Leaky Buckets

     Bendemeer, the stomping grounds of the Barefoot Butler         I vividly remember Heather, the spunky little British girl, turning around and asking me, “Where the hell are we going?” I didn’t know. I had an address for 55 Lake Haynes Rd, New Zealand scribbled in my notebook. I had assured Heather and her friend Jenny that it wouldn’t be too hard to find. They were on the whirlwind New Zealand vacation of a lifetime. I was a bum, hitching a ride from Wanaka to my next workstay, smelling like I hadn’t showered in a week, because I hadn’t.  Like most folks I hitched rides with, they insisted on taking me to the front door so I didn’t have to find another ride. Two minutes in a car often saved two hours of walking. We turned onto a steep gravel road and bounced our way into the hills. The driveway split and we took the right turn, coming to a locked gate. Back we went to the left and after about a mile, the rutted road popped us out in a ...

  Glitz in Vegas but terrible service and bad pillows Sketchy shipping container in NZ with incredibly nice bed inside I first came up with the “Good Sandwich” hypothesis while traveling around the world. After a long day of travel, I would stumble into a medium-sized town, desperately in need of a bed and a shower and a good meal. I would browse the local directory for lodging and food in some little Spanish or Australian or Norwegian town and a pattern emerged in the listings. When I eliminated the places I obviously couldn’t afford and the places that were too decrepit even for my basic tastes, there would be three or four affordable yet nice places on the list to eat or sleep. I always chose the food place with pictures of sandwiches and I always chose the hostel or hotel with a photo of the shower head and/or unlimited wifi. I began to call my selection process the “Good Sandwich” hypothesis.  I realized that the most comfortable places to eat and stay were the ones that ...

  This isn't T'ings, but its a similar Montana bar... If you wander around Montana, particularly in the small towns, and you happen across someone you know, someone will likely paraphrase the following slogan. Montana is just one small town with very long roads. You would think that with a population of a million people, it isn’t so much a small town anymore. Seven hundred miles from east to west, four hundred from north to south, the fourth largest state in the United States, Montana is anything but small. And yet… This past week, me and David took off from work early and hit the road in the big Ford. There was an open mic in the town where he grew up, Jefferson City. It was about 120 miles, two hours over Elk Park Pass and the Boulder Hill and a bunch of other oddly named geologic features and funky small towns. Along the way, we passed three vehicles that I knew and I lifted a hand in greeting. One of the local plumbers, the ex-wife of one of our co-workers, a casual acquain...

  My little hobo camp             The year was 2017. I was fresh off my whirlwind adventures Down Under and found myself in Vermont biding my time. I was working with my Dad and Uncle in the woods for the summer building a cabin, honing carpentry skills, trying to save a double decker bus from the ravenous forest and rebuilding my savings for my anticipated return to Montana. I was living in my little teardrop camper in the driveway of the jobsite, waking at dawn to watch the sun climb up over the Green Mountains and spending my evenings sitting in a lawn chair with my guitar watching the same sun sink into the western abyss.  Life was simple. Cereal and toast for breakfast. A leafy early morning dog walk through the woods with Deke. Wander over to the timber frame cabin project, sweep yesterday’s sawdust and dig out the chop saw. Wipe the morning dew from the tailgate of my Toyota and lay out my toolbelt. Work through the muggy hea...

  Some back road near Fort Peck, Montana We have a tradition that has been running for as long as Sam and I have been together, nearly five years now. One weekend a month, we load up the car with our camping gear, cooler, dogs, and all the usual roadtrip fare and set off to see some distant corner of Montana. For a state with three rectangular corners, there are far more distant corners than you would mathematically expect.  This is my greatest joy of life in Montana. Anytime we want, all we have to do is wander down some random dirt road for thirty miles to find a lonely landscape masterpiece living quietly under this endless wealth of sky. While the crowds seem to find their way to Yellowstone and Glacier, seeking an audience with the profound world treasures, we glide down some empty highway in Chouteau County with complete autonomy and no clock on our shoulders. With the radio blasting, we flip quarters at intersections, some mornings seeing more planets than cars. As the ...

  Approaching the Great Husky We crossed the great sand dunes like intrepid explorers. The bitter December wind howled across the mountains, blowing sand in our eyes, so we hunched forward, climbing ever further into the strange desert. We strained our eyes into the fading light, seeing only more dunes as far as we could see. Atop a knife-edge ridge, we settled down to gaze at the dying sun. It was Christmas Eve.  Our guide perched on the sands, golden fur gleaming, wind rippling the waves of sand and fluff as he gazed balefully at us. Sam approached like a pilgrim finally finding a teacher. He sat in silence, majestically surveying the great desert. Our footsteps slowly blew away the way we had come. As Sam sat beside the stonelike husky, he slowly turned his head and she buried her face in his fur. It was heartwarming and stoic at the same time. I snapped a dozen pictures with my old camera.  We were traipsing through the Great Sand Dunes of southern Colorado. The Sangr...

   Bombs away, Bridger Bowl 2012 The feeling of gliding through bottomless powder is almost indescribable. It must feel similar to being in outer space, floating through existence full of joy. When I launch off the edge of a mountain side down a hideously steep slope littered with stumps and boulders into a field of fluffy white powder, there is a whooshing in my ears, an exhilaration of excitement and fear. I am addicted to the feeling because I know how wonderful it feels even though my lizard brain is wired to be terrified of this exact action. I have attempted to hike up some of these mountain slopes in the summer that I fearlessly descend in the winter and am astonished at the incredible steepness. Somehow, by strapping on 185 cm boards to either foot, I am comfortable hurling myself off vertical drops where a tumble could mean death. That is the joy of skiing, the thrill, the soft landing, a face full of powder and a laugh.  I have spent thousands of days of my life...