Mountain athlete. Storyteller.

What does it mean to tell a story? 

I’ve spent the last decade living this question, roaming the American West in search of higher summits and a deeper look into myself. I’ve lived in Ramona, San Luis Obispo, Virginia Beach, Austin, Golden, Mammoth Lakes, and the back of my truck wherever I park it. I’ve been in a fist fight in Boulder, Colorado and crashed a car in Troy, Texas. I’ve thrown rocks at the sky. Shouted into the wind. Stared out from countless summits. I’ve been buried under water, stuck in the cold, warmed by the fire. Drunk at noon. Higher than a kite. Low, low, low. I’ve climbed mountains with a blind man and held a red-tailed hawk in my 8-year old hands. I’ve stood on the summits of all 58 Colorado 14ers, and all 15 of the California ones.

I’ve got friends in 50 states and in more countries than I have fingers and toes. I’ve caught trout in a glacial river, punched Santa on Christmas Eve, lost my skis in Mexico, slept in a U-Haul I didn’t pay for, bought many beers and coffees and meals for strangers and been the recipient of all those things 1000-fold. I’ve driven across Georgia overnight in a rented Mustang convertible, wearing a rented tuxedo, to see my mate graduate from Ranger School. It rained on me most of the way, but I kept that top down and that pedal pressed. I’ve ridden my bicycle from Shasta to Bishop with my best friends, fallen asleep in a cowboy bar, been dog bit in Chicago, and seen a coyote in New York City. Apples make me throw up, and I paint my toenails because one of them is forever black after getting crushed on Capitol Peak.

I’ve been lost, found, loved, hated, remembered, forgotten. My light’s been dimmed by the tough stuff, but comes back brighter every single time. I’ve loved hard, lived hard, and slept under many moonlit skies as the stars sailed above me. What a beautiful, unpredictable, and wild 29 years I’ve spent on this planet.

So what does it mean to tell a story? Let’s find out.