It's 8:00 p.m. on Wednesday, July 31, 2024, and I'm trying something a little different with this post. Instead of my usual blog format, I compiled a series of postcards that I wrote to my 10-month-old son, Samuel, during a two-week road trip I recently took to the Great Lakes. I plan to give him these postcards, along with others from future trips, when he's older in hopes that they will inspire him to chase his own dreams, whatever those might be.

It’s 12:00 p.m. on Sunday, July 30, 2023, and I’m lounging at the beach enjoying the white sands and green waters of Florida’s Emerald Coast. Today is my 40th birthday and a relaxing getaway is exactly what I needed after a two-week road trip out west, where I hiked the highest peaks of Colorado and Arizona. The reasoning behind my latest excursion was simple: if I’m going to be “over the hill,” then I might as well be standing on top of a mountain.

It’s 2:00 p.m. on Friday, Sept. 16, 2022, and I’m resting inside Honcho—my van—at the Taos Ski Valley Resort after successfully hiking Wheeler Peak, New Mexico’s highest point. I made the long drive west for a much-needed mental health getaway in nature. That, and it was a good excuse for me to test a new house battery I had installed the week before. Needless to say, my lungs and legs are physically exhausted after my 13,000-foot climb this morning, but the satisfaction that comes from summiting another mountain is just the feeling I was looking for.

It’s 1:00 p.m. on Tuesday, June 28, 2022, and I just finished lunch from the top floor of a Parisian apartment with window views of the Eiffel Tower. My wife and I have been staying with her aunt while we’re in town exploring the French capital. She lives on Victor Hugo Avenue, named in honor of the renowned French writer who penned the timeless work, Les Misérables, a title that translates to “The Miserable Ones” in English. If I’m being honest, it’s a phrase I’m struggling to identify with after such an unforgettable trip.

It’s 7:00 p.m. on Monday, March 28, 2022, and I’m sitting in my new home in Texas with my leg elevated and my ankle wrapped in ice after spraining it on a training run a few days ago. I’ll be honest, this one hurts, but it’s not the physical pain that has me down. It’s the mental setback of having to deal with another injury after I spent the last three months rehabbing the opposite ankle, which I severely sprained last Halloween.

It’s 5:30 p.m. on Sunday, Dec. 5, 2021, and I’m sick—not with Covid, thankfully. It’s just a cold, most likely from a combination of frigid temps up here in the northeast, recent holiday travels and a whole lot of stress from buying and selling a home. But if all goes according to plan, I’ll be back in Texas by the end of the year.

It’s 12:35 p.m. on Monday, Sept. 13, 2021, and I’m sitting at my wife’s house in New Jersey playing catchup after taking some time off for our wedding last month. Yes, I’m officially a married man. My wife and I tied the knot at the same location—Big Sky, Montana—where I proposed the year before.

It’s 5:00 p.m. on Thursday, June 10, 2021, and I’m recovering from my first session of physical therapy. I went to the appointment expecting to learn a few exercises to help strengthen my torn rotator cuff, but what I got instead was a sadistic therapist who stretched and twisted my arm to such extremes that, by the end it, I realized PT actually stood for pain and torture.

It’s 10:30 a.m. on Saturday, March 13, 2021, and I just finished adding some of my favorite photos to gallery that will appear on a new website I’ve been working on for the past year. It’s been a slow-going process, but something I had anticipated given the number of projects I juggle at any given time. Recently, I’ve found myself poring over thousands of old travel photos and reliving some amazing memories in the process. If a picture is worth 1,000 words, then consider my new website a novel in and of itself.

It’s 6:30 p.m. on Monday, December 14, 2020, and I’m compiling mailing addresses for my fiancée so she can send out Christmas cards in time for the holidays. This whole process is a first for me, which under normal circumstances might represent the fact that I’m finally growing up. The only caveat is that most grown men I know aren’t working from a van parked off-grid in the Cherokee Foothills of South Carolina.

It’s 8:45 a.m. on Saturday, Sept. 26., and I’m currently organizing photos, editing drone footage and adding new stops to a virtual map that I’m testing for my new website. In addition to tracking my itinerary, the map also allows me to post pics and jot down notes about the different places I’ve visited, including some from my recent trip to New England.

It's 2:30 p.m. on Tuesday, July 14, 2020, and I’m on a flight back to Texas for the first time since I left in January. It seems like a lifetime ago. So much has changed from then to now illustrated best by the mask on my face and the bottle of hand sanitizer in my pocket. I have a lot to catch up on while I’m home, but I’m mostly looking forward to seeing my family and celebrating my birthday in the Texas hill country.

It’s 9:24 a.m. on Friday, May 27, 2020, and I’m sitting on my girlfriend’s couch in the small town of Metuchen, New Jersey, with her cinnamon-swirled cat sleeping in a wicker basket to my left. It’s quite the change of scenery from the road warrior lifestyle I had grown accustomed to the last six weeks leading up to the coronavirus pandemic. The state of New Jersey recently passed a shelter-in-place policy last week, restricting non-essential business and travel, and like most Americans, there’s no telling how long I’ll be stuck inside.

It’s 12:12 p.m. on Tuesday, Dec. 3, 2019, and I’m sitting at picnic bench at Lost Maples State Park in Vanderpool, Texas, deep in the heart of the state’s beautiful hill country. It’s quiet out here. The only sounds are an occasional gust of wind and a squawk from a hungry raven helping himself to the crumbs left behind by parkgoers who had stopped for lunch in front of this same stretch of the Sabinal River.

It’s 9:00 a.m. on Monday, September 2, 2019—Labor Day—and I’m recharging after a fast-and-furious summer that included trips to Belize, New Mexico, Colorado, South Padre Island, and most recently a five-day excursion to the East Coast with stops to Acadia National Park in Maine, Mont-Orford National Park in Quebec, and Lake Placid in upstate New York.

It’s 8:00 p.m. on Sunday, June 2, 2019, and I’m sitting in front of my computer thinking about where to go from here. Life isn’t always what you expect it to be. It can change in an instant, for better or worse, and right now it feels a whole lot worse than it does better.

It's 8:00 p.m. on Tuesday, March 26, 2019, and I just finished watching an episode from the final season of Anthony Bourdain: Parts Unknown. I have traveled the world with Tony for the better part of 15 years, living vicariously through his experiences and connecting with faraway cultures through his storytelling. This particular episode hits close to home because Tony heads to far West Texas to visit a part of the state unfamiliar to most--a geographic region known simply as Big Bend Country.

It’s 2:30 p.m. on Tuesday, Dec. 11, 2018, and I’m struggling with a spotty internet connection that has forced me to adjust my work plans for the day. I suppose it’s a good excuse to start writing my next blog, which admittedly is long overdue because of a recent and unexpected life transition. Transitions are necessary to keep any story moving forward. When executed properly, they add tension, build suspense, provide clarity—everything I’m currently experiencing after my recent decision to change companies.

It’s 4:00 p.m. on Sunday, August 19, 2018, and I’m sitting in my recliner enjoying the waning hours of an easy-going weekend and trying to decide the best title for this blog post. Titles are an important aspect of my writing process. Not only do they help me develop a chapter outline for my outer story, but they also help me understand the theme and tone of my inner story. If a chapter outline represents a story’s roadmap, then the individual titles are those cities or towns the main characters choose to stop and discover along the way. It’s a similar methodology I have incorporated into my personal wanderings thus far in 2018.

It’s 7:35 a.m. on Monday, May 28, 2018—Memorial Day—and I’m sitting in a plane on the runway of the Victoria Regional Airport after spending the weekend with my parents celebrating my father’s 80th birthday. As the twin-engine’s propeller blades begin to spin, I imagine them as the hands of a giant clock and I’m reminded how quickly time flies. I don’t know where I’ll be when I’m 80 years old, but my hope is that I will have lived a life as ambitious as my father’s.

It’s 7:00 p.m. Thursday, March 8, 2018, and I’m putting the finishing touches on a presentation I’m scheduled to give tomorrow to students involved in the reading program my brother and I created called “Maven’s Milestones.” It’s the largest program we operate through Impossible Possibilities, the education nonprofit we cofounded more than a decade ago, and one that incorporates the main character of my book—Maven the Raven—as its official mascot.

It’s 10:00 a.m. on Saturday, Jan. 13, 2018, and I’m taking a break from a letter I’m writing to a friend of mine who has spent the last two years of his life behind bars. I make it a priority to write him letters every month, either sending a copy of my latest blog or a Bible study on whatever subject I’m researching at that time. We don’t speak too often, but when we do, I ask him about his life on the inside and listen to him as he paints a verbal picture of a place I find hard to imagine. Sometimes, he’ll use a particular word or phrase I don’t understand or have never heard before. It’s a prison lingo that can leave me scratching my head, like the time he introduced me to the phrase, “That’s Good Money.”

It’s 10:00 a.m. on Saturday, Nov. 11, 2017, and I just finished submitting a few wildlife photos to National Geographic’s “2017 Nature Photographer of the Year Contest.” Several friends of mine suggested I enter after I showed them some of my favorite images from my recent safari to Kenya. I realize it’s a long shot but taking great wildlife photos has more to do with lucky timing than it does mastering the technical aspects of a camera. You have to be willing to endure the process and wait patiently for the opportunity to present itself because you never know when a memorable image will appear in front of your lens.

It’s 3:00 p.m. on Thursday, Sept. 14, 2017, and I just purchased season tickets for next year’s Dallas Summer Musicals. As a new season ticket holder, I am now guaranteed tickets to see Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton when the show comes to Dallas in 2019. Two years is a long-time to wait, but the good news is next year’s lineup features some all-time classics, including a childhood favorite of mine: The Lion King. My brothers and I probably watched the movie more than 100 times growing up. To this day, I still remember the words to songs like “The Circle of Life” and “Hakuna Matata.” Hakuna Matata means “No Worries,” and until recently, those were the only Swahili words I had ever known.

It’s 4:00 p.m. on Friday, August 4, 2017, and I just finished up my latest salsa lesson. Now that I’m living by myself, I figured learning salsa would be good way for me to meet new people. My biggest takeaway after seven lessons is the amount of listening that’s involved. Salsa is all about timing, and if you’re not in tune with the music, then you'll eventually end up dancing off beat. This is exactly where I am right now in both my salsa lessons and, more importantly, my writing.

It’s 9:30 a.m. on Sunday, May 28, 2017, and the start of what is shaping up to be the most important journey of my life. It’s a different type of journey than what I’m accustomed to taking this time of year. I won’t be leaving for a rainforest excursion to Costa Rica or Alaska like I did in the summer of 2015, nor will I be embarking on another writing sabbatical abroad like I did when I visited Belize last June. No, today begins a personal journey of self-discovery that I feel is necessary for me to complete my book.

It’s 1:00 a.m. on Saturday, April 1, 2017, and I’m retouching some of the pictures I took of my twin brother’s proposal last weekend at the Dallas Arboretum. I’m working in Adobe Lightroom for the first time and trying to incorporate a few tricks I learned while attending a photography course in the Texas Hill Country. One of my biggest takeaways from the course was learning the importance of post-processing because, like the diamond on my future sister-in-law’s ring finger, a picture moves from raw form to final brilliance through a meticulous refining process.

It’s 11:00 a.m. on Saturday, February 4, 2017—Super Bowl eve—better known to me as my “Alive Day.” Ten years have passed since my life was nearly ended in a Fort Worth parking garage, and I decided to commemorate the anniversary with a 10-mile run to start my day. I rarely think about the details of that night because doing so has a way of bringing back raw emotions that I prefer to leave in the past. Instead, for the last decade, I have chosen to look forward by celebrating this day, thankful that God has blessed me with a new lease on life.

It’s 10:30 a.m. on Sunday, November 20, 2016, and I’m sitting in the Las Vegas airport, hungover with excitement after a high-stakes weekend of pitching my book to literary agents. I went all in 10 years ago when I decided to write a novel, and I’m doing everything I can to increase the odds that my big bet pays off. It’s why I decided to attend a writer’s conference focused on publishing, and it just so happens that the organizers selected a host city known for rolling the dice.

It’s 7:30 a.m. on Friday, Oct. 7, 2016, and I just watched the sun rise from a perfectly named lookout known as Inspiration Point nestled deep in the Texas hill country. Waking ravens welcome the dawn with distant croaks that echo through the cliffside, while hungry turkey vultures use the early-morning thermals to hang glide above the Guadalupe River in search of food. I came to Mo Ranch, located in Hunt, Texas, in need of a short break from the balancing act that has become my life back in the city.

It’s 1:30 p.m. on Saturday, July 23, 2016, and I’m sitting on the beach in South Padre Island, listening to Pat Green’s “Wave on Wave” and enjoying a little family time on the last day of our annual vacation. Today officially kicks off a weeklong schedule of events that will culminate next Saturday with my—and my twin brother’s—33rd birthday. When I was kid, I used to imagine what my life would look like when I reached this age. The life I live today is a product of a childhood imagination I never quite outgrew, and each passing year is a new wave that has allowed me to wash ashore some amazing beaches, including my most recent trip to Belize.

It’s 1:30 p.m. on Sunday, June 26, 2016, and I’m lounging in a hammock on little Ranguana Island, one of the many Cayes (pronounced Keys) dotting the Belizean coastline. I finished editing my book yesterday and decided to reward myself by taking an hour boat ride to my own private getaway. The island views are post-card perfect, with coral-rich waters surrounding the sandy beaches in a mix of dark blue and emerald green. Sea turtle nesting sites are revealed by small caution signs that remind passersby like me to tread lightly and avoid leaving behind footprints that can’t be washed away by the incoming tide. This place reminds me all-too-much of Turtle Island from my book, and the relaxing time away in such an idyllic setting is quite the exclamation point to my very own journey in pursuit of the Tree of Life.

It’s 7:30 p.m. on Saturday, June 11, 2016, and I’m sitting on the balcony of my 26-day home away from home with a glass of Carta Vieja merlot, deciding whether to go salsa dancing later this evening or simply make it an early night after what has been a very relaxing and much-needed day off. It’s hard to believe that a week has already blown by since I first arrived here in Placencia, Belize. It’s a big change of pace from last summer’s adventure-seeking excursions in Costa Rica and Alaska, but one I’m soaking up each and every day during my afternoon visits to the beach.

It’s 7:00 p.m. on Tuesday, May 17, 2016, and I just finished reading through an old personality test that I took back in 2009. According to the data, my top two behavioral strengths are innovation and adventure. The commentary goes onto say that I am comfortable with activities that involve risk—sometimes even unnecessary risks—kind of like those I took this past weekend when I visited my second-favorite state of Colorado.

It’s 11 a.m. on Saturday, April 30, 2016, and I’m sitting in an uncomfortable metal chair in the middle of my new office, waiting for my furniture to arrive while glancing occasionally at the stack of boxes in the corner waiting to be unpacked. When I’m not writing, I spend most of my day working as a mortgage originator (aka someone who helps others buy and refinance their homes). It’s a position I fell into by necessity after college—a position that for many years I tried to escape but to no avail. Looking back ten years later, I’m glad I stayed with it because I have met some very interesting people with some fascinating professions along the way—one of those being a regular Joe with a GI Joe job.

It’s 11:00 a.m. on Monday, February 29, 2016, and my legs are slowly working through the soreness of having run 13.1 miles yesterday at the annual Cowtown half marathon in Fort Worth. I decided in mid-January to register for the event because I thought the mental aspect of running would sharpen my focus and help me keep pace with my writing, which has become a race of endurance in itself.

It’s Friday, December 18, 2015, and I’m sitting at a picnic table in front of the “Wings of Wonder” exhibit at the Dallas Zoo in search of inspiration. Nearly 50 days have passed since I plunged headfirst into the final chapter of my novel, appropriately entitled “Revelation,” but the finish line feels no less closer today than it did when I started. Writer’s block can be a very cruel and unusual punishment—a feeling of helpless confinement, where you find yourself flapping your creative wings but failing to ever get airborne. I suppose if anyone can relate, it’s the grounded birds in front of me that know the feeling all too well.

It’s 5:25 p.m. on Thursday, October 15, 2015, and despite the thousands of miles of separation, the rainforest never felt so close. In approximately one hour, as sweat rolls down my face and my body struggles to hold proper pose, my mind will have returned to the teeming canopy of Costa Rica’s Osa Peninsula. Dropping in on an occasional yoga class has provided a much-needed mental timeout, allowing me to escape the bustle of city life long enough to tap into the peace I discovered while I was away.

It’s 6:00 p.m. on Friday, July 25, 2015, and I’m taking in the Alaskan panorama for the last time. It’s a bittersweet moment as I sit inside the cabin of the state ferry, the MV LeConte, navigating the same stretch of water between Haines and Juneau that I first voyaged 25 days earlier. In just a few short hours, we’ll dock in Juneau’s Auke Bay, and my memorable summer adventure will officially come to an end. Overall, this trip has been a journey of a lifetime that can best be described as “a whale of tale”—speaking of which, I’m still holding out hope that I’ll catch a glimpse of the elusive orca “killer whale” that I failed to see on my whale watching tour less than a week ago.

It's 5:00 p.m. on Saturday, July 18, 2015, and I'm sitting on a park bench in front of Chilkoot Lake, located slightly up the street from where I ran into a brown bear the night before—almost literally. I had just picked up my rental car around 9:45 p.m. and decided to make the nine-mile drive east of town to the Chilkoot River on a stakeout mission to spy on unsuspecting brown bears. It was surprisingly darker than usual, and I had to do a double take when I spotted what looked like a bear running in the middle of the road toward my car.

It’s noon on Friday, July 18, 2015, and I’m mentally spent after what has become a self-diagnosed case of cabin fever. I’m officially in the final 12 hours of my nine-day writing session, seven of which had me working from morning until night—writing, studying, thinking, writing… I honestly have no desire to write anymore. The thought alone at this very moment makes me want to gag. Along with my dwindling attention span, my food rations continue to be depleted. I’m officially down to my last few eggs, a couple of pork chops and whatever splashes remain of a Maker’s Mark whiskey bottle.

It’s 11:00 p.m. on Wednesday, July 8, 2015, and the sun is finally setting; although, one look at the twilit skies would tell you otherwise. Today was overcast and dreary with billowing clouds concealing the typical mountain views, providing a suspenseful backdrop for viewing bald eagles in the wild. I saw six eagles on my 30-mile drive up the Old Haines Highway, a good ending to my first week here in Alaska. Tomorrow, I return my rental car and begin a nine-day writing session—the longest I’ve ever gone in one stretch.

It’s 5:00 p.m. on Saturday, July 4, 2015, and I’m taking a short break from the day’s festivities. I’m sitting on a shaded bench underneath a Sitka spruce tree that overlooks Portage Cove and the waters of the Chilkoot Inlet. Perched in the crown of the tree above me are a pair of stately bald eagles enjoying the mesmerizing views just as much as me. The town celebrations are not yet complete, so I’ll save those details for my next entry. In the meantime, however, yesterday’s activities on July 3 should give you a better idea of my experiences thus far.

It’s 8:00 p.m. on Wednesday, July 1, 2015, and I’m writing from my new hammock that I purchased after my recent trip to Costa Rica’s Osa Peninsula. My rainforest view has officially moved from the tropical to the temperate, and the previous 90-degree swim trunk weather has been replaced with much cooler, long sleeve temperatures currently fluctuating between the mid-40s and high 60s. And, unlike Costa Rica, where sunlight is confined to a strict 12-hour equatorial schedule, the daylight here in Southeast Alaska is much more abundant with nearly 20 hours a day during the summer months. The one similarity between both locations, however, has been the rain.

It’s noon on Sunday, June 21, 2015, and I’m sitting in a small wooden chair on my front porch, listening to the rain. I’ve been living in tent for the better part of a week, although it’s not the typical tent you may expect—other than a few spiders and a large scorpion I found in the fold of my shower curtain. The tent includes basic amenities like a twin bed, electricity and bathroom, and is one of about eight scattered across the idyllic and eco-friendly Luna Lodge.

It’s noon on Friday, June 12, 2015. I just returned back to the Lookout Inn from Puerto Jimenez, where I stayed last night after my first ever surf lesson at Matapalo’s Pan Dulce (Sweet Bread) Beach. I took the collectivo bus and arrived around 9:30 a.m. at Matapalo, the midpoint between Carate Beach and Puerto Jimenez. The surf was much more laidback than the large swells of Carate, and I had the beach practically to myself for most of the day until the tides receded and a few paddle boarders and surfers headed out to the natural “point break” jutting out from Pan Dulce’s north end.

It’s 3:30 p.m. on Sunday, June 7, 2015, and I can hear the calls of the scarlet macaws outside. I have less than two and a half hours of sunlight remaining, so it’s important that I stay focused and write. I need to conserve as much sunlight as I can, because once 6:00 p.m. comes around, everything becomes more difficult in the dark, not to mention it’s been raining more and more here lately, and any type of light makes you a target for insects both small and large.

It’s 1:30 a.m. on Saturday morning, June 6, 2015. I should be sleeping after trekking 14 miles across the beach and jungle, but I’m not. I’m wide awake, thinking about Corcovado and what else she may choose to reveal to me in the morning. Worst of all, I drank two and a half liters of water during yesterday’s hike, and though I have to pee like racehorse, I don’t feel like disrupting my mosquito net and risk having more creepy crawlers try to shack up with me for the night.

It’s 5:00 p.m. on Wednesday, June 3, 2015, and it’s raining for the second time today. It’s a light rain, which is quite the contrast from my first night (Monday) here on Carate Beach. We received a good soak then, just shy of two inches. It was the first descent rainfall of the season, but much more is needed for the area to reach its annual average of 285 inches.

I arrived in the Osa this morning, June 1, 2015, although there’s no telling when this entry will actually be posted, seeing that internet here is spotty at best on sunny days and nonexistent when the weather turns for the worse. But that’s ok with me. It’s another reason why I chose to come to the Osa, and so far, I’m happy that I did.

This blog is the best way for me to do two things: 1) to keep my family and friends up to speed on my upcoming summer travels and 2) to use this platform as a way to draw others into a story that I’ve been writing for more than seven years.