When I was a kid I had a series of “forts” that extended from my backyard through several neighbors properties and into a stringer of undeveloped forest a 1/4 mile from home. Usually centered around a partly fallen, or ivy-covered…
A Space of My Own
Poetry and the River
“There are strange things done in the midnight sun, by the men who moil for gold…” So starts the first verse of Robert Service’s classic poem The Cremation of Sam McGee. There is a great story woven into the rhyme…
Absurdity
5:30am on an Arctic morning and I was barefoot, standing in three inches of wet snow, wearing just my boxer shorts and holding a 12-gauge shotgun in my hand. That was the moment I realized the absurdity of what I…