversation.

Grant Brittain kicks off the proceedings with a slideshow: Caballero, Hawk, Mountain, Mullen, McGill, Guerrero. He shows pictures of Tommy from Huntington Beach that I’ve never seen before. The pictures have a raw intensity—an energy that makes me want to break out in a street session right then and there. And if I’d never known about skateboarding until this very moment, these photos would inspire me to start—the spirit is captured and alive.

The Brigade gets on stage for a panel discussion led by Stacy. Caballero says it was at the Chin Ramp when the group collectively realized Hawk was soaring above and beyond the rest. Stacy says he purposely always filmed Mullen in gritty environments to contrast Rodney’s technical precision and to present freestyle as more relatable, as an answer.

We sit and listen, captivated—we want to hear more of this and less about Lance sneaking in the back door. Maybe it’s a narrative dragged forward from a documentary, or perhaps it is what the people in the know really know. But ask us, the fans, the people who really matter, and we’ll tell you that Lance personifies the very best of professional skateboarding and that there is no Bones Brigade without him, there is no asterisk.

Stacy calls out to me sitting in the back:

Mike, what did the Bones Brigade mean to you as a kid?

Everything. When I saw Bones Brigade Video Show, it was like coming off life support—I took my own first breaths and began to live MY life.

Lunch is served. I talk to Glen E. Friedman—he shares a story about Mr. G, Tom Groholski’s dad, that tracks and makes me smile. My roots shine as bright as this moment in this room, a continuum.

People share stories of their beginnings—our common ground. This is the bonding agent, from Hawk to Mullen, to me, to you. There’s always a parent, a grandparent, an older brother, a friend. Someone who bought that first skateboard for you—shared that first magazine, that first record. None of us are islands. We are in this room because of unforgettable Christmas mornings, birthdays, and summers.

The day ends with a group photo—I can’t pass it up. I sit down with my heroes, my mentors, and friends. With each, I have a history, a present, a future.

As the room empties, I sit and talk with Stacy. I share a few stories I haven’t had the chance to tell him previously. George, Ari, and Michael join us. Stacy opens up to me, and we can feel each other on a level that time and circumstances have not offered before. Not only did he start my career, but he also unknowingly unlocked the whole span of it. The laughter we share now fuels its future.

I float out of the venue, back to the hotel, and off to dinner with Annie, Lucy, and Hayden.

Sunday morning in New York City. Annie and I walk to Trinity Church and stand before Alexander and Eliza Hamilton’s graves. Then we walk over to the Brooklyn Bridge, where a mooring stands in the very spot of the first-ever presidential mansion, where George Washington lived from April 25, 1789, to February 25, 1790.

We walk up to the upper banks—open to the public again for the first time since when, I can’t remember. Rendered unskatable, we sit on a bench on an overcast, mild spring day—the perfect temperature and light for skateboarding at the perfect place. I skate it in my mind.

Back in the subway, we head over to Times Square where Lucy is teaching a dance class. We are living in a dream inside a dream.

We walk with Lucy in the rain to Sugarfish for lunch, then take another train to Brooklyn to get coffee and meet up with Hayden.

Later, back in Manhattan, Annie and I go book shopping, eat Indian food, and walk the rain-soaked streets.

In the morning, gray skies envelop the city. We miss our dogs, our bird feeders, and the woods. I write a poem:

Bones Brigade (2025)

Stacy and George
George and Stacy
and Caballero
McGill, Mountain, Hawk
Mullen, and Guerrero

Video Show, Future Primitive,
Animal Chin
Good morning,
Mr. Mountain

How They Fly
Between two junkyards
Built to last
Nothing like it before
Nothing like it since

From Kenter Canyon to New York City
Around the world and back again
The old testament
and the new

George and Stacy
Stacy and George
and Caballero
McGill, Mountain, Hawk
Mullen, and Guerrero

I see McGill in the lobby. I thank him for a great event, for having me. Lucy meets us for coffee and croissants before we head out to the airport.

Urethane, urethane baby.

Thanks for reading!

I have the day off; Yusuke rescues me from the depraved alleys of Shinjuku. We drive away from the ocean of asphalt, teeming with bodies and commerce, to the seaside town of Hayama.

Just a few days ago, I watched my dog, JoJo, pass away on FaceTime. My heart is shattered, I’m homesick, and this tour, this season of life, is suffocating me.

As I cross the threshold into Yusuke’s home, I shed my shoes and my burdens; I enter the day. Children greet me with art and smiles. Immediately, I am on the floor, in their world. My own kids are grown, and my true joy has become being Uncle Mike to my friends’ children.

The language barrier opens other pathways; we communicate with our eyes, the sound of our voices, and our hearts. Should we skateboard? I hadn’t thought of it, but yes, of course, we should.

Into the street we go, like Christmas Morning, everything feels new, exciting. What to do with this thing, this skateboard? Just play.

Something I did way back when gets me in the door. Who I am right here and now is all that matters.

Lunch is served, and then I’m back on the floor with the kids.

We hike down to the beach for the ceremony of the sunset. We sit on the rocks as the light of day gives way to the coming night. Twilight spreads across Sagami Bay. Touched by the sublime, we walk back to the house.

Today’s dinner is spaghetti. I do a celebratory dance. The kids laugh—we all laugh.

After dinner, I play some more with the kids, then I sit out on the balcony under the waxing crescent moon. I’m grateful for Yusuke and Hiroko and their hospitality and friendship.

I say goodbye to the kids. Yusuke puts me on a train back to Shinjuku. Back to the band, the tour, the circus. I sit studying my reflection across from me in the train window. I feel rejuvenated and determined to get through it, to be the best version of myself.

My phone vibrates with a text from Yusuke. His son, Yuma, is sad and crying because I left. I’m filled with emotion too. This day has been an island, the best day ever that I didn’t spend with my own family. I’ll never forget it.

Thanks for watching and reading!

When I was growing up in Edison, New Jersey, we, skateboarders, didn’t have skateparks or sanctioned skate spots. What we had was pavement, lots of it, and the challenge of eluding cops, jocks, store owners, burnouts, and hostile drivers. We didn’t let these obstacles hinder us. Instead, we took our quasi-urban environment: the walls behind grocery stores, the Rutgers College campus, and New Brunswick parking decks, and we made the best of it. In a community crowded with traffic jams, townhouses, industry, and malls, we considered the asphalt behind Acme prime open space.

I got my first skateboard on Christmas morning, 1984. Just a year and a half later, in June of 1986, a week before my sixteenth birthday, I was sponsored by Powell Peralta, the nation’s leading skateboard manufacturer, while attending a professional ramp competition at Mount Trashmore in Virginia Beach, Virginia.

That weekend, I joined the East Coast’s best street skaters in the Mount Trashmore parking lot for what felt like a casting call. It was a pivotal moment in skateboard history, where the focus shifted from the professionals on the ramp to the kids playing in the streets, of which I was one.

Surrounded by a company of technically sound and polished street skaters, my style was erratic and expressive. While others tried to put themselves across, I put every ounce of my being into every trick. It was apparent to many industry insiders that I wasn’t from Dogtown and that I didn’t surf. Coming from the Northeast, I was more B-Boy than Z-Boy. I didn’t fit in, and they didn’t know what to make of me. However, skateboard legend, filmmaker, and talent scout for the Bones Brigade, Stacy Peralta, did. He saw something in me, believed in me, and asked me to join the team on the spot.

In mid-July I boarded an airplane for the first time, flying to California to compete in the National Skateboard Association amateur streetstyle championship. I landed in Oceanside not just with my own tricks but with an entirely new set of ordinances. I didn’t just take on the country’s best amateur street skaters, I took on the entire West Coast skateboard establishment and I won.

Then in August, I was featured on the cover of Thrasher, the major magazine for skateboard enthusiasts, and later that month, I was back in California to film a scene for the upcoming Bones Brigade video, The Search For Animal Chin.

As a who’s who of professional skaters and industry leaders gathered in Los Angeles for a night of filming in an underground auto repair shop transformed into a mock Las Vegas club, I stepped out into the dusk on Pico Blvd. I looked up into the sky as the last rays of light receded, reflecting upon a summer, the likes of which the sun would never rise again.

In early September, I found myself standing on a sidewalk in Edison with a group of local skaters outside T & F Outdoor Sports, a hunting and fishing store located on Plainfield Avenue. The owners, Tom Zeccino and Frank Pagano, had expanded their inventory to include skating equipment, clothing, and videos based on our suggestions. They, along with Frank’s father, Tony, were our biggest supporters in town, providing us with both equipment and friendship. This is also where Alan Hoffman, a staff writer for our local newspaper, The Home News, came to meet us—to meet me.

Hoffman towered over us, holding a notebook and pen, dressed in khaki pants and a loose-fitting short-sleeve button-up shirt. As soon as he began asking us questions, it was clear he had come in peace; he believed something interesting and meaningful was happening here. He approached us with both an open heart and an open mind. We were used to being told what to do by adults, not asked why we do what we do. This was the moment I had been waiting for—a chance to speak up for skateboarding in my community. But before I could say anything, the other skaters blurted out responses to Hoffman’s questions. Their replies sounded as if they were reciting lines from some half-baked Hollywood skateboard script. I couldn’t believe my ears—did they actually think this way? Was this all skateboarding represented to them, some shallow teenage rebellion? To me, it came from a deeper place. We weren’t resisting; we were redefining. Street skating wasn’t a reaction to the social pressure of high school—it was an insight, a revelation. It was poetry and philosophy; it transcended the immediate culture. I’d heard enough.

We don’t have any ramps around here, so we just use our environment to make up tricks. We just use anything. We could have a major session right here, I said, waving my arm at the storefronts, the sidewalk, the air, These walls, anything.

Hoffman zeroed in on me; now we were having a real conversation. He pointed out that while skaters passionately believe in the merits of skating, many people only see skateboards and what we do in the streets as a threat to society’s well-being and safety. People don’t understand it, they think it’s dangerous and a toy, I responded. I get the impression they don’t want to see us having fun. They’d rather see us on a football field. You get hurt skating, and they want to ban it. Why don’t they just ban activity? I consider skating like an art form, and they can’t appreciate that. Hoffman nodded his head empathetically. He’d gotten what he needed, and now he wanted to see me skate.

We moved to the asphalt lot behind Washington School, one of the places we skated regularly. It was time to let my skating do the talking. While still speaking to other skaters, Hoffman focused intently on my every move. This was one of the first and most significant demonstrations of my career, a chance to showcase skateboarding in my hometown. Wearing baggy pants, a baby blue T&F shirt, and a pink wristband, I went wild on the pavement.

Hoffman didn’t need to know anything about skateboarding to realize what he was witnessing was raw, simple, and emotional. It was clear that I was not just working through a litany of skateboard maneuvers; I was improvising, inventing, and innovating in the moment. All the other skaters stopped and watched, stunned by the intensity and passion of my performance.

To me, skateboarding wasn’t a fad; it was a lifestyle. It represented liberation from a predestined life filled with work, sports teams, and muscle cars. I was charting a different path; I was following my heart. I had skated outside the confines of society and had found happiness. I was living my dream. Hoffman smiled.

Thanks for reading!

        I see the parrot girl all the time
she looks at me
I turn away—I am shy
No parrot girl could make me lose my mind
though

        Parrot girl puts on too much make-up 
and in all the wrong places
One can tell a feathered wing did the work

        Parrot girl says the same things over and over
Give me, love me, cater to my parrot needs

        Parrot girl, she has a job
I’ve been to her place of work
She handed me plate with another feathered friend
fried and dried on it
Eat and enjoy she said

Something is wrong with the parrot girl

Parrot Girl stands as the very first poem I ever published. I insisted on its inclusion in my inaugural advertisement—marking the first-ever color ad for SMA World Industries, which later became simply World Industries—in the July 1989 issue of Thrasher Magazine. I wrote the poem while seated next to Jason Lee on an airplane headed to Sweden on March 20th of that same year. Just a month before, I had decisively walked out of a ten-year contract with Powell Peralta, the preeminent manufacturer in the skateboard industry, to become part-owner of SMA World Industries alongside Steve Rocco, Rodney Mullen, and Jesse Martinez. This was a bold move to sign on with a fledgling venture; many industry insiders thought it was career suicide.

Despite all the tears and talk, I understood precisely what I was doing and why. My decision to leave Powell Peralta had little to do with contracts, handbooks, graveyards, marketing campaigns, or any strained relationships with the company or the people involved. I have a profound admiration and respect for Fitz, Todd, George, and Stacy—those guys were instrumental in my start and believed in me. I truly appreciated everything they had done for me, especially Stacy—he was, and still is, one of my heroes. However, I envisioned a different path for myself and my skating—one that didn’t conform to the established mold. It was ultimately about my independence as a skater and as an artist.

I was brimming with my own ideas for advertisements, board shapes, graphics, videos, and more. Powell Peralta wasn’t and could never be my megaphone; at that point, I was just another skater on a bloated team, and I didn’t want to wait in line for anything. I was developing my own sound, my own style—it was time for me to leave the orchestra—blow solo—have solitary freedom. To me, skateboarding was about individuality—it had nothing to do with teams. Sure, someone had to manufacture the boards and sell them, but to me, those were my records—my songs. I wasn’t a trick or contest pony, and I couldn’t see a future in that environment unless I was constantly winning something. The rules of the game were not mine; I was leaving to create my own, becoming a law unto myself.

The entrenched skateboard market had become dullsville: slow-moving and predictable. My arrival on the scene three years earlier had been a cannon shot, signaling the opening engagement of the street skating revolution—and the follow-up bombardment was thundering. One of its leading combatants sat next to me on that airplane—bayonet fixed. I straddled a dangerous line between what was and what was becoming, refusing to throw my hat in with either camp.

Teaming up with longtime confidant Rocco gave me the opportunity to separate myself from the industry status quo, sidestep the hierarchy, and have a singular career. The dynamic with Rocco was different; we were creating something together. I wasn’t just another skater—I was an owner who could put one of my poems in an advertisement and do whatever I wanted. At Powell Peralta, I was under contract—a team rider, beholden to expectations I no longer felt I could meet.

Two months before all of that went down, I had started dating Ann. The thing is, she had previously been in a relationship with Jason, the guy sitting next to me on the plane. Other people made more of a fuss about it than Jason. When it all went down, I went to Jason and talked to him—he was as cool as could be. As far as he was concerned, he had his rising skate career to focus on and he didn't want to get in the middle of what Ann and I felt was meant to be.

Despite the nasty rumors and gossip that floated around us, Jason and I remained friendly and continued to skate together. I talked to Jason on the phone a few days ago, and it was great to catch up. We’ve kept in touch periodically over the years. Now, thirty-six years later, Jason has built a legendary career in acting and skating, and he has a beautiful family. Ann and I have been together all this time and have two independent and successful adult daughters. No one is hung up about what happened way back when.

So, there we were, flying to Scandinavia for the first-ever World Industries promo-tour. I was already a veteran of the road, while this was Jason’s first time traveling overseas. We had just finished dinner when I took out my journal, and in an instant, the poem came to me—word for word, line by line. At that point in my life, writing had become an extension of my skating, and vice versa. To me, skating was always a form of physical poetry—physical graffiti; It was all about expression. I inscribed my poems onto streets and ramps with my board, and into notebooks and journals with my pen. This poem felt completely original, with a style that was a sort of poetic journal entry.

On our first morning in Sweden, we woke up early, feeling jetlagged. We were staying in a small economy cabin, which was situated up the road from the main full-service hotel. Stepping outside into the keen air, we were in desperate need of food—of something to drink. For that, we’d have to walk a half mile or so down the narrow street through the woods to the hotel.

Just then, we saw a bicycle propped up against a shed in the twilight. Jason ventured that the bike must be provided by the hotel for guests staying in the cabins, which seemed reasonable. So, we decided to use it. I climbed onto the handlebars while Jason pedaled us out of the gravel-strewn lot.

As we started down the road, Jason struggled to keep the bike upright and moving straight. We wobbled erratically from side to side, and with each crank of the chain, we nearly tipped over. About a quarter of the way down the hill, we realized the entire endeavor was futile—Fuck It. I jumped off the handlebars, and we ghost-rid the bike down the street, where it veered off the path into an overgrown ditch with a resounding crash.

At that moment, we spotted a family rounding the corner and coming up the hill, clearly shocked by what they had just witnessed—it was their bike we’d just jettisoned to oblivion. They ran over to see how they could recover it, as we rushed ahead with our heads down. Though we were ashamed of our behavior, we couldn’t help but laugh, and we laughed about it for days. We laugh about it still.

Back in the US, Rocco says he needs a photo of me for an advertisement in Thrasher. I produced the Ollie-Tailgrab at Scooter's ramp, captured by Christian Kline's lens. Then, I tell him I want to include one of my poems in the ad. Rocco responds with his signature mischievous giggle; you never know if he's laughing at you or is a co-conspirator. It doesn't matter either way; the poem goes into the ad.

When the ad came out in the magazine, people started talking—who is the Parrot Girl? Most assumed it was Ann—no fucking way. The last thing I wanted was to explain myself, my poetry, either then or now. But I was rankled by the presumption I had written something negative about my girlfriend in Thrasher. When I tried to convince anyone otherwise, they thought it was all evasion. One friend even went through the poem line by line, insisting it was obviously about Ann. I couldn't believe it; what seemed obvious to others and what was evident to me were two different realities. When I included the poem in the ad, I had no idea that anyone would read into it or care. But everything in my life then had taken on an air of controversy—it made it hard to breathe.

Rocco added a caption to the advertisement that highlighted my complete oblivion to the cost of a full-page color ad, and I was. When I joined World Industries, I had two stipulations: first, I wanted a guaranteed salary regardless of board royalties; at that time, most pros were only compensated with royalties from the sales of their signature products. Second, I insisted that the company upgrade from its low-quality black-and-white ads to full-page color ads.

From the start, my boards sold like crazy—salary demands were never an issue, but the color ads were quickly abandoned. More importantly, the Parrot Girl ad represented the first truly independent notes of my career. It served as a glorious announcement and set the tone for an original, individual approach to my life in professional skateboarding.

Thanks for reading!

It’s a perfect Southern California day; the streets shine in the sun. I grab my skateboard and, with a running start, throw it down onto the pavement; urethane meets asphalt; my feet meet the board. I push across intersections, up and down sidewalks, through alleyways, and parking lots. Cameras focus in. I dreamed all this so long ago—only the styles of the passing cars, the drone swarming overhead, and the helmet I’m wearing signal the passing of time. This is who I am, what I was born to do. I’m still dreaming.

Tommy gives me the thumbs up, and I take off. It’s a simple thing, pushing a skateboard, a necessary first step, but one that so awed me when I started out that I have lingered long in its ecstasy. It is an art form all its own, one I have never taken for granted. My wheels sing up the middle of the street, each kick propelling me forward. I’m still awed.

I see Brodee in front of his house with his dad. I catch their eyes, and we share a smile. Next, I’m on their front lawn, we’re shaking hands. Brodee grabs his skateboard from inside the house. I jump on his mini-sized board and do a street plant. Brodee gasps, Wow! This, this, playing in the streets, was my first love, my calling. And so, popularizing, sharing, and promoting street skating was my obligation, the aim of my professional career. Brodee’s mom comes out and takes photos of Brodee, his dad, and me posing with our boards. After more handshakes, I skate back to the starting point filled with gratitude. I’m still out here. I’m still playing.

Ryan pilots the birds-eye-view overhead. Tommy changes angles to catch glimpses of me passing between parked cars, while Jameson directs from the sidewalk. They tell me to go down to the end of the block, then turn around and do it again. On go, I explode out of the gate, away from Tommy’s camera, clear of the whirl of the drone, past Brodee’s house, and beyond the end of the block. I keep going, I keep pushing. I’m still pushing.

Skate. Create. Enjoy!

I awake to the orange waning gibbous moon setting in the west, reflected on a framed picture on the wall. The last light of the night is the first light of the day. I lay in bed with Annie and the dogs, as Dozer climbs up on my chest. We watch the rising sun brush streaks of gold and pink across the sky. A bald eagle soars over the river. I’m happy.

As the snow flies, birds gather at the feeders. Cardinal, Northern flicker, house finch, black-capped chickadee, hairy woodpecker, downy woodpecker, American goldfinch, European starling, white-breasted nuthatch, and mourning dove. I sit at the morning table with coffee, binoculars, and my journal. I’m happy.

I step out into the first big snowstorm of the year. I have 45lbs in my rucksack and head into the woods to put the first human tracks down in the fresh snow. I count eighteen bald eagles along the frozen river, many of them juveniles. I come across a beaver’s handiwork, and I have a close encounter with a white-tailed deer. I loop the five miles through the trees as the snow continues to fall. On the way back, my footprints from an hour earlier are completely covered as I trudge through ankle-deep snow. I’m happy.

I get up early, armed with just a shovel, while the rest of the neighborhood pushes fuel-burning machines. I dig out the driveway, the apron, the gutter, the walks, our porch, and patio. Although it’s only 2°, I sweat through my clothes. I clear the concrete completely while the machines leave a thin layer of snow and ice. Back in the house, I look out and admire my good work. I’m happy.

I play my guitar and watch the bird feeders. Three white-tailed deer arrive, joining the squirrels and starlings. I sit motionless and watch every cautious sniff of the air and snap of the head. After long, nervous minutes, the deer flee into the trees and brush, their white flags waving goodbye. I’m happy.

The temperature drops below zero. Three tom turkeys waddle into the backyard for their turn under the feeders. I watch them from our gallery of picture windows. Later, a coyote struts through the yard, along the side of the house, down our driveway and up the middle of the street as if on official business. I run from window to window to watch his progress. I’m happy.

Our yard has become a regular stop for deer and turkey as they make their daily circuits. The afternoon sun touches down on the snow, and the toms reappear, their feathers iridescent in the bright light. They forage in the backyard for over an hour, and are joined by blue jays, cardinals, European starlings, and fox squirrels. I’m happy.

I write Lucy a letter on my typewriter. I fold it, put it in an envelope, address and stamp it. I bundle up and get on my Fat Bike. I ride through the woods on the snow-covered trails to the post office. White-tailed deer watch me pass. I’m wearing two pairs of gloves, but my hands still go numb. My mustache and beard turn to ice. I’m happy.

We meet Wade and Jenny at Lachele’s in Highland Park for the soft opening of the new location. We catch up over burgers, we talk about everything; we talk about nothing. Annie goes big and orders a root beer. I steal a sip. I’m happy.

My eyes open in my daughter Emily and son-in-law Brandon’s home in Long Beach, California. I step outside into familiar smells and sounds. I walk through parking lots to a coffee shop, and then back to their dining room table. I pick up my pen and start to write. The cats slink around me as I sketch ideas in my workbook. I’m happy.

I step on my skateboard; it’s been a while, but it feels completely natural and right. I skate around San Pedro with Tommy, Jameson, and Ryan—their cameras follow me around. I take a fall rounding a corner at speed and tumble hard onto the asphalt. I get up and shake it off. I go back to the starting point—I’m in my element. I’m happy.

Dad’s taxi service is back in business for the day. I drive Emily to Los Angeles to run errands for her work. It reminds me of when she was a teenager, just starting out working in LA. Before she drove, I would drive her wherever she needed to go, spend my day working on my laptop nearby, and then drive her home in the evening. This morning, we navigate the traffic of the 605, 5, 110, and 91 freeways. We drive around for hours talking and laughing. I’m happy.

I’m back on my board in a parking lot in Long Beach. Tommy, Jameson, Ryan, and their cameras are with me again. I skate a cement pad; I sing my songs. I open my vocal cords just a bit and feel their range. There’s a lot of music in there still. Seagulls pass overhead. I’m happy.

I’m on The Islander—a ferry rolling through the swell in the Santa Barbara Channel. Squadrons of Brown Pelicans skim the ocean all around us. We dock at Scorpion Anchorage on Santa Cruz Island National Park. I walk quickly past my fellow visitors as we disembark, and for the next four hours, I never see or cross paths with another person. I hike ten miles out to Smuggler’s Cove and Yellow Banks and back. I see the island scrub jay and Santa Cruz Island fox. Back on the mainland in Ventura, I stand on the beach and watch the sun sink into the Pacific. I’m happy.

I get a coffee and stroll along Main Street in Ventura. I make my way over to the one-hundred-and fifty-year-old Moreton Bay Fig tree as the soft morning light filters through its canopy. I walk down to the beach and watch the beach squirrels and the surfers. I’m happy.

I meet Ari and Micaiah at Skate One. I tour the wheel and board manufacturing facilities. I see old friends and make a few new ones. Being on the ground, here where the products are being made, talking to the people who bring them to life, makes me want to do more, fight harder—something. I sign boards and tell stories to the sons of the very people I lived some of those stories with. I’m happy.

I head over to DW Drums just down the freeway. I meet Chris, Angel, and Britt, and I get my second manufacturing tour of the day. I watch as plies of wood become a drum. The tour ends standing in front of the last kit Neil Peart of Rush played on the R40 Tour. The kit is lovingly preserved in a private showroom at DW. Chris, who worked with Neil, gifts me a pair of sticks that The Professor used in his rehearsals at DW before the tour. I text photos of me standing in front of the kit to Annie, Wade, Paul, Eli, Charles, Lucy, and Brandon. I feel blessed to have people in my life who will appreciate this as much as I do. I’m happy.

The plane leaves the ground as the last slivers of light withdraw from the darkening sky. I see the headlights of bicycles riding along the Back Bay in Newport Beach. We turn out over the Pacific, and I look down into the blackness of Laguna Canyon, then up along the coastline to Palos Verdes and beyond. I think of all the places and all the times of my life down there. As I look out over the sprawling lights of the towns, freeways, neighborhoods, rivers, and cities, none of it feels abstract or far away. It all feels open and present—a part of me. I’m happy.

I sing into the microphone in the studio in Jay’s basement. Wade meets me there, and we work on our songs. Wade and Jay add back-up vocals, Jay overdubs guitar and keys—the songs begin to come to life. Jay turns up the playback in the speakers, Wade and I listen on the couch—shit-eating grins on our faces. I’m happy.

A blizzard blows in, freezing rain followed by snow and howling winds. I get up early the next morning before the sun and walk out into the biting cold; the frozen snow squeaking under my feet. I look up—always look up—into the still star-studded heavens. My calendar is as wide-open as the sky. The interstate groans in the distance—I’m not on it. I’m happy.

I put on my running shoes and take to the morning trail—into the rising sun—the song of the cardinal my soundtrack. The bald eagles are gone except for the year-round nesting pair. The red-winged blackbird and American white pelican are here. I jog close past white-tailed deer; they don’t seem concerned. I wave good morning—they just look at me. I walk back along the muddy shore of the Des Moines River. I face east to feel the climbing sun’s warmth on my face. I see the first of the neighborhood robins. I step into the house, and Annie has breakfast burritos waiting. I’m happy.

A red fox gallops ahead of me on the bike trail. It stops and looks back to see if I am still pedaling behind it. The game continues to my exhilaration until the fox darts out into and across the street. I stop and watch it as cars pass. It looks back to see if I’ll continue to follow—I won’t. It bounds off into the brush, and I watch it run down an embankment, then reemerge on the open field. I’m happy.

The wind blows in from the south, and the sky grows ominous. The woodchuck and deer make for cover—the birds still brave the unstable air. Blackbirds bunch up on bare branches—I see the blue head of the common grackle. This is the first grackle sighting I’ve made in our yard—you’d think I was eight years old, and it was Christmas morning. Double-crested cormorants hightail it from the river over the house, and I see the first turkey vultures of the season soaring in the updrafts. Spider lightning crawls across the sky. I’m happy.

It’s 70°—Emily visits from California. We walk the dogs around the block, then Emily, Annie, and I walk down to and along the river. I point out the eagle nest to Emily—one of the eagles is perched nearby in a tall cottonwood. We stroll down to the pond and feel the sun’s caress. The wind blows gently but the mind is still. I’m happy.

It's the first day of spring. The grass around the neighborhood is starting to green up. The robins let me get close enough that I feel compelled to say hello. Just as I begin to speak, they flutter off every time. I walk the dogs three times. I get on my bike for a rip through the woods just before dinner. I come across a guy, Josh, rucking his dogs on the Owl Trail. I stop and talk to him for a bit. He says he’s planning an overnight ruck and camping trip in the Loess Hills. I tell him I’m jealous.

I take the dogs out for the last time before bed, and they almost catch a fat cottontail in the backyard. I get into bed with Annie and the dogs. I have nine books, two notebooks, and a dictionary on my nightstand. Bentley snores away as Dozer chews on a nylon bone. Annie and I sip tea. I am home—off the road. In the last six weeks, I have put some time and distance between what was and what is. I feel good. Pen in hand, I begin this new season of my life. I’m happy.

Thanks for reading!

Snow crunches under my feet as I shovel the driveway. I pull the car out and traverse the icy roads to the airport. I kiss Annie goodbye and spend hours delayed, pacing the length of the concourse over and over. I miss the dogs already. I can talk to Annie; I can call her anytime; the dogs are just left unknowing.

I fly the highway in the sky into Austin, Texas. I meet up with the band and we run the sets. I ease back into the songs and then I try to shake them from my memory. Can each time be the first time? I want to experience them in the moment every time I sing them—I never want it to be routine.

The rain falls so gently it’s not perceptible but for the ripples in the creek. I take the long way through the neighborhood to earn my lunch.

I pass under the streetlights through the grackle filled parking lot to the market. I get some groceries and head back to the motel. Up the stairs—Do Not Disturb sign on the door, and into bed with a book.

I walk through the park on wet, crushed gravel. I go over the lyrics in my head one last time. Mallards waddle and quack as I pass by. Dinner at the local café is topped with a piece of coconut pie.

I sleep long in a blacked-out room. The first sounds of morning are tires on wet pavement. I open my eyes—coffee. The first show of the tour is tonight.

We load the van and head south on the 35 to San Antonio. After soundcheck I try to walk off the pre-show nerves along the river. As the last note rings out, I step off the front of the stage out into the audience to say hello.

We drive north up the 35 and park at our motel in Waco at 3:00 a.m. I put my bags down, brush my teeth, and charge my phone. I turn the lights off and listen to the highway drone.

The sky opens over the plains—turkey vultures soar overhead. We cross the Red River into Oklahoma.

The songs come at rapid-fire—there’s no time to even breathe. I grip the mic-stand so hard that my hands go numb.

The 35 south, back into Texas. The rain is relentless; the highway is a pond. After the show in Fort Worth, we drive east on the 20 into the night. The windshield wipers like a metronome to songs playing in my head.

We head south on the 49 through driving rain into Atchafalaya. The next morning, we jog across state highways out of Baton Rouge over swollen creeks and streams to the 55 into Jackson, Mississippi. We merge back onto the 20 heading east through the mist into Birmingham, Alabama. We have the night off. I walk through rain-soaked parking lots, talking to Annie on the phone.

I step out into the morning rain, thunder booming overhead. We push east into Atlanta. After the show, we head south on the 75 in a relentless downpour; lightning illuminates the road.

I sleep until as near to call time as possible. I shower and get back behind the wheel. Crosswinds slam into the van as we enter Florida; I watch the sky for birds.

We drive through Alligator Alley at night, through Big Cypress National Preserve. I can’t see it, but I feel it all around me.

We continue south. The sun emerges for the first time in several days. Egrets follow behind mowers on the median picking at bugs stirred up by the fresh cut grass.

I walk along the shore on a windy, empty beach as waves break at my feet. Portuguese man o’ war washes up with sargassum. It’s just me and the gulls.

I walk back to the motel under the waxing gibbous moon. I miss Annie, I miss the dogs, I miss my guitar, I miss my typewriter, I miss my bike.

The 95 north into Satellite Beach. I retrace footsteps from last year’s visit and add a few new ones. I stand on the beach at night—the clouds part and reveal the moon and Jupiter.

Walking to get coffee, I stop and observe all the different birds in a small pond outside the motel, including a pair of sandhill cranes.

Out of Deland, through Ocala National Forest; deer populate the shoulders of the highway. I ford across to the 75 north into Lake City.

We roll back and forth across the panhandle on the 10. Into the dusk, to the 95 north. We negotiate up the asphalt river through dense fog.

We take the 58 into Virginia Beach, Virginia. I walk familiar streets somewhere in the future. Fighter jets roar overhead.

Back out on the 58 to Emporia, Virginia, then down the 95 to Gastonia, North Carolina. I call Annie—only a few more days and I’ll be home.

I wake up in Greensboro, North Carolina. I walk for an hour to get coffee and a bagel. I sit in the coffee shop and write in my road book.

We navigate the 40 east and its tributaries into Jacksonville, North Carolina. This is the last night of this leg of the tour. After the show, I get in a rental car with Matt and Charles and speed west through the night towards the Raleigh-Durham airport.

I sleep for a few hours at the airport. Then from the moment I board the plane and take my seat, I sleep again. I only wake up when we are parked at the arrival gate in Chicago. I have a long layover and go to the airport lounge. There is a No-Cellphone-Use room, and I am the only person in it for over 4 hours.

Home for Christmas. I climb into bed with Annie and the dogs. We drink tea and read our books.

Lucy and Hayden visit for dinner and a gift exchange. With my touring as an excuse, the house isn’t decorated for the season. I resolve to never let that be the case again.

I fly into Phoenix, Arizona. After the show in Tempe, we drive east on I-10 into Wilcox, Arizona. In the morning, it’s east again through Las Cruces, New Mexico, to US 70, past White Sands National Park and through the Lincoln National Forest, into Roswell.

We retrace the previous day’s trail on the Billy the Kid Scenic Byway, through the Mescalero Apache Reservation, and back into Arizona.

In the morning, I hike six miles through the cactus forest of Saguaro National Park. Then I get in a rental car and speed west on the 10 to the Casa Grande Ruins National Monument. I walk around the 14th-century Big House and grounds.

I make my way to Interstate 17 and arrive in Sedona, Arizona, as the sun is setting. I hike Little Horse Trail and watch the last light of the day paint the cliffs. I arrive at Chicken Point as stars begin to appear in the night sky. I walk back to the car, losing the trail twice in the darkness.

My headlights search every twist and turn of State Road 89A through Oak Creek Canyon. I merge onto the 40 west to AZ State Route 64 to the south rim of the Grand Canyon.

I’m up before the sun and walking east along the rim. I see the first light of day touch down on the canyon walls as the morning ravens soar overhead. At 9:30 a.m., I start down the Bright Angel Trail; a big horn sheep guards the way. I stop to jot down some New Year’s resolutions in my notebook:

     Play more guitar

     Improve my penmanship

     Self-improvement—always self-improvement

At Havasupai Gardens I turn around and head back to the rim in one non-stop push—always finish strong. By 1:15 p.m. I have already hiked fourteen miles.

At sundown I walk west on the rim trail. I find a quiet spot that I have all to myself and watch the last light of 2024 caress the canyon walls.

I’m up early and racing west on the 40. I swerve around a roadrunner and push into California. Eight hours later, I’m in Long Beach. I grab lunch and a short nap. Then it’s onto Hermosa Beach and the first show of 2025.

The 405 to the 5 south along the John Basilone Memorial Highway into San Diego. I walk along the bay under Venus and a waxing crescent moon. I watch a great blue heron stalk the shallows—stabbing its prey and swallowing it down.

A great night in Orange County with friends and family ends with a severe case of food poisoning. I spend the night next to the toilet—my body cramped and listless. In the morning I can barely open my eyes or murmur a word.

I show up at the Whisky a Go Go just before showtime. I’m still very sick— I fight through it. It’s one of the hardest shows I’ve ever played.

Back in the van, we merge onto the 5 north—I’m nauseous and weak. We stop in Castaic. I need rest.

We trudge up the 5 through The Grapevine and the Central Valley. I look for hawks. We take the 580 to the 80 west across the Bay Bridge into San Francisco. We play the same club on the same day we did exactly one year ago.

Just north of Redding on the 5 begins one of my favorite stretches of interstate: across Shasta Lake, along the slopes of Mount Shasta, and over the Klamath River into Oregon; through the Rogue Valley, past Ashland and Medford into the Willamette Valley. Eight hours later, I’m walking the water-logged streets of Eugene, Oregon.

We continue up the 5 through Portland, over the Columbia River into Washington, with Mount Rainier shining in the distance. I walk all over Seattle and try to keep the homesickness at bay.

We go up and down the 5. We cross into Canada for a show in Vancouver, then back into Tulalip, Washington, for the night. Motel rooms all look the same—it gets hard to distinguish one from the previous, from the next.

Just south of Salem, Oregon, the van suddenly loses traction and careens across two lanes of interstate towards the median and into oncoming traffic. I can’t believe it—this is how I die? I feather the wheel against the pull, knowing the van will over-correct itself. Sure enough, we go hurtling in the opposite direction—tilting up on two wheels. I see the pavement rising towards me in my side window and expect the van to flip. I feather against the pull again; we rock up on the opposite side and go sliding through the shoulder. Somehow, I get the van back on all four wheels, and we begin to spin 360°. We come to a stop in the mud and grass as semi-trucks thunder by. I start crying.

I open my eyes in Antioch, California, and walk to a laundromat. I call Annie, tears welling up in my eyes. Back in the room, I call Emily and then Lucy. I need to hear their voices; I need to ground myself in who I am and what really matters to me.

I walk to an Indian restaurant. After eating, I look at the foothills in the distance and start walking towards them. The next thing I know, I’m walking a ridgeline in the Black Diamond Mines Regional Preserve. A large coyote watches me wearily, running ahead of me on the trail. I walk out of the park towards the rising wolf moon as the sun sets behind me.

I wake up at Oeste Home, an Airbnb in Morongo Valley that my daughter Emily assisted with the interior design of. I see her fingerprint in every room and feel her embrace all around me. I hear her whisper in my ear—I love you, Dad. It’s time to go home.

Coyotes yip as I stand and look up into the star dense sky. Here, in the desert, I resolve to withdraw from the road and retire into the bosom of my home, family, and affections. I feel a great weight slip off my shoulders. For the first time in a month and a half I sleep soundly.

I get in the rental car with Andrew and Bruce, and we drive into Joshua Tree National Park. I regale them with stories of my early touring days. It’s strange, now that I feel a chapter of my life coming to an end, the very first words of the story seem more present than ever.

We hike up Ryan Mountain at sunset. I sit on a pile of rocks on the summit and close my eyes as the sun burns through my sunglasses and eyelids into my consciousness. I open my eyes and begin the hike down. Nine more days.

In another motel, I toss and turn; I say out loud—I need to get home—I need to get home. I count the days down again, over and over in my mind, just to be sure I have it right. I visualize walking in the door, the dogs tackling me.

I pick Charles up just off the 10 and we make our way over to the 15 north into Las Vegas, Nevada.

I wake up early and beat a fast retreat out of Sin City. I drive the 95 into California, to State Highway 190 into Death Valley National Park.

I walk across Badwater Basin. Then I hike Golden Canyon to Red Cathedral and Zabriskie Point. I get back in the car and start driving west. I suddenly see the date on the car’s dashboard and scream out loud, startling myself—ANOTHER FUCKING WEEK—ANOTHER FUCKING WEEK?!

I ramble around Mesquite Flat Sand Dunes as the light fades on another day out here. In my room at the lodge, I run a bath and eat an ice cream cookie sandwich while submerged in hot water and bubbles.

I drive out to Dante’s View and lie on the hood of the car in the blowing wind and look up into the dark night sky—a sea of stars comes into view.

I watch the sun rise over the badlands of Death Valley and then later set over Morro Bay. I walk around the volcanic plug called The Rock and watch sea otters float in rafts.

I wake up to a text from Annie: 4 more days.

Back up the 5 to the 99 and past double rainbows into Fresno. I walk the streets alone and contemplate my reflection in a pothole puddle.

The 58 east out of Bakersfield to the 40, through the Mojave Desert. We cross the Colorado River, where the evening light falls favorably on Arizona. Through wind, rain, and snow, we drive into Flagstaff.

Interstate 40 east into The Land of Enchantment, across the Continental Divide. Crosswinds blow the van sideways; the last hundred miles are a white-knuckle experience for everyone as we motor into Albuquerque. I park the van for the last time.

I get up early and go over to the airport. I’m three hours early for my flight. I drink coffee and wait. I fly to Denver and connect to Des Moines. Annie picks me up at the curb—my eyes are blessed. I step into the house; the dogs rush me. I lay down on the floor as Dozer and Bentley pounce on me and lick my face. I’m home.

Thanks for reading!

I sleep until my eyes open. Our French bulldogs Bentley and Dozer snuggle in tight to my body. I stay in bed and savor this time with them—the day can wait.

I sit outside on the deck at the morning table with coffee. The autumnal sun touches down gently on the treetops and river, fallen leaves decorate the yard. I open my workbook and pick up my pen—I concentrate on the page and write.

I walk the dogs via rucksack. I carry 45lbs on my back and a reusable mesh trash bag in my hand. The dogs drag me around the neighborhood, leaves crunching under our feet. I pick up any trash and litter as we go. Dozer lurches at all the busy squirrels, Bentley’s hair rises as we approach every known canine residence. A neighbor asks, Who’s walking who? I just smile.

I run along the river. I see wild turkey moving through the quiet woods. This is my daydream time. The first line of a poem comes to me. I take my memo book out of my belt bag and jot it down. The eyrie of our resident bald eagles is visible again through the thinning trees. Northern cardinals and blue jays flitter across the paved path. Legs and lungs and poetry.

I ride my bike out to Saylorville Lake to observe the migrating Franklin’s gull. I loop back through Johnston to see the Frank Lloyd Wright house on Beaver Avenue.

My big-brother Joe visits. He drives a long way out of his way on a business trip and makes the time to have brunch with Annie and me. We go to St. Kilda downtown and catch up over Big Aussie Breakfasts and coffee.

Annie and I travel to Maine. We drive up the coast from Portland. We stand on the top of Mt. Battie overlooking Penobscot Bay in Camden. We stroll under the elms and through history in Castine. We hike the Ocean Path from Sand Beach to Otter Cliffs, then summit Gorham Mountain in Acadia National Park. We drink in the fall foliage, eat lobster rolls and ice cream. We read our books and miss our dogs.

I talk to my mom on the phone. Hurricanes skirt around them in North Carolina. My dad is in the backyard working in the garden—of course. We will see them soon for Thanksgiving in Des Moines.

I ramble around Skillet Creek in Webster County, Iowa. I breathe in the musky earth and hike up to prehistoric Woodland Indian ceremonial and burial mounds on a hill above the Des Moines River.

I refill the backyard bird feeders and scatter feed on the ground for chipmunks, squirrels, and cottontails. I sit on the deck with my binoculars and record in my notebook the comings and goings of the birds—the European starlings are back. I note sightings of white-tailed deer, woodchucks, wild turkeys, and red foxes.

I drive out to the Missouri River with Andrew and Bruce. We follow Lewis and Clark’s path along Iowa’s western border. We stop at Council Bluffs, overlooking the river and the city of Omaha, Nebraska. The Lewis and Clark State Park in Onawa is closed, but the ranger lets us tour the visitor center anyway. A full-size replica of the Corps of Discovery Keel Boat is the main attraction. In Sioux City, we visit the Sergeant Floyd Monument and eat Mexican food.

I play with Dozer in the downstairs family room—we call it the Romper Room. This is Dozer’s favorite room, his favorite time. We play fetch and keep away—mixing in plenty of wrestling and kisses. When we’re done playing, we just lie on the carpeted floor together.

I take a trip to Bentonville, Arkansas, to ride mountain bikes with Wade and Rob. We meet up with Bill, Skinner, Jeff, Nate, and Jim. We spend three days riding through the golden woods. At night, we sit around a fire pit under a star-filled sky, talking and laughing.

I sit down at my desk to work on handwritten letters to Emily in California and Lucy in New York. I am in regular communication with them, but there’s more I want to tell them—more I need to say. I pick up the pen and write it down.

I sing into the microphone. My voice is embraced by the friendship of Eli’s guitar, Paul’s drums, and Wade’s bass. My words become our songs. We drive down to Kansas City for a show. In Des Moines, we share the stage at xBk with Iowa artists Abbie Sawyer, Matt Woods, and Dave Zollo for a night of songs and stories.

I pick up burr oak leaves from the yard and press them between the pages of my journal.

I meet Wade, Rob, and Kyle at North Sycamore. The trees are amber in every direction. We pedal south—leaves stream down onto the trail. We ride out onto the levees, downtown to the confluence, along and over train tracks, up equestrian runs, down spillways, and bushwhack our way out of undergrowth along the river. We see three bald eagles—one perched on a branch in the river, another in a tall dead tree, the third circling high overhead.

Annie makes ramen for dinner. We sit at the dining room table with our chop sticks while the dogs lie at our feet. Outside the wind disrobes the trees.

At dusk I sit out on the deck under a blue and pink watercolor sky—the river a cool sheet of glass. Dozer sits in my lap as the night falls. We listen for the call of the barred owl and scan the yard for opossum and raccoon.

Thunderstorms roll in. Annie and I drop the needle on a record and sit at the dining room table with our sketch books. Bob Dylan brings it all back home while we draw. The rain falls and lightning flashes across the sky.

Annie and I curl up on the couch in front of the TV with the dogs. We eat popcorn and watch The Waltons.

Bedtime comes early. Annie and I sip chamomile tea while the dogs settle in. Bentley takes bedtime very seriously and starts snoring within seconds while Dozer busies himself with a nylon bone. I contemplate the day’s events in my journal as coyotes yip in the distance. We read our books until our eyes grow heavy. I roll over, kiss Annie goodnight, and we turn off the lights. I pull the dogs into my arms—listening to the rain on the roof. I close my eyes and slip into the world of my dreams.

Thanks for reading!