My First Backpacking Trip

My first backpacking trip began on the night of my fifth birthday. Having just been told that I should not and could not grow up to be a writer, I decided to leave my family behind. And in doing so, I became the youngest runaway in Hunterdon County history.

“You’ll become an alcoholic,” my mother had said. “You’ll drive an ambulance. You’ll hang around bullfights. And someday you’ll shoot yourself.”

I admit that it looked grim, but writing was all I was good at. Having grown up on a farm, I could already see that I wasn’t much good at digging ditches. I didn’t have the discipline to stay within the lines in my coloring books. I couldn’t even tie my shoelaces with any real consistency. It was clear that I’d have to settle for a career in freelance writing.  Read More

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Surviving Huffy: A guide to protecting your own

“Two hundred dollars for a pedal bike?” the farmer asked. “I’m afraid that’s our cheapest bike, sir.” I replied. 

“Hell, if I’m gonna spend two hundred dollars for a bike, it sure’s hell better come with a engine.”