There’s a spot along the canyon trail where the river shoulders into a hard left bend—calm on the inside, turbulent on the outside, like it’s trying to make up for lost time. That outer bank takes a beating. Years ago—probably sometime between the Great Depression and...
A World Built for Walking Last weekend, I drove cattle from winter pasture to summer grazing lands. We could’ve trucked them, but the five-mile ride offered lessons that don’t come any other way. The mother cows seemed to know the rhythm of it; the calves, on the...
“Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson Last week, as I walked through the Boston Public Garden, I was struck by a familiar but still startling realization: spring is a traveler, but she doesn’t move quite how we expect. A...
There’s a flowering crabapple outside my window that tells me something I can’t see—when the wind is up. No sound, just motion: spring petals and leaves shimmering all at once, an ivory-green murmur against the sky. The wind itself is invisible. But I know it’s there...
I passed them one by one as I left home that morning. Dodging people in every form—on bikes, skateboards, pushing strollers—each of us negotiating the tight spaces of the Provo Canyon Trail. To be honest, I felt it: that transactional irritation. If I ride early, the...
There are moments—quiet, sudden, unbidden—when the world opens. A canyon flickers in the last light of day. Snow hushes everything. A spring flower opens before your eyes. Blossoms, not there yesterday, now spill across the flowering plum in your front yard. A child’s...
