As We Wander

Hey there, friends.

Gather back ’round the campfire. Been a while since this one’s been lit, hasn’t it? While the world has been whirling on, and we’ve all been hanging on, tiny little moments continue to happen in the quiet, instead of the thunderclap that is breaking news. I love the little stories. I crave them. They are the ambrosia that fuels both wanderlust and dreams.

So I’ve come back, and maybe you will, too. Let’s see what we can find. It’s nearing a decade since the start of this page, now, when I was preparing to take my young daughter backpacking with me in Isle Royale in 2016. It was the most unique way I could think of to spend her seventh birthday. My preparation was well-intentioned, but that only counts for so much; even with all of my interest, I still had a lot to learn.

I considered removing some of those older posts but won’t. I’ve made mistakes, lots of them, from wrong turns on the trail to some frankly atrocious early photography. That’s all embarrassing and I don’t like it, but we have too much of a tendency these days to sanitize our own stories to the extent that mistakes are so feared as if they were in themselves failure. But little by little I’ve learned from them. And that’s what growth is all about. Isn’t that what community is about, too? Sit by my fire and learn from my mistakes. Nothing like a shared laugh between strangers.

That camp stove that I took to Isle Royale would have been better suited for warming casserole at a catering event. The volume that water filter will hold and process matters a lot, too- and by the way, better check your levels before you head up that ridge. Plus, the daypack isn’t necessary if you plan to through hike- it’s just more weight on top of all the other nonsense, including the handful of plastic stingrays that somehow got packed, too.

I was a single mom who strapped fifty pounds to her back and took her six-year old to see nature in one of the most pristine places within reach. My shoes fell apart and my stove didn’t cook. But we did it. I’m more proud than embarassed. And don’t worry, the stingrays returned with us.

Then Carl and Arwyn came along, who I did not know would eventually become my husband and daughter. They’ve been introduced already throughout these pages, so we won’t dwell. They remain. Sparks still fly. We are four, except that Arwyn has gone off to be an adult. (I hope she can teach me how.)

It was COVID era that I stopped producing on here. I was tired of yelling into the void, and continued to be baffled by monetization. I’d made some business cards and a short-lived Patreon, but that somehow didn’t click. I eventually let the domain payment run out and considered shutting it down completely before recieving a request from Fenn Spencer to access Portraits of Explorers since the link was broken. So I brought it back up and left it going. Even if he simply wanted to see himself called “Birmingham’s child prodigy” once again, that was enough justification for me.

When the river of life turned, it made an oxbow, and all the words ran off into that fertile soil and grew. And while they matured into their own tales, I did what I do best, what I do time and time again: went to hide in the woods. I’ve taken lots of pictures, yet as sparks they remain- mere scraps of potential. And so many stories I’ve seen unfold yet remain locked behind my teeth.

So many moments. We’ve trod miles and miles, and driven even more. Campsites from backcountry to KOA, and a smattering of haunted hotels, not to mention some mundane ones.

So many of the type of the views that matter. Wildlife of all kinds, from soaring eagles to black widow spiders, towering moose and bugling elk, and the unbothered swim of a cottonmouth snake. Glorious mountains. Expansive shores. So many stars spilled across the wide open sky.

And I can leave my comfort zone, too: even the surge of the crowd (wait, where did all these people come from?) as a singer from first my own teen years, and now my daughter’s, takes the stage. Once upon a time, I wrote about concerts. Such a different world to revisit.

If you listen closely, there’s another song, too. So ubiquitous that sometimes it’s impossible to hear. Different voices join and leave the chorus, but it never entirely ends. Who sings this song? Oh, just the hyper-evolved dinosaurs who lurk overlooked everywhere. Wait, I mean antennas. Wait, I mean birds. I’ve heard somewhere that an interest in birding is a definitive sign of middle age; I suppose I’ll have to look into that once I get done doing other old people stuff.

Most of these things get at least a smile, some of them get a few scrawled lines. A few- like today- turn into a storm.

I got caught up with silly things and forgot that my job is to tell the stories (and not for the first time, as my first editor twenty years ago could attest). I betrayed my gift, and spent too much time curled up on the tales like a jealous dragon with her hoard.

There’s enough to go around. Come, share them with me.