I have many dad-like tendencies—being a fan of yard work and Tom Petty, for a few examples—but perhaps my greatest dad tendency is my lifelong obsession with The Edmund Fitzgerald. 

If you were raised anywhere near Lake Superior, chances are you may share this obsession. You likely also know every word of Gordon Lightfoot’s absolute folk banger, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. 

“You have lung cancer,” said the ER doctor wearing gym shorts and lime green running shoes. I’d known him for less than an hour and here he was, handing me a life-changing diagnosis while wearing Under Armour. He was unfathomably casual, and I was skeptical.

I don’t feel much different from these women — I can see myself in their faces, in the smiles that can only result from days and days of hard work. I recognize those smirking grins, those exhausted eyes, those messy ponytails, the filthy hands, faces, arms. In this I find some sort of solace, a rare generational link between myself and the women who paved the way for me…

What do we make of happiness we know is only a result of something so traumatic, so life-altering, so incomprehensibly tragic as the death of someone we loved?

After all, we only grieve what we know, and what I know is this: those muddy lakes and tiny rivers and thick swamps form some of my sweetest memories…

For all its sucking, firefighting—hotshotting, specifically—is the best thing I’ve done, even if I can’t fully explain why.

Today was my first day as a hotshot.

Pro-tip: You probably shouldn't be asking women at flyfishing shows if they'd like to sit on your lap. Also, yes, we do flyfish. 

For me, this weekend at Fresh Coast Film Festival — and arguably the last two years — has been a lesson in newness. 

My summer has been defined by wilderness. By big, wild, smoky places. By river corridors in the literal heart of Idaho. By sunrises over emerald waters and being lulled to sleep by the sounds of rivers.

Fire season has set in. Red flag warnings are in effect in most western states and already I’ve had more days on fire in June and July than I did all last season. 

I was 11 when I learned that a Northern Michigan crawfish doesn’t taste like a Louisiana crawfish.  

It's hard to not fall into all the cliches of shooting with film — it's so much more intimate and authentic and simple and slow. Pretentiousness be damned, but I'm not above waxing poetic about the benefits of carting around a dusty 1970 Minolta unearthed in my grandpa's basement;

"The Finnish language has myriad words for snow, be it slushy, icy, powdery or sleety. There’s even one for the frost that develops on a car windshield after a particularly bitter night.

Then there’s hanki."