It’s downright uncanny how often a string of projects destined for platforms outside of the one I own, ideas conjured in the minds of other people and presented to me for forming, revolve around a theme. In the face of so many coincidences, my agnostic views of a divine purpose, direction from on High, or any other take on the idea of a Universe guiding us toward a destiny are shaken. And, sometimes, I actually do think there’s a plan, a cleared path laid before me.
And I think it leads to a trap.
The last time opportunity alignment happened on this scale was 2017-18. I kept those projects mostly quiet, except to folks who needed to know, until the work was all done. And praise be to Whoever saw fit to let me escape the year largely unscathed. To this day, I think it was largely because I kept my mouth shut and my head down.
The bulk of my time and energy that year was spent writing about how swine are wrecking ecosystems—industrial pig farms with their corresponding tons of pig shit and feral hogs ripping and rooting through anyplace they damn well please. Vilified though they are, the pigs are blameless in all of this. They’re just being pigs. Pigs didn’t swim the Pacific or the Atlantic to get to the New World. Pigs never had any say in matters of their own commodification, relocation, rewilding, or any other matter, for that matter. They came to this land as domesticated (mostly), fairly autonomous meals on the hoof—feeding themselves with anything they could scrounge up, mobile, easily controlled and housed (relatively speaking) or even turned loose to forage at will.
It’s not the pig’s fault for being so fantastically fecund, astoundingly adaptable, and utterly delectable. And it’s not really the people’s fault, either. Given the same circumstances, I’d have hauled a few hogs with me to the Americas. I likely would’ve turned a few out to fatten up on acorns and chinquapins. And you probably already know I once owned an industrial hog farm.
People will be people.
This year, a theme is winding through my work as well—rivers.
Yes, the path to a year of learning more and writing about a couple of rivers I already love is opening before me.
And I’m looking high and low for signs of that trap.
That’s why I am not keen on sharing details of my plans in the works. I’ve paid attention to wise ones who came before us. You see, in many cultures, gods and goddesses aren’t “good.” They’re also not evil. They’re more like equalizers, restorers of balance. They often employed dastardly tactics to foil the most bragged-about plans of the most ambitious humans. The point of the stories centered on a humbling. Because announcing lofty plans within earshot of the gods was perceived as the most egregious of offenses—that of hubris. Deflating human hubris was the primary purpose among the gods of old.
Oh, how so many have forgotten those teachings embroidered with such beautiful allegory, lessons devised in a way even we common folk could comprehend. And to our own detriment.
But people will be people.
Anyway, since some of the plans are already in motion, I’m comfortable with revealing just a bit of the projects to you. Sprinkled with heaps of humility, of course, so as not to draw ire from those who would take offense.
So, to bring you up to speed: I’ve left my cornerstone gig at MidCurrent Fly Fishing to tackle a couple of commissioned projects funded by different sources, who, to my knowledge, have no knowledge of each other and in no way are colluding with the gods to either set me on the path I should be on or set me up for the equivalent of a minor Greek tragedy.
Project one teaser:
Sometime in the coming weeks, I’ll be visiting the headwaters of the river I was born on… well, within a mile of. It’ll be an 800-and-some-odd-mile road trip culminating in an off-trail hike to the seep of water that becomes the Arkansas River. Did I mention that this seep sits just under 13,000 feet of altitude in the Colorado Rockies? So maybe the best way to frame this is that I hope to reach the seep. I should be able to get within a mile of it at the least, and then I can gauge the topography, the weather, and my own capacity.
But even if I never leave the trail, I’ll be close enough to view this waterway I’ve shared a profound relationship with for my entire life, but before it becomes the river as I’ve always known it. I’ll get to see its waters in their newborn smallness, feel its meager pushes against my skin, maybe chew some deer jerky whilst reckoning its clear, tiny, icy torrents with the olive-colored, monstrous, and bathwater-warm currents I know here in Arkansas. The experience will be part of a larger story—about the river, the land surrounding it, and the dramatic changes happening to both. You’ll get a chance to read this story about the time the last tomatoes are reddening on the vine, and the hummingbirds gather for a final visit to the feeder.
Project two teaser:
The bulk of the year will be devoted to telling the story of another river, a smaller river, a stream more sure of who it is for the length of its existence, and coursing only through our state. While both projects will also be about the people whose lives, in one way or another, are shaped by the rivers, this one will be on a more intimate level. Because of its diminutive size and the relatively fragile landscape through which it carves, this river can’t absorb abuse on the scale the larger one has, does, and will likely continue to do. My aim for both rivers is that the humans who live alongside the moving waters, and those far away but whose influence holds powerful sway over their futures, come to see them for more than a means to an end or background scenery. I hope my words can reveal at least a glimpse of the intrinsic and priceless value each brings to the lands and people they shape.
My plan for the SubStack is to share some of the rivers’ lore with you as I sink beneath their surfaces. I figure there’ll be an essay or two or three or more inspired by observations and conversations on and about both rivers. And there’ll likely be a few ideas discovered along trails starting on their banks but winding up on higher ground just over yonder ridge or maybe even somewhere beyond the horizon. As to the timeline for this second project, I’m not sure. The aim is next spring, but, honestly, I can’t give you a date.
It’d be like trying to tell you how long to work biscuit dough by the clock. Truth is, you just do it until it feels right.
Very excited about this turn of your focus, and will be waiting as patiently as possible! I read selections from Hidden in the Tall Grass while on a trip to the Arkansas headwaters a few years ago, so the streambed up there is already acquainted with you vicariously.
Take a break from the doomscrolling and chaos and read about the next journey of one of our nations bards of country life. A human with a feel for the earth and the world around him. Come along on this next adventure - or two. Much to learn "down by the river".