Recently, on a long drive south, we paused halfway to spend 24 hours in Nashville.

There are some places that hold so much gravity, lore, and mystique that there’s no way to understand them without being there in person. Especially music cities. Nashville is every bit one of those places, like New Orleans.

To be quite honest, I had no expectations. But I came away…kind of in love with it all.

This surprised me, because despite my deep love for roots, folk, country, and Americana music in general, I’ve never really been into the whole Nashville thing. I always associated it with tacky ‘90s country schlock that you’d hear on the radio; later, the association became more about the unbearable “sameness” of the sound and, on occasion, its political pandering. Also the forced nostalgia of a simpler, rosier lifestyle that never was. 

Also the listing of things that seem like a starter pack for a Certain Type of Person, like, This is the kind of beer I drink, this is the kind of woman I like, this is the kind of vehicle I drive, etc. 

Ooh, and also the fake otherness and persecution that often accompanies the lists. Those people drink X kind of beverage, but I drink Y kind of beverage–see, that makes me a Certain Type of Person, unlike those Other Types of People who look down on the Certain Type of Person I am, and you and I are the same Certain Type of Person *together*, which means THEY look down on US, all because we drink X beverage. 

(Significant exception: Tom T. Hall’s list in “I Love,” which is as wholesome as it is ridiculous.)

Ooh, there’s also the pithy wordplay and awful double meanings. So many of those lyrics are so corny that it’s actually painful to listen to. Especially in the context of the above.

(Significant exception: George Jones’ “He Stopped Loving Her Today,” which is basically the perfect country song.)

I know, I know, you’re already yelling at me. But I’m not talking about all country music–not even all or most Nashville music. I’m talking about anything bearing those peculiar, particular Nashvillian flavors that give people headaches. You know…That Sound. Because don’t get me wrong, there’s a ton of country that I love, especially the music made by rough, lovable weirdos. It’s just that the stuff that’s always put me off has felt, shall we say, overrepresented in terms of exposure.

One of the curiosities of Nashville that I’ll never understand is that there's a lot of great songs that are shrouded in bad taste. Bad hair, terrible denim, cheesy production choices, inauthentic cowboy hattery, etc… But when you strip all that away, there's this beautiful or haunting or painful song hiding in there. You need the calm of a quiet morning on the farm, an acoustic guitar, and a full voice, and daaaaamn there it is.

(Significant exception: Billy Ray Cyrus' "Achy Breaky Heart".)

Extremely important side note: My beloved partner feels the opposite. She loves '90s country *in particular*. And as a child, she was a member of the Billy Ray Cyrus fan club during the "Achy Breaky Heart" era. To demonstrate my great love for her, I do not judge her for these things.

Anyway, that burying of a good song happens because of the dreaded Machine. You know what I’m talking about–that particular Nashville sound and vibe that comes from inhaling creativity and talent, grinding it up, and spitting it out the other side as packaged, mass-appeal musical ground beef. Sigh.  

Fortunately, there's a new crop of tremendous music coming out of Nashville (or thereabouts) these days that I really dig–artists who are more Americana than "Nashville" (IMHO) and sound amazing and bring gravity to their songwriting and performances. Brandi, Jason Isbell, Brittney Spencer, Allison Russell, and the like. It's a deep pool.

And, I should admit, I’ve always felt a little bad about my broad dislike of Nashvillish things. Like maybe part of my saltiness is that I don't "get" something about it; it's like there's this big, silly, gaudy party, and if you decide to attend and buy in, it's super fun, and if you don't, you call the cops and make a noise complaint. And I'm the incredibly unfun neighbor. 

I suppose some of the silliness is the point. So much country music is intentionally tacky. It’s kind of an unspoken game: You’re supposed to get as outlandish as possible without blinking. If you blink, you lose. You have to own it with a straight face. Never break character. Remain unashamed. Remain unbowed.   

So anyway, here I am ranting.

​Back to the story: There we were, headed into Nashville, with me trying to keep an open mind, the missus overjoyed, and the kids…being kids, caring only about the closest McDonald’s and how soon can we go to it. 

I quit my career over a year ago. Completely burned out after ~14 years of constant high-pressure journalism jobs, deceived and bereaved by workaholism, and fully undone after trying (and failing) to hold together my team during the first year of the pandemic, I was barely functioning. 

It’s hard to say which was worse, my physical health or my mental health. At some point, it’s a choice between your money or your life. And I chose to liiiiiivvvvvvve! 

​So I walked away.

And now, after more than a year of deep reflection, healing, rebooting, remaking how my brain works and how my actual nervous system functions, I have been preparing to share great wisdom for others braving this same wilderness–how to come back from burnout and re-enter the world and uncover what it is that you’re put on this earth to do, buoyed by the promise of peace, contentment, and fulfillment on the other side of this terrible, terrific adventure. 

Ready? 

ARE YOU SURE?

I. CAN’T. HEAR YOUUUUUU, I said ARE. YOU. READYYYYY????

Okay. Here it is:

[cricket sounds]

...k, so, I don't actually have much for this. 

I'm not being coy. I really don't have the clarity or insight you would hope for after all this time. I have some ideas, and some notions, and some suspicions, but little in the way of helpful, broadly applicable, repeatable advice or wisdom.

And I don't mean to sound agnostic. My conclusion is not that this stuff is unknowable, nor necessarily that it's so subjective and individualized that every single person has to reinvent the journey for themselves.

But I don’t have the Big Answer(s). 

Perhaps it's simply that all of this is so complex and inexact. As much as I would love to offer a pithy catchphrase that encapsulates and summarizes it all, the Big Answer doesn't fit on a bumper sticker or an Insta post. 
How do you know when to walk away from toxicity? How do you heal–like, what are the steps and component parts? When do you know you’ve healed enough? In the process, how do you know when a feeling is informed by your maladaptive former self or if it’s the truth you’ve discovered with your newfound clarity, or or or or or? And when will you know it’s time to try again? And how do you decide what you’re going to do with yourself forever after?

​I still do not know. But below is the best I got for ya.

​I have a friend whose favorite thing is lying on her back and staring at the ceiling. Which is to say, her favorite thing is Doing Nothing. I am simultaneously astounded, confounded, amused, and jealous–not just of her ability to Do Nothing, but her thorough enjoyment of it. 

That’s because I am of the opposite ilk. Doing Nothing sounds like smoked puréed awfulness to me. I prefer Doing Something, all the time. (I mean, it’s “Adventure Hat,” not “Relaxation Hat.”) I always want to run around, create stuff, explore the outdoors, play a sport, go see something I haven’t seen before, research a new place or topic, yada yada.    

However, I have learned that Doing Nothing is something. And Not Doing Anything is a different something. And Doing Something is yet another something altogether.

​If you’re a fellow adventurer, you may be interested almost exclusively in Doing Something over the other two. But there’s value in all three. Even if—like me—most of it feels unnatural or uncomfortable.

Adventures do not just happen on their own. You have to seek out adventure, plan for it, work for it, be prepared for it, and do your best not to die or scream at your family throughout. 

Below are some tips, tricks, maxims, and bits of advice to help you do adventures better and with fewer snags, drags, meltdowns, and blow-ups. These apply to virtually any type of adventure, trip, vacation, jaunt, or festival. Especially with children.

We happened to be on a small adventure when I began jotting these down, so many of these items were top of mind, and my family chimed in with their own entries, and oofda the list got long pretty quickly.

​Here it is: 
​
The Definitive Yet Ever-Expanding List of Tips, Tricks, and Maxims That Are Guaranteed To Improve Your Adventuring And Increase Your Adventure Satisfaction, Presented In No Particular Order (or just “TDYEELOTTAMTAGTIYAAIYASPINPO” for short)

• You can have only 1.5 adventures per day. You’ll probably try to plan for 2-3 every day. No.
  
  Heed my words: It will take forever to get everyone out the door after breakfast, and you’ll already be running late by then. You’ll need to use Heavy Snacks [see below] to drag the crew through Adventure 1 and into a late lunch. Lunch will take a lot longer than expected. By the time lunch is over, most of your group will need a nap.
  
  This is the ideal time for Adventure 0.5. You can peel off with the few who would rather go see the thing or take the hike or ride the ride, and return in time for dinner, at which time the nappers will slowly regain consciousness. Do not attempt to have any adventures after dinner, beyond mayyyyybe a fun dessert stop.
  
  If you force some type of “late night” adventure, like observing bioluminescent crabs mating in the ocean at 1am, you need to understand that it will count towards the next day’s adventure total.  
• Every adventure needs an Adventure Captain. This is the person who does most of the planning and research, books most of the lodging, buys the tickets for the things, and maintains the daily schedule of 1.5 adventures and meals. This job is thankless, but it must be done.  
• There will be meltdowns and blow-ups. Endure them with grace, as these too shall pass.
• Allow your adventure crew members to take naps when they need them.
• Everything takes longer than you think it will. No seriously. Everything. Meals, bathroom breaks, deciding where to eat, everything.
• Dress appropriately: Include one change of underwear. Ensure optimal footwear. Bring a jacket (and be prepared to give it to an adventure crew member who underestimated the cold). Always be equipped with a proper adventure hat.
• Kids only care about McDonald's and playgrounds, regardless of the location or continent.
• Whenever possible, engage in breakout side adventures with subsets of your adventure crew. These will likely be the most meaningful, bonding, and cherished memories of your adventures. Examples: 
  • Ride the extra tall roller coaster with your nephew. 
  • Sit down for tea at that cool place with your great aunt. 
  • Pop into the Americanized toy shop with your daughter because she wants to buy a fidget spinner or whatever. 
  • Make a beer run with your dad.
  • Go with your mom when she takes all the kids to feed the ducks or invade a playground or whatever. 
  • Make a beer run with your cousin’s friend.
  • Enjoy a sunset walk with your romantic partner. 
  • Make a beer run with literally anyone who will go with you.
• Feel free to steal away by yourself for rest, reflection, personal adventure, or [other].
• You will probably either take not enough stuff or too much stuff. Probably too much stuff. How many French horns do I need for the weekend?, you’ll find yourself wondering. Except in very specific cases, the answer is zero. You need zero French horns for the weekend.
• My wife suggests bringing a book. But that's because she's a momcat, and instead of having the half adventure in the late afternoon (remember, you get only 1.5 per day), she's definitely going to read a book and take a nap. [Note: In response to this entry, she added that a book is perfect and ideal because even if things get canceled or whatever, you can still have a literary adventure. What a nerd.]
• Plan ahead for booze. This includes all related containers, cups, glasses, and openers. 
• Stay hydrated, but beware of bathroom limitations.
• Never pass up a chance to take a leak. [Credit: Tom K.]
• The Heavy Snack is your best friend. It will carry you and your loved ones across many a finish line. [What constitutes a Heavy Snack? A volume of caloric intake that is more than a regular snack but smaller than a full meal.] 
• Never underestimate the power of a well-timed shot of caffeine.
• Don't forget to bring ibuprofen.
• You're going to have to stand in line and pay for parking. Just do it. 
• You’re going to have to pay more for tickets than you expected. Just do it.
• You’ll only remember the good parts anyway.
• And if there are very bad parts, they will eventually make for a great story.
• Do not attempt to skip the gift shop lest the children engage in violent revolt. Instead, provide crisp $10 bills for each child, and turn them loose. They will all end up persuading you to let them spend at least $20. Pretend you are benevolent and allow them to do this. 
• Whatever gear, outfits, headgear or bags you bring for the children, you will eventually be carrying.
• You will also eventually be carrying each/all of your children.
• Persuade any reluctant children ages 8 and under that riding in a stroller is nothing to be ashamed of.
• Put all of your essentials (phone, wallet, keys, ID, pills, device charger[s], change of underwear) in one bag and never ever ever ever let it out of your sight while in transit. Carry it onto the plane, carry it on your back on the train, etc.
• For bigger trips, here’s how to track your children, provide emergency contact, and entertain them: 
  • Buy older phones for like $50 for each of your children, add the phones temporarily to your mobile plan, and attach them to each child during travel (in their backpack, on a lanyard, whatever). 
  • In the contacts, program ONLY the numbers of responsible adults in your party and label them accordingly: Mom, Dad, Uncle Gary, etc. That way, if they get lost, any responsible adult who finds them can look at the phone and dial one of you. Or if they’re old enough, the kids can dial you themselves. 
  • Encourage the kids to use the phone cameras to take pictures and shoot video. This will keep them engaged at key moments, and you’ll be fascinated by their literal and figurative perspective. Also, a lot of what they shoot will be garbage. Also also, they may shoot video of you talking shit about people when you’re in the car or something. So be sure to go through and delete anything dumb or incriminating. 
• Whenever you’re going to be somewhere your native tongue is not universally spoken, download pertinent language packs for Google Translate to your phone. This will allow you to converse with locals in a pinch, regardless of cellular connectivity. Because face it, your Spanish/French/German/Portuguese/Mandarin is not very good. 
• Try to speak the local language anyway. 
• When you’re renting a car, get the extra insurance coverage.  
• Yes, go do and see the big tourist attractions. But also consider taking side trips or small trips to places where regional folks would go. Eg, find the little beach town that Barcelonians escape to when they’re tired of living in one of the most enchanting cities in the world. 
• Do not overplan. Because what will happen is the overplanner will get really married to whatever the stupid plan is, and it's never going to work out. [See above about timing.] 
• Do not underplan. Because inevitably you will find yourself in some incredible location and will have nothing specific to see or do, and you will deeply regret missing the opportunity.
• When in doubt about a plan, open a mapping app on your phone, find the green space, and chart a course for it. It will almost certainly be a park, landmark, historic site, or at least something more interesting than nowhere, which is the place you will otherwise be.
• [From my 8 year old]: Don't forget that your child is going to get car sick.
• Bring electronic devices to entertain the children. 
• Always charge the devices the night before.
• Make sure to bring a camera.
• Document the funny, small things that happen--the inside jokes, the funny quips that people say, the quirky whatzits that happen as you go. Literally have an app open--like a notes app or Google Docs or something--and every time something funny or goofy or notable happens, whip out your phone and make a note.
• Don't use your photos and remembrances to whitewash the experience. Take a picture of your kid when they're melting down. Make a note of that awful but hilarious thing your teenager said to you about how much they hate sand when you’re visiting the pyramids. Keep the nail that popped your tire. Etc.
• Bring a blanket if you can.
• [More from the 8-year-old peanut gallery]: Make sure your kids know where you're going. If you're going to a hotel, make sure there's a pool. Actually, just always make sure there's a pool.
•  Make sure YOU know where you’re going.
• Download area maps to your phone ahead of time, BEFORE you lose cell service.
• Force your family and loved ones to engage in mid-day and end-of-day recaps. Quiz them on their favorite thing of the day, and/or their least favorite thing of the day. This is how you create story and culture and memories.
• Go the extra mile, sometimes literally. By that I mean if there's an extra loop on the hiking trail, take it. If there's another bend on the beach to walk around, follow it. If there's a weird little back room in that neat store, go check it out. If the museum has another floor, at least breeze through it before you leave.
• Kids are ungrateful little dicks and will complain about everything the whole time. But they'll absorb a lot more from the experience than you think they will.
• Decide ahead of time what types of tchotchkes or souvenirs to bring home. For example, shoes. Or pottery. Or paintings. Or relevant books. Or shot glasses. [Just kidding--don’t collect shot glasses.] 
• Do your research ahead of time. Read the reviews. Sniff around for that special unique weird thing that one of the locals knows about.
• Play mad libs in the car.
• Remember the four C's: caffeine, calories, catnap, and...uh...cwater. [Also spelled “water,” without the C.]
• Eat and drink local and specific foods and beverages whenever possible. Except for when you have to once again go to the goddamn McDonald’s in Rome because [see above] that’s all kids want to eat, and you’re required by law to occasionally put food in them. 
• Don't overlook the weird and cool stuff you can do close to home. Not every adventure has to be in some faraway locale. 
• Do research, including asking local friends and acquaintances for tips.
• Keep a spreadsheet of places and things.
• Mark them in your Google maps.
• Force yourself and your family to do them by and by.
• As Adventure Captain, one of your most important jobs is keeping an eye on the stragglers. Who is the most tired, the most cranky, the least satisfied? Attend to this person and meet their basic needs. Repeat as necessary.
• Always have a backup plan. And have a backup plan for the backup plan.  
• Create a figurative Fuck-It Bucket. Place things in this bucket liberally, and encourage others in your adventure party to do the same.
• You're going to have to improvise a lot. 
• Stop for a sec every now and then and quietly absorb whatever is in front of you.
• Try not to take anything personally.
  
  ​Please tell us about your own adventure tricks, tips, and maxims, that we may make this list ever greater and more comprehensive: [email protected].

Love,
Adventure Hat

I’m always suspicious of people who give themselves too many titles. Like, “I’m a poet, philosopher, photographer, ham radio expert, dog groomer, and video game programmer.” I usually read that as, “I like a lot of things, but I’ve never dedicated myself to any one of them fully enough to be legitimately good at any of them.” 

And so, I’m suspicious of myself when I say I’m a writer and also a musician. People typically aren’t good at more than one thing, and both of those aforementioned things are things that are hard to be good at. 

But I feel okay about the writey part, because people have paid me lots of money over the years to make words happen. For the musicy part, I paid other people a lot of money to teach me how to do it well, so that’s indeed suspicious. But in the end, they did give me two degrees in it, and one of those degrees has the word “master” in the title, so allegedly I can claim bona fides in music, too. 

Because I’ve done words professionally but music primarily only amateurly and/or in academic settings, people get confused. And suspicious. And rightly so. 

​But my deep love of writing music, and my experience doing so, has been THE most consistent activity in my life since I was 13. That was when I bailed on piano (after nine years of lessons!) and picked up the guitar. The electric guitar, mainly. (Why? You know why. Chicks dig rock stars with guitars. I’d like to say my pivot to the guitar was more profound than that, but nope. Just wanted to be cool.)
​

The first song I remember writing after I became a Very Cool Boy With A Guitar was called “Country Music.” The title was ironic, because not only was it a RAWK SONG, not a country song, but it was about how country music sucks.

Here’s an excerpt from the lyrics. Note the maturity and grace I possessed at the tender age of 13:

Country music is a bore.
Nobody buys it at the store* 
Country music makes me sick
I would rather eat a ton of bricks
Than listen to country music play
Twenty-four hours every daaaaayyyyyy

(Someday, sometime, find me somewhere, with a guitar nearby, ensure that I’m 3+ drinks deep, and ask me to play this for you.) 

A few years later, I would come to realize that I did, actually, love country music of various kinds from various artists. See: Cash, John R.; Nelson, William; Parton, Ms. Dolly; et al.
I will say that although my songwriting depth at age 13 was banal at best, this song actually slapped (or bopped, I forget the definitions of each) when our middle school rock band played it.

Anyway.

I’ve never stopped writing songs, even when I was writing a looooottttt of other kinds of music during the six years of my formal, degreed music education, including small ensemble pieces, vocal pieces, and operas. (Yes, operas; yes, actual operas, that were performed by people on a stage. No, they were not in Italian, please don’t make me explain why that’s a stupid question. No, there is no demand for operas, which is why I—I mean, unless you would like me to write an opera for you? ...no? No, of course you don’t. Literally nobody does.)

My eldest child asked me recently, “Why don’t you play your songs for other people?” Ouch. But man, it’s hard to carve out time and energy to do that, especially when you’re raising kids and working a demanding, full-time job. [Editor’s note: Strike that bit about the demanding, full-time job. Woot.]

If I’m being honest, a big part of the reason I’ve done so little in terms of playing my music out and about is because I’m quietly terrified that no one will care. Not even that they won’t like it—that they’ll be entirely indifferent to it. I see your heart and soul there on a stage, you lonely and brave man! But please do it more quietly, I’m trying to have a conversation over here about ham radios. 

Also, one of the barriers to music versus words, at least for me, is that format means a lot. I can write words and put them anywhere—a print magazine, online media outlet, social media post, newsletter [Editor’s note: WINK WINK], or whatever, and it doesn’t really matter. The content itself comprises 99.99% of the importance.

But music is different; if you have the audacity to record yourself making music, you’re supposed to go into a studio and pay someone to fix your crappy mistakes and mix and master and make it all sound professional. And if you want people to hear it, you have to rehearse it a lot, convince someone to let you stand in a space and make your noises, then go to that space and make your noises...and do that over and over and over and over and over** again, usually for years at a stretch, before anyone gives two shits.  

And that can be exhausting. But here at Adventure Hat, I have and will continue to share demo recordings of songs and talk about them, how I made them, and what they mean. When I’m able, I will play them aloud in spaces more often. And if I ever gin up the gumption, I’ll record ‘em proper.   

Every part of music-making is an adventure of the mind, soul, and heart. And sometimes there are adventures when you go out and try to force/coerce people to listen to it. 
So. That’s why (and how) I include music things here in my beloved little newsletter, Adventure Hat.  

​(Last chance to request an opera, by the way, so—what’s that? Hard pass? Okay, okay, got it…)
*****
*Editor's note: This was, and is, of course, patently untrue. Bajillions of people were buying country music at the store at the time I penned these lyrics.
**and over and over and over and over...

​I don't remember where the inspiration came from, but at some point I got the idea to write a song about life, love, etc. that's carried along by rivers. 

For me and the missus, there have been rivers that flow (WORDPLAY!!) near, in, and around our relationship. We got engaged on a rooftop overlooking the Ohio River. On our travels back and forth from the middle of the country (Nebraska) to the middle-but-not-middle of the country (Ohio), we always crossed the Mississippi. (The first time, I think, was when we were moving from North Carolina to Nebraska.) And now we live a stone's throw from the Big Muddy—the Missouri River.

Also, I am increasingly a river rat. We now have two kayaks, which is two more boats than I've ever had, and I've been putting the miles on them. The fellas and I, and sometimes my eldest daughter, or whoever will go with me, are paddling on lakes and rivers and what have you as much as we can. Including the Missouri.

And I feel like this is a permanent thing...and I kind of feel like we've arrived, in that we have permanently established ourselves here in lovely mid-Mo. So there's a sort of...gentle finality and peace when I think about that waterway. And it jibes nicely as a stand-in for the second half of my life. 

​Here's the song:

Got all of my scars on the Ohio River.
Water took everything I didn't want to give it
Tried to pull me under and hold me til I drowned
Beat my body on the rocks, but I'm still around
Pledged my love to you on the Ohio River
Whatever flowed through me made my whole soul shiver
They said "rebellious daughter," they said, "foolish son"
They said we got married when we were too young
Hey, river flow. Maybe we should say a little prayer before we go

We struck out on our own, and we were never feeling finer
Spent a little time in North Carolina
Don't get stuck in High Point, gotta choose whatever's best
Pack up the Toyota and point it to the West.
Now the mighty Mississippi got nothing on me
We crossed over that bridge and we set ourselves free
Got landlocked for a while in Nebraska
Answer to a question that I didn't even ask ya
Hey, hit the road. But maybe we should say a little prayer before we go

Now I'm on the Big Muddy with a paddle in my hand
Dunno where we're going or where we're gonna land
Oh Missouri River please carry us home
Carry us, carry us, carry us home
Hey, river flow. We say a little prayer of thanks before we go

Got all of my scars on the Ohio River.
Water took everything I didn't want to give it
Tried to pull me under and hold me til I drowned
Beat my body on the rocks, but I'm still around
The mighty Mississippi got nothing on me
We crossed over that bridge and we set ourselves free
God's country gave us everything we ever wanted
Headed down south but the roads were all flooded
Now I'm on the Big Muddy with a paddle in my hand
Dunno where we're going or where we're gonna land
Oh Missouri River you can take me away
Home is wherever we're together that day
Feels like a dream when everyone you love is coming with you down the stream…

Now we're on the Big Muddy floating into the sun
Guess when we got married we weren't too young

​A note about that curious first line about the Ohio River: I do not look back especially fondly on my pre- and early adulthood years. There was a lot of good, don't get me wrong, but I was angry, scared, frustrated, and/or depressed for way too much of it. It's complicated. There was a lot of pain, and when we left the state to head off to grad school, it was in the midst of a profound and (still) quite painful break with the community that had kept me alive all through my teen years. 

So...scars. And although I've picked up a scar or two in our stints in North Carolina, Nebraska, and (for the last decade) Missouri, the overwhelming feeling(s) I have for those places are positive. Thus, (almost) all of my scars? From my time in Ohio. 

​This song is in D major. I arrived at the key and chord progression immediately. As in, I thought "hmmm song using rivers as a metaphor for life would be neat," at around 2am one night, and the first thing I did was quietly strum D, A, Bm, and G. And the melody was right there right away, too. Weird.

The Ohio bit tumbled out immediately, as did the whole "floating on the Big Muddy" thing. 

Everything else took a while. I had that four-chord progression just workin' for me. I eked out a few lyric lines I liked, but nothing too cohesive. Pretty quickly I made myself come up with a second chord progression for some aural diversity. (I always do this.) Again, it was kind right there waiting for me to pluck it out of the ether:

Em, A, D, F#, Bm, G, A…

Nice change of pace. I figured I would make it the chorus or something. 

But I've begun tinkering with this idea of evolving chord progressions in songs. Like, instead of just playing the same short chord progression over and over again all the time, I start with a progression that's shortish, and then when I bring it back there's more to it, and then I do that again once or twice. (Or it's just a little different every time.)

I used that above progression between each verse. It comes around four times total. Like this:

Em - A - D - F# - Bm - G - A

Em - A - D - G - A - Bm - F# - Bm - G - A

Em - A - D - G - A - Bm - G - A - D - F# - Bm - G - A

...they all hinge on where that non-diatonic F# chord lands. You never know where it's going to show up.

Then, the last time we hear it, it goes back to the original short version. I was worried that it would sound weird, but I think it works out such that it sounds completely normal to the ear, but subtly it keeps you on your toes. And verrrrrryyyyy gently reinforces the idea of travel, always moving and growing.

Also: I ended up not writing a chorus at all. All of the words are in the verses, on that D - A - Bm - G progression, and then the Em progressions happen in between. And I play harmonica on them. (Really, any lead instrument could solo on those passages. But if I'm playing alone, harmonica it is.)

Also also: For reasons I'm still not sure of, I made this recording pretty chill. I fingerpick most of it, and there's no percussion in my head. But it's kind of begging to be big, innit? I think it would sound great big. But that's something to try out live sometime. 

Meanwhile, enjoy the rivers' flow.

The only reason I can remember how long our child has been not-sleeping every night is because I know her age, and she’s been not-sleeping for exactly that long. Even when she was a baby, like 14 months old, she’d just be...awake. At 11pm, 2am, 5am. Not screaming or crying (she saved all that for the day time, hahahaha...hah...eh), just awake. And looking for company. 

She learned the word “grapes” because one night, in a futile attempt to meet whatever need I thought she maybe had, I took her downstairs and gave her a snack of grapes. “Geeps,” she called them. Very cute. Until the next night, when she was up again at 11pm or 2am or god knows when, and I walked into her room. Standing in her crib, wide awake, she helpfully offered: “Geeps?” Not as cute. She didn’t actually want the geeps (mm, now I kinda do though); she just learned that geeps was maybe a way to get some quality time with her old man while she was not sleeping and kinda bored.

Now, at age 7, the child still struggles with sleep. Which means we weary parents still struggle with sleep. We’ve chipped away at the problem with some medications and miscellaneous strategies, etc., but we’re at the point where we need to bring in the big guns: a big ‘ol official overnight sleep study, in which we shall use technology and modern medical interventions to see if there’s anything we can find and fix that will make this child sleep through the night on a regular basis. 

(Please, PLEASE no sleep tips or advice in the comments or elsewhere. Yes, we have already tried [thing you suggest]. That’s why we’re doing the sleep study. And I swear to god, if you tell me to try melatonin, I will drive to your house and do punching at you.)

In a sleep study, the sleepless patient goes to a medical facility, gets connected to 80 trillion wires, and sleeps (as best they can) overnight in a room. Their body generates a bunch of data, which is later analyzed by doctor people. Then they tell you whatever it is they find.

If that sleepless person is a child, a parent or guardian gets to be present for the sleep study. In our case, I drew the short straw.

My friends, here is what you need to know about enduring your child’s sleep study, and what you will experience:

You will have many questions and will receive no information ahead of time. The people just assume you’ve done this before and have seen the inside of the facility and can mindmeld with them such that you can replay their memories as videos and can thus see the whole process. 
You will have many logistical questions and will receive no logistical answers beforehand. Questions like, “Where am I sleeping?” or “What the hell am I supposed to do for four hours after my kids is asleep but it’s not yet my bedtime, because I’m a grownup?” or “Can I drink in bed like I do at home, or is that like...not cool?”

You will check your child into the facility—in our case, a hospital—and you will be led back to a series of rooms that looks like every hospital’s set of rooms you’ve ever seen, and the nice nurse person (let’s call her Irma) will point you to the room you’re assigned to, and you will see through the doorway that it does not look like a hotel room that happens to contain medical equipment—oh no, my friends, it will look like a regular examination room. Cold, austere, uncomfortable, and antiseptic but also not quite antiseptic enough. 

​You will find out later that this room is not a sleep study room half the time—it has a different function during the daylight hours, which is why you will blanche when you see the place you are going to be sleeping. While your child is going to sleep in a medical bed that is ugly and not comfortable and yet too large for her, you are going to sleep in a glorified recliner that is definitely too small for you. The not-bed you’re sleeping on will be the least comfortable surface you’ve ever put your body on. At least it’s flat, I guess. 

There’s not even a fitted sheet for it—just a top sheet, which you will have to lay out yourself, and a “blanket” that is not actually a blanket, but a single square of one-ply toilet paper. You will wonder how you’re going to avoid overnight hypothermia, and half-joke that you wish you had some of those leads attached to your own body so the nursing staff will be alerted if you die in the night, hahaha. And just the one pillow? 

​You will probably look in the cabinets in the room, expecting to find additional linens. Instead, you will find only emptiness and disappointment. Did Dostoevsky design this place?
Speaking of the leads—don’t forget about your child. Your child will likely be nervous and a little excited at first. That will give way either to intense curiosity or terror when they see the 80 trillion wires that will be attached to their body. Fortunately, my child was intensely curious. The bright colors of the wires may have helped.

But good golly gosh, Irma just. Kept. Going. With. The. Leads. I lost count of how many there were. Enough that the child will end up with all of the ones on her face and head gathered into a sci-fi-worthy Predator-looking ponytail of wires, including a nasal cannula and...like...a mouth guard kind of thing? You will not know why it’s on your child’s face, but she will definitely pick and pull at it constantly, and you will be concerned that the whole test could be thrown out if she rips it off. And she will be sure to make a goofy face when you take a picture of her in the getup.

It will take forever to get all of the wires and leads and whatever onto your child. You will silently groan when they put little dabs of sticky goop for the leads onto your child’s face AND HAIR, knowing that you’ll have to squeeze in a bath and shampoo in the morning, between when they rouse you at 6am (those BASTARDS) and when your child needs to catch their school bus at 7:30am.

​The whole thing will feel a little like a prison. Sink. Chair. Hard floor and walls. Terrible bed. And when it’s lights out, you better shut your fool mouth, fish, or you’ll get the shiv from Irma. Probably. You may be too afraid to do anything but lay there quietly, playing Candy Crush on your phone at 9:47pm and wondering what you’re going to do for the next three hours in the dark. It’s a little lonely. You may consider sauntering out into the hallway to see if Irma has any geeps?

OH, and don't get me started on the internet situation. Zero cell service. None. Not one bar. Just an X. There's shitty guest WiFi, but it's as slow as you'd expect. You can't even get enough of that sweet internet juice to scroll through cringey memes on Reddit. Best case, you can stay in touch with the outside world via FB Messenger, which...I mean, gawd, no thanks.

ALSO. You are ON CAMERA the entire time, WITH AUDIO! Irma ominously told us that if we need anything, we can just speak it aloud, because they’re always listening. Ostensibly, this is so they can monitor your child, but it effectively means you can’t pick your nose, scratch your privates, or fart. And the loud crinkling of your gummy bear bag could result in a reprimand from Irma or whoever, which kind of makes your night candy less fun. 

Irma will enter the room kind of a lot. It’s jarring every time, because you’ll juuuust get lulled into forgetting that she’s there, and CREEEAK, the door will open, and a shaft of light will cut into the calm darkness like a plasma knife, and Irma will fix something pertaining to your child’s many wires and cables and whatnot. Then she will disappear along with the light. And it occurs to you that your partner really owes you one. Like, big time. 

You will sleep a few hours, and when they wake you up at 6am sharp, one or more of your body parts will be so cramped up that you can’t turn your head or torso or arm or whatever. They will quickly rip all the wires and whatnot off of your child and kick you out. You will stumble, pre-coffee, into the hospital hallway, meander to the exit, and pray you never have to do this again.

You know it’s coming—it always does—but suddenly, there it is: The generations in a family turn over. The last of a generation dies, and now the subsequent generation is officially the oldest. This happened in my family during the pandemic. Grandma died, leaving my parents as the two eldest people on both sides of our family. 

​Seven months later, we finally buried her and had a proper memorial service, with guests, back in the town she grew up in, in a plot next to both of her husbands, her daughter, and her son. As is so often the case, these occasions are bittersweet, because you get to see far-flung family and old friends. But in saying our final goodbye to Grandma, we also closed a massive chapter in our family history. 

For generations, my dad’s side of the family (and most of mom’s) lived in one Ohio town. (Our family unit moved away in 1993.) That’s where we returned for the memorial. Dad took us around on a tour of historic (family) homes. I didn’t know, or had forgotten, that so much of the family residences were within a few miles of one another—and mostly were in the same neighborhood. 

There was my great-grandparents’ house where my grandfather grew up; the house my grandmother grew up in (they were neighbors, aww!). There was my grandparents’ first apartment (which is still there, 70-something years later!), and their first house—an adorable bungalow that they built, and their next home, in a somewhat fancy neighborhood. My mother’s childhood home, and her grandmother’s home (where my siblings and I spent every Saturday morning for years), were nearby as well. 

But this time? We were tourists. We all stayed at a hotel, in our own home town, where my parents lived for forty years, and where I lived until I was 11. 

When I was little, most of both sides of the family still lived in the area. But over the years, most of my generation moved away. And more recently, my grandparents’ generation has been dying off. 

At the restaurant where we had the after-funeral meal, we were shocked and delighted to find a handful of old black-and-white photos hanging on the wall that were of my great uncle and aunt’s wedding in the 1950s. They’d had their reception in this restaurant (and, one of my relatives confirmed, their 25th and 50th wedding anniversary celebrations). In one photo is two full generations of our family. They’re seated around a big, long table. It contains my great-grandparents, all their kids, and all their kids’ spouses and partners (except for a couple of spouses who wouldn’t come into the picture until later). 

In the photo, my grandparents are young—recently married themselves, with my grandfather, the eldest of his many siblings, looking mature and dashing. My father isn’t born yet. Uncle Jerry, the youngest of that generation, is in the foreground, mugging for the camera (which was totally on-brand for him). 

Everyone in the photo is gone now, except for one great aunt. It’s appropriate that their memory remains on the wall of a fun eatery where they had big family parties, in this town that no longer belongs to us. 

It was wonderful to see so many old friends and family at the memorial, but it struck me that this was probably the last time we’ll see many (or even most) of them. Some we hadn’t seen for nearly 30 years. For others, I don’t know what occasion (other than another funeral—maybe theirs) would bring us together again in the same place at the same time.

Goodbye to the old generation. Goodbye to old friends. Goodbye to the geographic family center. 

It’s a little sad—but only a little. It’s been a long time coming, and we’re all ready. The trip and memorial served as a good goodbye. 

​Note: Back in December, when my grandmother died, I wrote the below entry. I posted it elsewhere at the time, but it seems fitting to include it here now: ​

​Remembering the perfect grandmother

There’s a recording of Bob Dylan live on stage in 1967. His hero, Woody Guthrie, had just died. “They asked me to write something about Woody—like, what does Woody mean to you in 25 words. I couldn't do it. I wrote five pages,” he said. That’s kind of how I felt when I sat down to write just a few words about my Grandma Esther: “I couldn’t do it. I wrote five pages.”

She died today, my grandmother. It was complications from COVID-19; her heart just gave out.

Esther was the classiest lady I've ever known. Stylish. Cool. Kind. Cute. Impish sense of humor. Unbelievably, unfailingly generous. Could still tickle the ivories, almost nine decades in. She was the perfect grandmother.

Of course, that version of her had faded dramatically in recent years, as it always does when a person lives long enough. When people become very old or sick, and their faculties and memory slip, and they lose the ability to fake anything, they're distilled down to their essence. You can see plainly who they really are.

It turns out that at her core, Grandma Esther was who we thought she was all this time. Down to her very last interaction with another human being, mere minutes before she died--and loaded with medicines to settle her body and block any pain--she was gentle and sweet and engaging.

The last time we got to see her was this past summer. I had a gut feeling that would be our final visit. She'd been on the decline for years. By then living in a residential care facility, she struggled to remember names and faces. Because of COVID-19 protocols, we couldn't go inside, so the staff set her up on a back patio with us. As always, she greeted us with a little joyful gasp and an open-mouthed smile, as if our very presence was the best thing that had happened to her in ages. In recent years, her face also registers surprise, because she has a hard time remembering if or when people are coming to see her.

We sat under a big umbrella for shade. It was sunny and bright and warm, but comfortable. Idyllic, with birds chirping. We were somewhat closed in, hugged by big, fragrant evergreen bushes.

"Grandma, the smell of these bushes reminds me of those tall pine trees you had at your house on Northwood," I said. She murmured some kind of cheerful affirmative acknowledgement. I did love those pine trees. In my memory they were a hundred feet tall. They had long, soft needles, and there was always a thick carpet of them covering the ground all around her house. You could smell them from the street. Every time I catch a whiff of fresh pine, I’m a little kid back at her house, tumbling out of the station wagon, eager to slip inside and see what treats or toys she had waiting for us.

Her house always smelled great, too. Not typical-grandma great, like freshly baked bread, nor old-lady great, like perfume. Something different. I don’t know how to describe it, actually. You know how every family’s house has a unique scent? And, like, it’s on their clothes and kind of follows them around? It was her version of that—and when matched with the pines outside, it was heaven. Even now, if we pull something that belonged to her out of storage, like a fancy tablecloth or something, we’ll get a whiff. And I am deeply happy every time I’m reminded, when we walk in our own front door after days away, that our family-house-scent is a variation on hers.

There on the patio, I think it took her a minute to collect who we were. We tried to gracefully spark her memory by deftly folding our names and our kids’ names and relationship to her into the conversation, like script writers trying to establish character relationships. (“Hello Pierre, dear brother of mine. Funny how it’s rainy today here in Paris—little odd for early April 1933, don’t you think?—and it’s making me late for my visit this afternoon with Beatrice, who, as you know, is our mother.”) In short order she brightened, remembering, putting it all together.

But she got kind of stuck in a loop. She asked how the drive was. She said she’s so glad we’re here. She remarked on the lovely weather and chirping birds. She said she prays for us every day. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

At a couple of points throughout the conversation, she asked us if we were interested in taking home the patio furniture. Such a classic Esther move, even though this time the furniture wasn’t hers to offer.

She was constantly giving us stuff, or trying to. How about this side table? This recliner? These paintings? This jewelry? How about the chandelier? We said no thanks most of the time, but even so, we have a reputation among our friends: Upon seeing some new vintage item appear in our house, one of them would guess, "Oh that's cool--is that a Grandma Esther thing?" It always was.

Grandma was always looking out for us, in ways small and large, and that was one of the main ways we could feel her love. Once, when we were little, she brought out a Friendly’s watermelon sherbet roll—it’s this extraordinary dessert composed of watermelon sherbet, lemon sherbet, and chocolate chips that looks like a watermelon—and I was so taken with it that she made sure to have it on hand at every visit for years after. And there were the big ways—for instance, helping us buy a car when we were broke and in grad school, and our only vehicle turned out to be an irreparable lemon. And helping us buy our first house (a sound investment, we thought, in 2007), and then bailing us out of that house when it became an albatross in 2011, post-recession.

She would have given her family every cent she had if we let her. I really don’t know where we’d be without her financial support at a couple of those crucial times—probably stereotypical Millennials who are overeducated but failed to launch. Instead, we’ve thrived, to the point that we could now support her, had she needed us to.

Our patio time was up. She left us with a chuckle at some little joke, and a blessing. She said she was so glad to see us, that she loves us, to give her love to our girls, that she’s praying for us, always praying for us. (We weren’t able to hug her because of pandemic protocols. I try not to feel bitter about that.) The caregivers wheeled her back into the facility, and that was the last time we saw her.

I’m glad that was our last interaction, though—my final and lasting memory of her will be Esther distilled: kind, grateful, generous, pleasant, polite, happy, untroubled. I can always visit this memory and be reassured that at her core she was, indeed, the person I loved so very much.

One of my favorite phone conversations of all time when was I called her to tell her that we named our new baby girl “Esther.” She gave that little happy gasp of hers but stumbled over words. I think she was just genuinely shocked that anyone would name a person after her. It wouldn’t have occurred to her that she’d had such an impact on people, such a presence in their lives, that her name would come to mean something deep to them, so much so that they’d want to yell it at their child a hundred times a day for the rest of their lives. Nor that another great-granddaughter, born years later, would wear her middle name—Clara—with the same reverence and affection.

Even though we lost her earlier than we should have, to COVID-19, she was ready to go. She’d been ready for a few years. Not depressed or fatalistic—quite the opposite: content and peaceful. She felt she had a hell of a run, and she was good with that. Ninety-five good years—who could ask for more?

​I’m just glad I got to share a lot of those years with her.

Although it is but one body of water, the Current River in Southeast Missouri provides two very, very different paddlin’ experiences. A weekend on the Current tells the tale of two rivers. 

​...not Two Rivers Canoe, which is a place on the Current River and refers to the convergence of two actual rivers, Jack’s Fork and the Current. I mean as in wow, we had two completely different experiences floating the Current. One peaceful and idyllic, the other loud and...well. We’ll get to that.

After a relatively silly car ride (one stop and then a time-consuming and frustrating zip around Rolla, MO to find something to eat) down to Akers Ferry (an actual working but rough-looking ferry!), where we put in on Friday late afternoon, my adventure buddy Toph and I were joyfully, peacefully floating in our kayaks with nary another person in sight. ​

The Current River is pretty large—quite wide, and in the summer safely floatable all along the main route—and marked by lush greenery, scores of gravelly beaches, and high bluffs. It’s beautiful. 

As we floated, we’d hit pockets of warmer or cooler air, with temperatures immediately swinging 10, 15, or 20 degrees. It was totally peaceful. So much so that you feel like you need to whisper. 

​After an hour or so, we came to Cave Springs. I always appreciate when things are named appropriately, and this place ticks the box. It’s this large cave right on the water. You can paddle into it without missing a stroke.

Back out of the cave and with the light waning, we pulled off on a gravel bar and made camp around 7:45pm. That would have given us sufficient daylight to throw up tents and get dinner going, except  that...I managed to forget my tent poles. Not my tent, just the poles. (How is this even possible? I don’t know.) 

This was a major bummer for obvious reasons, but for me it’s a double whammy, because I loooooove my tent. It feels like a little personal luxury camping hotel. It’s one of those products that is exactly perfect for me and what I want. Sigh. 

​I was able to use the rainfly, two “poles” (big sticks), and a crossbar (another big stick) to fashion a pup tent-like structure. It was ugly but worked well enough. If it had rained, my head and feet would have gotten wet, but thankfully, it didn’t, so I had a reasonably decent night under the stars.

Notably, on the second night, I was determined to have an even better experience. We once again nabbed a delightful spot--a gravel bar with a view of bluffs and a cove--and it had the luxury of a low-hanging tree branch that extended a ways. After a fair bit of futzing with trying to remake the pup tent thing, I realized that because my tent poles attach like an exoskeleton, the exterior is full of hooks. Aha! I grabbed the bungies and the tow rope from my kayak and, using the tree branch and another big piece of wood I found, I strung it up. ​

That first night, we were visited by an expected bioluminescent delight: The fireflies were out in force. We’re used to summertime lightning bugs. They typically slow-glow as a few dozen of them float around your backyard, looking for...well, I don't actually know the purpose of the glowing. Mating maybe? Anyway, that was not the light show we saw there on the river. 

Instead of dozens, there were hundreds—maybe thousands—all set off against the black backdrop of the woods at the edge of our camp site. And instead of slow, lazy glows, they were flashing rapidly, wildly, like a discotheque. 

And it went on ALL NIGHT. I know this because I didn’t sleep super well that first night and kept waking up more or less under the stars, and—yep, still going.

ALSO! Because I was wary of rain, I kept a close eye on the sky. We never got rain, but we did get heat lightning. Heat lightning is apparently real lightning from real thunderstorms, but it’s just reflected off of high clouds, so the actual storm is far, far away, and you neither hear the thunder nor get rained upon. 

​And so, the evening sky was filled with the light of club dancing fireflies and faraway lightning. Wild. Yet somehow peaceful. Never seen anything like it.

The second day, Saturday, was set to be our mega-mileage day. We were up early with the light, knocked back some coffee—and some Snickers and whiskey for breakfast (be jealous and judge not)—and were on our way. 

We knew we’d hit Pulltite fairly early, and indeed we did after an hour and 15 minutes or so. This was where our peaceful peace was very unpeaced. Pulltite is a popular put-in spot for...everyone. We rounded a bend, and there were dozens of bright red canoes, kayaks, and yellow rafts, along with dozens of excited day floaters splashing about. These are “float trip” people. No offense to them, because who among us hasn’t been a “float trip” person, but almost all of these people were shirtless and unsunscreened, smoking, and already half cocked at 9:45am, with full coolers of booze lashed to their boats for many more hours of consumption. 

Again, not to judge much here: Our plan was to refresh our own beer supply at the little store there. And so it came to pass. Also, I bought another adventure hat there. (There was no cell reception anywhere along this river, including Pulltite. They had WiFi, so we were able to fire off a couple of quick messages to our fams to let them know we were alive and well.)

We didn’t tarry. We decided to put as much distance as possible between us and the throngs of smoking, sunburned lobster people. We didn’t stop until Round Spring, which was a bunch of miles down the river.

​The Current River has—surprise!—a bit of a current. It flows around 3mph or so, so with a modicum of paddlin’, we were getting about 5mph. By the time we stopped at Round Spring (to go and find the round spring), we realized that if we continued our current (pun) pace, we’d run out of river by the end of the day. Eep. We determined to slow it down. 

We got confused when we parked our kayaks at Round Spring. It’s another popular put-in/take-out point, but it also promised a round spring that is supposed to be very pretty. But it wasn’t obvious where to find it. We even got back in the boats, went 100 yards or so down stream, thought better of it, and paddled back up and took out again. 

We knew it was around there somewhere, and we weren’t in any hurry, so we grabbed some to-go snacks from our bags and a walkin’ around beer (WAB) each, and set out to find it. TLDR, the half mile walk was nice, but we were a little lost, and we could have floated down to a take-out point that was right next to it. 

​ALSO! We had to cross a long footbridge to get across the river. A driving bridge ran alongside it, and—coincidence scale!—during the three minutes we were crossing, my car zipped past us. It was our shuttle person taking it down to the eventual take-out. I mean, what are the odds?

Y’all. This water is so cold, that when you submerge yourself and pop back up, you’re still cold for a few seconds until the sun’s ray pierce through the thin film of chilly water. ‘Twas quite refreshing. 

​And then, the jon boats came.

Good god the jon boats! Everywhere! There were so many!

A jon boat is a squarish, smallish vessel (good for maybe 6-8 people), in all of these cases with a motor on the back. They have flat hulls so they can fly up and down larger rivers, blasting through spots where the depth is only like 6 inches. 

​I’m sure it is tremendous fun to hurtle down a river in one of them at 20mph, but it is not fun to be in a kayak when they zoom past. You can hear the drone of the motor coming from half a mile away, like a swarm of locusts coming to ruin your day. Then they careen around a corner and churn up a wake that you have to paddle through. Then you get to breathe their motor exhaust. 

Look, I get it, you have to share the river, and this stretch of the river apparently is where jon boat people go to get their zoomies out. But of the hundreds—I swear I am not exaggerating that number—that buzzed past us over the course of hours, exactly one was courteous enough to slow down his engine to keep the wake minimal.

And they just kept on being places. Like you’d come around a bend and discover a gorgeous location—bluffs, a long beach, a babbling brook under some shade trees—and there would be 20 jon boats. It looked like redneck spring break. Dozens and dozens of people turning redder and getting drunker and more dehydrated by the minute, standing in the middle of water such that we had to redirect to get around them. 

​ALSO! Where are people finding the $7,000-$20,000 to buy these things?

Despite the jon boat jambaroo, we managed to 1) put in something like 27-28 miles, 2) not run out of river before our take out, and 3) found a beautiful camping spot. 

Tired and sweaty, we once again went for a dip right there at camp. The shore sloped so far down so quickly that we figured out that we could run, jump off the beach, and land a cannonball in 8-foot-deep water. So we did that for some time. 

​After a heavy night’s sleep, we got up, had coffee, then Snickers and whiskey, then got back on the water for the last few miles before the trip was done. 

We were at Two Rivers, our take-out point, in under 90 minutes. We loaded up and headed to the nearest town, Eminence, MO, for a giant brunch. We found a diner, J&B’s, that was ideal: A grumpy, young put-upon waitress, a large menu, an obvious cadre of regulars, and an incredibly long wait until the food arrived. (A tip: Get the patty melt. It’s on rye, with swiss. It was exactly what we both needed.) 

​And then on home to cell service and dry land. 

If you aren’t exploring adventurous parts of the outdoors in your own state, then what are you even doing? I want to hit them all eventually, and fortunately, Missouri is the underrated home of many underrated natural delights. 

Many of them are located in close proximity to one another in the southeast region of the state, which for all intents and purposes is the middle of nowhere. There are so many that you really can’t get to them all in one shot, but I recently managed to enjoy three of them in one go: Hughes Mountain, Johnson’s Shut Ins, and Elephant Rocks. 

​I’ll be back for the rest of them later. 

Mountaintop experiences tend to happen only on mountaintops. Missouri is not known for them. But there are a few. 

One of them is Hughes “Mountain” (using “mountain” generously here), a bump that rises just 380-430 feet above the floodplain in SE Missouri. But its defining feature is a rare formation of Precambrian rhyolite, the result of ancient lava flow that cooled to form columnar rocks. I hear tell the only other such formation in the world is in New Zealand or somewhere. They call it the Devil’s Honeycomb. 

We’d been AirBnBing at a nearby farm, and while the Momcats snoozed & lazed with wine & kids & rocking chairs, a couple of us got the wiggles. A quick chat with the farm owner led us to a couple of options, and we chose Hughes Mountain over a nearby popular hiking trail. (Life Pro Tip: When you have a chance to climb a mountain, take it.)

​It’s a hard but brief walk. You think you’re near the top, then you aren’t, then you are, then you aren’t. On the way up, there was evidence of a fairly recent fire that claimed many of the skinny pines. I made a note to myself to look up what happened. [Narrator: He forgot.] 

The rocky, piney trail gives way to a wide open stretch of gray and red rocks, peppered with grayish-green moss. The frolic-friendly landscape goes on forever. There are rock cairns all over the place. As well as Satan’s precious honeycombs.

​It was windy at the top, and because the leaves hadn’t popped yet, we could see for miles. We had the place to ourselves. My pal Toph opted to take a mountaintop nap. I am envious of this ability. 

I’m told there’s power in grounding oneself by physically connecting your body to the Earth. With that in mind, I peeled off my shoes and socks and padded over the honeycomb rocks. L’il dangerous to go barefoot on rocks and moss. Every step is a risk. Every step is a gift. I dipped my toes into cold rainwater puddles and thought about how old these stones are. ​

Apparently we have something called “Johnsons’s Shut-Ins” in Missouri. I’ve heard the name many times before, but I never understood what exactly it was.

It sounds like a terrible old homestead from yesteryore where Old Man Johnson lived alone for 50 years and then was trapped inside for another 20. Or a ramshackle prairie prison where he locked up the townsfolk when they got too ornery. Or an old-timey-themed old folks home. 
This is the sort of creepy frontier nonsense that was in my head whenever I tried to look up pictures of it, none of which never clicked for me: It’s just...like...water and stuff, I would think. Where’s the ruins of the ‘ol homestead or whatever? 

I insisted that we swing by Johnson’s Shut Ins to learn once and for all what it is. 
The buildings and parking areas are new and clean. There was a li’l store with adjacent showers and lockers. Hm. Clues!

​A wide, accessible trail led from the store into the woods. It was marked as very short. Mmk. So there’s a destination. At the head of the trail is a sign with a colored flag atop it. The sign explained a color scheme—green, yellow, and red flags, which indicated the level of danger in the river for that day. This particular day? Red. Mmk. Not a great sign.

A river cuts through softer sedimentary rock and carries bits of sand and gravel along downstream, where there’s harder igneous rock (in this case, rhyolite), which doesn’t erode as fast. But all that sediment from upstream, combined with the flowing water, forms a sand blaster. It chews up a lot of the surrounding bedrock, but the rhyolite still holds up. As a result, you get these hundreds of narrow, angry channels where whitewater gashes through. The water is thus “shut in” to the rock. ​

The flag-based warning system, it turns out, is for swimmers, because you can frolic in the shut-ins (except on red flag days)! Hence the showers and lockers and such.

​MYSTERY SOLVED! 

Ah, names. Sometimes they’re misleading like Johnson’s Shut Ins, but sometimes they’re perfectly descriptive, Elephant Rocks. 

What comes to mind when you think “elephant rocks”? You’re picturing it correctly: A whole big bunch of giant rocks that resemble elephants in color, size, and shape. If it sounds perfect for an afternoon of romping, that’s because it is. It’s kid paradise. 

When you pull into the parking lot of Elephant Rocks State Park, it’s just giant rocks rocks rock everywhere. Almost overwhelming. So of course, in the shadow of these wonders, our small children immediately...started playing in the dirt with sticks.

​On the right side of the park is a ton of boulders to clamber upon, and then you face a sharp dropoff where the bluffs tower above a deep pool of water.

If you wend around the little trail skirting the pool, you’ll come to EVEN BIGGER rocks that are EVEN MORE clamber-worthy. It feels like one big stone mountain, smooth and almost entirely devoid of foliage. It’s peppered by smaller boulders that lean on one another precariously, almost as if they’re in mid-roll, and between them are little cave-like openings that you can slither through. ​