Pahu drums, wild pigs, and Cook Pines set the stage for a North Shore birthday hike that becomes a quiet meditation on memory and the dogs, places, and times we never forget.

The three grizzlies and a dozen wolves across the meadow and up the side of the hill were far too busy feasting on a rancid buffalo carcass to worry about me.

I’ll happily lose sleep chasing the Milky Way with my camera, because honestly, what else is worth stumbling around half-awake for the next day?

Uncovering ghost towns, sacred sunsets, and a dog who still shows up when it matters most. Sunset from 'Caiya's Spot', Leadville, CO. The Last Turn Left I hadn’t been to Leadville, Colorado, in a long time. And I hadn’t been ready. Not really. This mountain town was one of Caiya’s favorite places—and mine. Every turn, every trail, every breeze up here reminds me of her. But recently, I decided maybe—just maybe—I was ready to face the pain. Like a gladiator entering the aren

Once a Love-Ridge, Always a Loveridge My last name is Loveridge, which implies that somewhere in the mists of genealogy, an ancestor squinted at a mountain skyline, felt romantic about it, and declared, “Yes, we are the people who love ridges.” I can’t prove this, but I also can’t disprove it, and frankly it’s the kind of logic I’m willing to embrace. But on this night, standing in the dark on a narrow pirate plank of sandstone with 1,000-foot drop-offs on both sides, I wasn’

Thenkoo, Come Again? (Big Springs. Big Exit.) Leslie and I stood ankle-deep in the river, staring across the canyon with the kind of intensity you never see in livestock. A cow will gaze blankly at a fence post all afternoon and never blink. We, on the other hand, were fixated with 100 times more purpose. And for good reason: Big Springs lived up to its name. The branding was accurate, if not inspired. They were, indeed, springs. And yes, they were big. Desert springs usually

You think you're buying a van. What you're actually doing is joining a shiny cult of aluminum dreamers who believe in spreadsheets, scenic overlooks, and the healing power of a well-timed squatch sighting.

It started with a hike, some trail mix, and a dog named Caiya. It ended with reverence, quicksand, and a strong suspicion that God is really into slot canyons.

Turns out all it takes to fall in love with cliff dwellings is a Scooby-Doo sleeping bag, a burnt potato, and a Moab rainstorm.