Harder to Find

I set out to write a song about the little things that make me happy, and it’s the little things that do. The older I get, the less I want stuff crowding out the things that matter most. Time is a big one, peace is up there, relationships are up there too. I have friends that travel the world. They think I’m crazy when I tell them that I’m content with the American West. It’s ok with me that they always want to be away from home. That’s just not me. The West is where I’ve spent most of my time, it’s where my memories are, where open spaces still lure me in.

These days, the word is out, and the west is booming. People and industry are creeping into many of the quiet places where I grew up. I find myself having to go further away just to find a place where I can be alone, and maybe catch a fish or two. I’m always lookin’ for those places the internet hasn’t found yet, and they’re out there, just over the next rise.

This photo was taken at the top of Brian Head Peak in southern Utah. In 2017 a fire raged through the area burning over 60k acres. I had just taken a trip down there to survey the damage. My family spent a lot of time there and we have family close by. We made our way to the top of the peak and I was in a pensive mood when my wife took this photo. If the fire wasn’t enough, five years later, a windstorm came through that was strong enough to topple the stone structure I’m sitting on. Sometimes the places we love feel like they are under attack. But that doesn’t mean we can’t fight back. Through a community led grass-roots effort, the 1935 era Civilian Conservation Corps building that stood for nearly 90 years was re-built and re-dedicated in 2026.

Shoulda Known Better

I have this thing for early twentieth century craftsman furniture. Something about that era just speaks to me; understated, warm, and well made. Each year I nerd out and start looking at pictures of quarter sawn oak bookcases and chairs, trying to get inspired for my next trip to the garage. It usually starts when the days start getting noticeably shorter. Maybe it’s the lights on the garage late at night, calling out to me like the distant glow of a Waffle House, I don’t really know.

Each time I go through this, I think back on all the things I’ve built and the mistakes I’ve made along the way, like little asterisks of imperfection. Sometimes you can hide them, sometimes you can’t.

The other day, I found myself looking at an old logo for J.G. Stickley furniture. The craftsman movement had a lot of notable voices, but in the furniture world, Gustav Stickley was the one that mattered most. The logo appears almost Masonic, with a medieval joiner's compass and the strange phrase “Als Ik Kan” tucked into the center.

I was intrigued.

In English, the term loosely translates to “As well as I can,” which at first glance seems somewhat unremarkable. But some of the meaning of “Als Ik Kan” gets distilled out. The phrase is intended to carry with it a certain humility. In other words, it’s an admonition and an acceptance of our inherent imperfections as human beings.

While my woodworking mistakes are on full display, I’ve often been more guarded about letting folks see the rest of me in the same light. I’ve certainly had my fair share of moments where I wasn’t too proud about being in them, I suppose I’m just tired of trying to pretend they aren’t there.

I’m 47, by anyone's definition, I’m getting a late start as a musician. While I’ve been playing for 30 or so years, this is my first album. I recorded it myself, at my house. I know I’ve made plenty of mistakes along the way, but I figured I would start out by being as honest as I can with both the music, and the inherently flawed process of me being the one to record it. I can’t promise you that it’ll be amazing, all I can promise is that I’ll likely get better.

Till then, I hope it listens alright.

The Rider

Marriage can be a peculiar thing. A lot of folks have given up on it, and while I suppose I can understand why, I’ll always be in the other camp. Sure, it can be hard, but I think loneliness can be a lot harder. I find that those who still believe in marriage tend to be a little more optimistic about the human condition. I don’t know if I fall into that category or not but I know where I’d like to be. I’ve been married for 27 years now, and more than anything, it’s taught me to be unselfish - which was probably something I needed a lesson in anyway.

Choosing someone to spend the rest of your life with, well, that can be a weighty thing. Everybody has different ways of looking at it, and they should. Sometimes we get it right, but sometimes we fall in love with what someone is, rather than who they are. The Rider is made up of a dozen relationships, friends of mine, acquaintances. They didn’t all end, but all of them had that moment when they had to decide to keep hanging on, or just let go.

Without You

This song is more about a feeling than any of the specific events it describes. I was on a trip down the Green River some years ago with my wife and our boys. The Green starts high up in Wyoming’s Wind River Range and makes its way South toward the Colorado. For anyone who’s spent a few days on a river, you know that time is not the same. It has an ease to it, an ambling tempo that’s so starkly different from our normal lives that it takes a minute to get used to it. It’s refreshing actually.

On one of the more quiet water days, I put the oars up and started thinking about one of my least-favorite colloquial terms - “going with the flow”. In that moment, deep in the state of river-time, it felt like the answer to many of my troubles. Just slow down, don’t try to do too much and take the time to enjoy the ride.

Then the desert wind picked up.

It was coming at us head on, and before long I realized it was blowing us upriver. The wind was stronger than the current, so “going with the flow” at that moment meant going backwards. I really struggled with that idea. I grabbed the oars, pointed the bow of the drift boat into the wind, and put my back into it. It didn’t take long to realize that I was not going to win that battle. I eventually just resigned to keep the boat pointed downriver and centered on the fastest water I could find and hope for the best. In the end, aside from getting into camp an hour later than we had planned, it turned out fine. That night I sat along the river for a bit and gave it some thought. In the end, it became my “Let it be” moment.

We all go through these periods in life where it feels like we are powerless to change what is happening to us. We grumble when it’s hard, and get restless when it’s easy. Given a little time and patience, there always seems to be a way forward, even if it’s with someone else.

Leaving

When I was younger, I spent a handful of years in the Virginia’s. Small towns mostly, Appalachian country, deep valleys riddled with little towns hidden beneath the trees. That area was built on coal, and for a lot of young folks, working for the mines felt like a foregone conclusion.

Being from the west, I was somewhat of an exotic species out there, but I played the guitar, so they took me in and treated me kindly. I had a lot of conversations with folks who were preoccupied with the idea of getting out; out of the hills, the town, the state, didn’t matter, just out, and it seemed like the further they could get, the better off they believed they would be.

Oddly enough, many of them were musicians. That area was, and still is steeped in Americana music, and nearly everyone knew how to play something. Many of them wrote their own music, and many of those songs had themes of leaving. They sang their songs with a soul that I’ve never forgotten. In a lot of ways, this song is an homage to those that shared their music with me.