Last year I tried to summit King’s Peak in Utah, but we got rained out by a record-breaking dump. Luckily, Jenna’s family invited me back this summer for a rematch. (2 days away from the anniversary of the first trip)

Once again, it was rainy, wet, and cold (monsoon season will do that to you, I guess). We packed in the first day and got camp set up right before the big storm hit, so the timing was better this time. When we first started putting on our rain gear, I had kind of a bad PTSD moment, but I conquered that demon when I was able to construct the tent without leaving a big puddle in the middle of it. (I did haul in a towel just in case, though, and I’d do it again.

I slept great. Fell asleep reading my book and woke up feeling pumped.

So, we set out for that infamous, undefeated peak, carrying plenty of water, snacks, and going-potty-number-2 supplies with us (important detail).

The sun rose over the peaks, as did we. The journey was long and fairly strenuous, but we made it without issue.

And the peak was magnificent. I held the sign and almost heard it say, “You made it, buddy. Celiac disease, unemployment, and all.”

I gobbled up a granola bar and a scrumptious apple. We smiled and laughed.

But the story was not over. It never is.

A hungry cloud was looming in the distance. Its black waves rolled forward, looking for a chance at its favorite snack: dry hikers.

“Time to go!”

The storm bared its fangs and flashed its claws of lightning and thunder, but we made it far enough before it caught up. Once again, the timing was on our side. We had just started to descend below the rocky shelf when things went south.

Our fear of electrocution might have been subdued, but the rains still hammered us. I wrestled my poncho over my gear and me, trying to stay as dry as I could.

Now “waterproof”, we lumbered down the mountain, the tune of pitter-pattering plastic accompanying us.

But there was something else I was hearing. Almost a voice? A kind of whisper that started subtle: quiet and deep. Then the voice rose louder and louder, the longer I ignored it.

It’s like guilt rising in your stomach after you’ve done wrong, and apologies are due. Somewhere inside, you know you’ll have to listen eventually.

Except my only sin was digestion.

I protested for an hour. I tried my best not to relent, but after 7-8 strong waves, I had to give in to the voice:

“It’s time to go #2.”

Gosh, I was mad!

I retrieved the aforementioned supplies and carried them (with my shame) behind a nice boulder. Before disappearing, I had the wisdom to push the group onward. I did not want them to wait around in the rain as I repented of my sins.

What I did not think about, though, was the sharpness of the rocks in which I was huddled. (I’m sure that won’t come back to bite me in like 3 sentences)

I won’t go into detail, but business was attended to.

All ready to go, I took a deep breath and stood up for my now lonesome trek. I wasn’t even out from behind the rock before I felt like something was wrong. My back was cold.

I reached behind and discovered a giant gash in the plastic. The wind blew it, reckless and irksome, and the rain fell in. I pretended it was going to work, but I just ripped it off in frustration about 100 yards down the trail.

“I’ll just get wet.”

So there I was, trudging along the trail, completely soaked. (Not to mention the defeat of using the woods as a bear does)

An almost frightening mirror of last year, when my hands shook, and I fought with desperation not to lose it.

To my surprise, this time, the frustration withdrew. My eyebrows relaxed, and my spirits felt light. And the tension in my jaw didn’t disappear; it just turned itself the other way around and formed a smile.

I was wet, cold, tired, and belly-aching in the most literal way, but I was happy. I saw my group way up ahead. “I’ll catch up eventually.” I was having a great time and was in no rush.

I continue along the way with a pep in my step.
I feel accomplished in my efforts.
I feel proud that I returned.
I wave and chat.
I make friends with those who pass.
I think of my Jenna back home.

After a while, I caught up with my group; we wandered into our camp and crawled into our tents. I fell asleep reading my book. What a great nap.

A few hours later, we laughed around the fire and reflected on our victorious climb.

Conditions could have been better; “nevertheless, [falling] water is what I am wont to [hike] in,” and I have a great time doing it.

I’m not going to lie, writing this article is one of the hardest things I’ve done in months (and that includes dealing with a celiac flare-up on King’s Peak).

I got fired on May 28th. Yes, fired from that writing gig that I told everybody about. Yes, the one that put a pause on the podcast and newsletter and had me telling the whole world about how I “made it”.

Yikes. I won’t get into what happened; it’s a long story.

If you’re anything like my inner monologue, you’re thinking: “Well, Bryan… If you lost your job back in June, why are we just now getting new content?”

That’s a great question.

Truth is…it’s hard. I took a fall off the horse, and the saddle is looking reeeeeally tall right now.

At least once a day for the last few months, I’ll think: “Today’s the day that Bear-Bait comes back.” I’ve even opened up Substack a time or two to start writing. But then the doubt, anger, and shame sneak back.

I don’t have a story about how I broke through the negative feelings soup (gluten-free) and about how now I feel amazing. I wish I did, truly.

Can I share something I noticed recently, though?

Anytime we see a dog, no matter what it’s doing, Jenna will say something like:

“Oh, he’s so good.”

The dog could be just sitting in a car with the windows rolled down in a parking lot somewhere. His long tongue sticks out as he pants in the lazy heat. His eyebrows twitch as he looks at us, he might whine.

She’ll let out a little giggle and say again,

“Oh, he’s a good puppy.”

Come to think of it, she says that about a lot of things.

Our nephew, Tommy, just turned one. He’s the chunkiest, shyest, cutest little thing, but also super skeptical of anybody who isn’t his mama. He’ll scowl at you with his eyebrows furrowed, and his jowels turned down. He’s one inquisitive-looking fella.

But, if his mom or dad is there, he giggles and calls for their attention. He can’t talk; he just makes a popping sound with his bottom lip.

Reaching out with rolly fingers + “Pop! Pop!” = “Mom, that goldfish looks yummy. Gimme it”

Jenna loves it.

“Oh, he’s so good.”

It goes beyond little creatures, too. The “goodness” extends to everything.

A couple of days ago we went on an evening hike. It was cloudy, but the sun’s hard work from the last few weeks still made it hotter than sin at 7:00 pm. We were about a mile into our HARD hike (aptly labeled by AllTrails), and we decided it was time for a break.

”How ‘bout the next sitting spot?”

We were on the lookout, but the trail continued as it had been, with a steep drop-off on one end and a dusty slope on the other. In other words: nowhere to sit.

The hot air in our mouths and lungs forced us to stop regardless, so we stood on the trail with my backpack hanging off the front of my shoulders. The granola bars and ice water were yummy, but there was still much to be desired. We were like 70% satisfied, but off we went.

“Oh, that was a good snack.”

A snack, dog, or nephew… It’s good.

What I like most about this simple vernacular of hers is that there are so many other words she could pick.

For the dog, it could be “cute”, “big”, “furry”, “well-behaved”. Even “nice to look at”.

Nope. “Good”

Or for Tommy: “cute”, “little”, “wrinkly”, “shy”. Perhaps, “he’s so funny.”

Oh no no no. “He’s good”

And what about our measly snack? “satisfying”, “just enough to keep going”, “decent?”

Even for that, it was “good”.

Now just for a second, I need to make sure we’re on the same page here. She’s not resorting to “good” in the way of “I don’t want to tell you what I really think.” When she says “good”, she means something really quite good. When she says it, it feels like that pause in a hug when neither person is speaking, and both parties draw a long and synchronized inhale.

It’s love.

As I’ve looked back at the last few months, I’ve had to remember who I am.

Betrayed? Sure. Disappointed? For sure. Embarrassed? 100%. I’ve had a lot of things happen to me that make me want to dig a hole forever.

But am I good? Yes. Yes, I am. And that’s enough to keep trying.

It’s relieving, it’s empowering, and I can’t wait to tell you more about it next week.

P.S. New episode of Drifters and Dreamers is live!

I felt the mattress adjust as Jenna got up. I was already awake, but I was just enjoying “the coze” (as we call it.)

“What time is it?” I asked, my eyes squinting as I rolled over to face her.

“Oh, it’s early. I decided to go on a walk before we got the Airbnb ready for checkout.” She was tying her boots.

“Oh goodbye. Be safe. I’m going back to sleep.”

“I’m not leaving yet, just getting ready.”

As soon as she left the room, my conscience jumped at me.

You should go with her.

I pulled the blanket back over my shoulder to settle in and show myself that I was standing on business. No!

C’mon. She’d love it.

I curled my legs up to reemphasize how cozy I was. I ignored that my feet were clammy (the way they get when you’ve been in bed for too long.)

Silence from my conscience, but I knew it was glaring at me. It’s that uneasy feeling you get when you know that going back to sleep wouldn’t satisfy you. It’s something you can just feel in the morning sun: it’s time to get up.

I knew that I needed to go with her. I knew it would make me happy. As much as I hated to get out of my warm bed, I knew that something meaningful was waiting for me. The only way to get it was to venture out.

One deep breath and I was standing up, getting dressed.

When Jenna came in she was indeed very happy. And after a happy dance, a hug, and a finished up outfit, we were on our way out the door. It was within seconds that I knew I made the right choice.

The cold Montana air filled my lungs and stung my sinuses. An unpleasant, refreshing, amazing breath of fresh air. I snuck a smile.

The ice crunched under our feet. The light danced off the snow-covered road. The mountain chickadees peeped and danced happily, and Jenna and I held our glove-covered hands.

It was a happy happy morning, and it was exactly where I needed to be.

Life’s a never ending cycle of knowing you must act, then convincing yourself to make the step.

Here’s an example of something that happened last year:

The sun shone through the huge windows of the business building. The hot orange light rested on my face as I looked down in self pity. I felt stuck, bored, and disappointed in how things had been going.

Things were boiling up. I knew there was something I needed to do—something to channel my passion into.

But what? I was just a guy.

February 11, 2025, (at 1:08 am) I wrote the following:

“It’s a silly thing, jealousy. To want so desperately what another has, knowing full well that it’ll never be yours.

Tonight, for me at least, it’s jealousy of art, of poetry, of music; of expression most of all.”

Oof. Can you feel the angst?

I continued:

“Tonight, for me at least, I’m just a man and a keyboard. Dreaming of what it must be like to take the deepest feelings of the soul, and make it tangible. What it must be like.”

That moment presented two possible paths.

I could sit and mope, or I could do something about it.

I decided on the latter and sent out Bear Bait #01 “Sitting On My Butt” the next day.

I wrote:

“‘The Old Man and The Sea'“ was not the first thing that Hemingway wrote, Gregory Alan Isakov did not come up with “The Stable Song” as his first piece, and Stephen Covey did not wake up with the 7 Habits written on his hand.

They worked at it. They wrote 100 things before they found their Starry Night.

So, this newsletter is coming to you because in 10 years I want to look back and see that I made the step. I wrote..”

It hasn’t quite been a decade, but I can’t imagine how things would be without The Bear-Bait Newsletter.

After 1 year, 50 posts, over 30,000 words, and countless kind compliments, I feel grateful beyond measure that I stuck my neck out there. And I’m grateful to you, my readers, for supporting me and reminding me how valuable this can be.

How marvelous it is to tell stories and put your creative power onto paper. It’s immensely empowering.

There are big things in the future, but I’ll never forget how whole this experience has made me feel.

The Future

So what will things look like?

Big News

I have some big news. I just accepted an offer to be a full time writer/content lead at a remote marketing agency. I’ll be writing for a living, can you believe it? I start in 2 weeks.

I can’t thank you all enough for getting me to this point. I can’t believe it’s real.

And guess what! That isn’t even the “big news” that I’ve been teasing for a while now!

More Big News

I want to present The Drifters & Dreamers Podcast. It will be a weekly show that includes interviews with people who are exploring their passions and doing the things they were meant to do.

Learn more or listen to the first 3 episodes on Spotify or Apple Podcasts now!

If you enjoy any or all of them, please leave a review (it helps the algorithm). Looking forward to this next level of the Bear Bait experiment.

The Future of The Newsletter

If you liked the way things were, fret not. The Bear-Bait Newsletter is not going away. It might be a few weeks before you get the next issue, but it won’t be forever. That’s a waste of a rebrand. I’ve gotta do some adjusting with the new job, but I’ll be back into the newsletter soon.

Keep your eyes and ears open, friends. Please continue to enjoy my stuff if you’ve liked it so far. I know it’s been a huge blessing for me, and I thank you all for being a part of it.

See you soon.

Love,

Bryan

P.S. Special thanks to my friend Anna Larsen for designing rebrand. I’d love to hear what you think.

Now here’s the good news. I just landed my first freelance writing client.

It’s been so fun, and I feel so proud and grateful for the opportunity to use these skills on a professional level. It has made me a lot busier though, so I appreciate you giving me a little extra time to get Bear-Bait #50 ready.

Besides, there are some special announcements that I need to make sure are in order ;)

For now, I decided to pull a piece out of the archive. I wrote this a while ago, and that shows in the writing. But it’s a fun little article about adventure, exploration, and finding joy in the little things.

Let me know what you think!

See you in a couple weeks.

Bruno

Micro-Adventures: (Unposted Archive)

Post-Honeymoon Blues

The Mrs. and I had the best time on our honeymoon. We went on a cruise to Mexico and it was just fantastic.

Free food. Music and dancing. Lots of fun kayaking, swimming, and exploring new places together.

But, all of a sudden, we were home. Wedding was over. Honeymoon was done. Now we’re just married people. So lame.

Then, on a random Tuesday in June, we had an idea. A popcorn idea.

A Noble Quest

On this summer day, we decided we would have a movie night. Normally we would just drive on over to the theater, but this time we were on a quest.

We were going to go get our own movie theater popcorn and then come home and watch something just the two of us.

Driving would be too boring, though, so we decided to mix it up.

Bike time, baby.

We checked the tires, fixed the alignment with the old knee-pinch trick, hooked the Megatub onto my handle-bars, and we were off.

Riding through our new neighborhood, relying mostly on luck to get us there.

After arriving and buying the popcorn, we mischeiviously (and through much laughter) poured the popcorn into paper grocery bags, rolled up the openings, and stached them in a backpack.

You can’t be loosing your plunder on the journey back.

I don’t recall what movie we watched after returning home, but dang I had so much fun on that little outing of ours.

Giggling with my best friend, riding under the shade of majestic Logan trees, and feeling the hot air through my hair, still wavy from the humidity of Mexico.

We were just a few blocks from home, but it was felt like true adventure.

The Micro-Adventure Challenge

Okay, remember that little anecdote for later.

For now, we’re gonna talk about a man by the name of Alastair Humphreys.

He’s not just a guy with those most British name of all time, he’s a bona fide adventurer.

His resume includes backpacking across Iceland, rowing across the Atlantic ocean, and biking over 46,000 miles around the world.

Real crazy stuff.

He loves writing about his adventures and encouraging others to do the same.

People had an issue with him, though.

“How can regular blokes achieve such adventure? We don’t have time or money.”

A few summers ago, he decided to prove them wrong. Instead of biking across Africa or kayaking the mediterranean sea, he stayed home.

He stayed in boring old England, determined to show people adventure in its purest form.

Sometimes it was going for a swim in the river. Sometimes camping out on a nearby hill. Sometimes climbing a mountain that he’s always looked at but never explored.

Every week he set out on “micro-adventures”

Things that any regular bloke could do after the workday.

Over a whole summer, he got to know his native land on a completely different level. Never once stepping onto an airplane.

I took the challenge last year, and it was one of the funnest summers of all time. I climbed mountains, swam rivers, and went on some pretty inspiring walks.

If you’re looking for more adventure in your life, I highly recommend looking into some Microadventures around your neighborhood. There are a lot more opportunities than you’d think.

Did you know that Puffins can’t take off on land? They have to either jump from a high cliff or use the water as a runway. I know, it doesn’t make much sense to me either.

Oh, and did you know that a Mockingbird can learn up to 200 songs over their lifetime?

And a Mountain Chickadee can memorize thousands of food cache locations at one time.

I’m a descendant of birders. My great uncle, Dick (who I never met) was a lifelong bird enthusiast who actually wrote a book about the Ornithology of Yellowstone and the Tetons.

And there are tiny pockets of memories spread throughout my childhood of watching tiny birds through the window with Grandma (Dick’s sister). She’d point out the Western Kingbirds, with their bright yellow bellies, as they pecked at the seeds and jumped around excitedly. Or the Song Sparrows whistling joyfully as they perched on the branches with their full bellies.

Lately I’ve felt a call to learn more. It’s partly due to a board game called Wingspan, where you collect bird cards that have beautiful art and unique facts about each species.

Whether it’s my ancestral destiny or an obsession with a board game, I’m led to get into it.

Luckily, Jenna is fully on board. Partly because it was a way to get me out on a walk, but also because she is wonderful at enjoying the small things.

So we bundled up with coats and beanies and set out for birds.

(Note: This is not what Logan looks like right now. Trying to manifest better snow)

I knew it wasn’t going to be a bountiful journey. It’s January in the suburbs, after all.

Nevertheless, we trekked on—holding hands. Watching and listening carefully for any flutter, song, or whistle.

As we mosied along the cold blocks of our neighborhood, I was disappointed by the lack of wildlife.

“I know we’re too early, but I was expecting something at least.”

“I’m having fun with you, Bryan. Let’s cut through here, I’ll show you the shortcut to our new church building.”

The unlocked gate in the fence creaked open and we squeaked through. As we made our way across the parking lot, I glanced over at the houses that lined it.

And finally! It happened!

There they were, sitting underneath the shelter of an evergreen tree.

They were gathered in a peaceful clump on the dry dirt. The tree’s boughs protected them from the nasty, icy ground that surrounded it.

The white ones were preening their feathers with rapid head movement. The brown ones, with their black streaked and speckled faces, tucked their feet and watched with an unproblematic stare. The fancy ones watched us with care, their green heads shimmered in the flickering sunlight.

They were just ducks. And not even super unique ones! Just the kind you see all the time at any pond or park.

But dangit! We found birds.

Jenna quacked at them and giggled to herself. I quacked too.

The Mallard quacked back and stood up from the cold ground.

“Sorry, buddy! Just saying hi!”

We gave him some space and he sat down again, settling back into his thoughtless bliss.

Jenna giggled to herself again and let out a sigh of contentment. She grabbed my arm tight and made sure that we were still gonna keep going on our (now successful) bird walk.

We did, and it was so much fun.

By the end of the adventure, our species total was the following:

Mallards: 1

Other ducks: several

Bona-fide birders.

On February 1, 1985, a northern Utah thermometer measured a record-setting temperature of -69.3 degrees.

It was in a sinkhole at 8,100 feet, about a half-mile across. The granite bottom, unique basin topography, dry climate, and high elevation combine to create the perfect storm for snow and ice. The Peter Sinks. It’s a geographical oddity and holds the record for coldest temperature in Utah for any given month.

It’s the kind of cold that takes your breath away. The kind that burns your cheeks red, swollen, and stiff.

The kind that you’d want to stay away from. Far, far away from.

And on March 9, 2019, I was there, and my whole body shook.

I twisted the heated handlebars hard to the left to do a U-turn. With just a little pressure from my thumb, the machine jolted hard and nearly threw me off the back end. Then a quick, reflexive squeeze of the brake, and I almost went over the front. I was about three feet from a stranger’s truck feeling mighty embarrassed… and a little shaken.

“Just follow me,” Dad said “I won’t go anywhere that you can’t.”

That calmed my nerves and we set off down the trail toward the sinks.

I don’t know what I expected to find when we got there, but my mind was blown.

We parked in a row along the top and looked down into the frigid playground before us. There were countless snowmobiles, just zipping around in random movements and sloppy circles.

“Where are we going?” I said, feeling overwhelmed but mostly excited.

“Anywhere we want! Let’s just have fun for a while, then we’ll go to the next one.”

I couldn’t believe what Dad was saying. We were looking at a snowmobiling paradise, and all we had to do was enjoy it.

Another jolt of the gas and we began our descent into the sinks. Little by little, I gained more confidence. Dad would climb a hill. I’d follow.

He’d pump his arms in an expression of pride and smile (I assume) under his helmet.

Then I’d follow his blue coat back down the hill.

We did this over and over again, testing bigger hills and crazier climbs. Eventually I was brave enough to deviate from the path a little.

Nothing crazy of course! I made sure I could always see his blue coat, but I wasn’t afraid to test the speed of the machine, climb some hills, and enjoy the vast space on my own.

We found our way to the south end of the bowl, where lies the biggest climb of them all. Its massive snowy face stared down at me. Even as I continued to gain confidence, the south slope lingered in my peripheral vision, ominous and inevitable.

Then I saw the blue coat.

There’s no way, I thought.

THERE IS NO WAY

Nevertheless, I remembered what dad had said.

“Just follow me. I won’t go anywhere that you can’t.”

Okay. You can do this.

My stomach flipped and my body shivered.

I gripped the handlebars through my gloves and tapped my toes anxiously in my boots as I watched Dad’s blue coat continuing to rip up the hill.

I took one final deep breath.

Hummmm

Shooooooooo

And then I hit it!

The engine roared beneath me, kicking up snow and spraying mist as it went.

I came to the incline and revved louder. I was scared as can be, but I knew I had to commit.

More speed! More speed! Follow Dad!

The machine whined louder as I felt gravity pulling us downward.

I held my breath and squeezed my legs tighter around the seat. I could feel the thing losing speed against the frozen mountain. I watched the blue coat fade away over the summit. I was close, but I wasn’t going to make it.

So I followed Dad’s previous instructions and turned the Ski-Doo around.

I’ll never forget how small I felt looking back down the hill. The wind howled around me and I felt like I would wither away and freeze at any moment.

Dang, we’re in a tight spot.

I shook my head in nervous disbelief.

What am I gonna do? Dad’s gone.

My hands shook.

I’ll turn around, head back down, and try again with more speed.

I carefully gave it some gas and cruised down the hill, slow and steady.

As I got closer to the bottom I realized there was a problem.

3 snowmobiles were lined up exactly where I was heading.

As I got closer, their shouts and waves got louder.

Huh. That middle guy has a blue coat.

Wait….I know that coat! It’s Dad!

“Wow! I can’t believe you did that,” Uncle Greg said with a surprise in his voice.

“Was it scary?” Kyle and Dave looked at me with equal parts bewilderment and inquisition.

“Good job, son!” I knew Dad was smiling this time.

I slumped over the handlebars as the adrenaline rushed out of me. I giggled, grinned, and thought about whatever blue-coated stranger just took me on the ride of my life.

The next few hours were some of the funnest of my life and I’ll always remember two lessons:

1. Pay better attention to where Dad is.

2. I can do things that I didn’t think were possible when the people that love me have my back.

   We saw birth and death
   Can't we be still
   What makes you kind
   From where comes your sparkling mind
   
   Was it under the earth
   Tied up in a knot
   Which I forgot you were ever there
   
   Do not be afraid
   Do not be afraid
   
   What’s that I see?
   I think it's The Wild
   Puts the fear of God in me
   
   It was ever thus
   Up from the dust
   Inconceivable love
   
   What's that I see?
   I think it’s The Wild
   Puts the fear of God in me

   -Mumford and Sons “The Wild”

My knuckles flexed white around the steering wheel. My breath was quick and uncontrolled. My jaw, tight.

The high rock walls closed in around me as I drove deeper and madder into the canyon.

Why isn’t she texting back?

Am I even doing this right?

My fresh-off-the-mission, first-time-as-a-real-boyfriend anxiety was through the roof.

I just don’t know if I can do it.

Thoughts like this bombarded my quivering mind, overpowering whatever country music was playing through the speakers.

The thoughts confused me. I was mad about a miscommunication. Angry. Hurt even. But deep down I was also reflecting on my own weaknesses and shortcomings.

Why am I having such a hard time with this?

In the midst of my anger, my foot pressed harder against the pedals and the car sped up. I was weaving down the road like a bat out of hell.

A corner surprised me. I took it too tightly, and my tire clipped the edge of the gravel shoulder. The car jolted, rough and loud, and settled back onto the pavement where it was supposed to be.

Stupid turn! Dangit! Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!

The leather wheel creaked under my ever-tightening grip. The corners of my jaw throbbed as the teeth ground together.

My eyes began to well up, but I forced an empty swallow, I sniffled, and blinked my eyes to stop the tears.

Just in time, I was met with a grove of trees along a stretch of straight road.

Here’s as good a spot as any.

An ungraceful turn, a halting stop, the grinding of a pulled handbrake, and I was parked. The turnout was small. Dusty. There was an old firepit in the center with an obscene amount of trash laying around. The road was right off of one side with a small pool in the river on the other. It was big enough for a couple of tents and maybe 3 cars. Just a little safe-zone in the tight canyon.

This will do

I unfurled the hammock straps, tied them around a couple of trees, and hooked each side to the hammock.

I tried to pull myself in, but the phone in my skinny-jeans pocket jabbed me in the groin.

Stupid phone! Stupid. Stupid!

Not only had it just assaulted me, but it was only reminding me of how pissed off I was.

I put it back in the car and settled for something else as my hammock entertainment.

I picked up a small, hardcover book and flipped it around to see the title.

“The Old Man and The Sea” by Ernest Hemingway.

I had read it once in 9th grade. It’s not the most interesting book in the world, but it was short and one of the few novels from school that I had actually read, so I had fond memories of it.

It would have to do, so I got back in the hammock (no groin injuries this time), opened the first pages, and started reading—still mad as a hen.

I kicked my shoes off and swung in the cool mountain breeze.

The first few pages of a book are hard for me. I feel distracted, I feel out of focus, and crave some instant dopamine activities.

But as I pushed on into the story, past my anxieties and passions, the road went quiet around me.

The story of a fisherman took me out of the world and left me alone in a sanctuary of trees and the rushing river.

“Now is no time to think of what you do not have. Think of what you can do with what there is.”

Maybe we’re still learning how to love each other. Maybe there are some things we need to work on, but we do have a lot of fun together don’t we?

The early spring leaves danced in the sunlight and light flickered across the book. Somehow I was already 20 pages in.

“Perhaps I should not have been a fisherman, he thought. But that was the thing that I was born for.”

I really wish I didn’t have such big feelings. But that’s who I am and I’m sure someday it’ll help me be a better person. (Like maybe a newsletter 4 years later?)

The crisp, cold current of the river babbled over the rocks. Its sound made me feel safe.

“Most people were heartless about turtles because a turtle’s heart will beat for hours after it has been cut up and butchered. But the old man thought, I have such a heart too.”

Just because I got hurt doesn’t mean she was trying to hurt me. She’s doing her best, just like I am. I can be a little more understanding.

A full nest of baby birds squeaked with excited squawks as mama robin returned home.

“I may not be as strong as I think, but I know many tricks and I have resolution.”

I’ve got a lot of weaknesses, but I’m ready to give it my all. Love is a choice, and I choose to love.

A chipmunk scampered beneath the bushes, unbothered by me and my swinging.

“It’s silly not to hope. It’s a sin, he thought.”

I can’t wait to see where life takes Jenna and me.

I shut the book and looked up at the sky for a moment. I saw the wispy clouds peaking from behind the trees and I smiled.

Then I made my way back home. Not checking my phone so much. Not clenching my jaw so hard. And not taking the corners too quickly.

Oh, and it ended up working out with the girl. Jenna and I got engaged 4 years ago next week.

The nighttime silence of the forest makes me feel small. The wildness surrounding our campsite becomes mysterious. The towering pines, with their heavy boughs, are blackened with darkness. Their narrowing needle-bearing branches point my gaze toward the sky. The vastness of space, with its stars and swirls, makes the clearing of our campsite feel tiny. Isolated, but also like it’s on full display.

I feel like a little house terrier stumbling into a land of untamed beasts and dangers. A little dog that could be swept away by a great horned owl, wolverine, or wendigo.

That’s the transformation that happens when night falls. A few hours ago I was a valiant 15 year-old, ready to summit a peak or take on a pack of wolves with just my fist. I was a mentor, a Jedi master to the young’uns who were at scout camp for the first time.

But tonight, I shrank. I became the kid that, when he goes backpacking in bear country, thinks he’s going to die when he hears his dad’s snoring in the next tent over.

But there’s a job to do. No time to be scared.

Part of my role as an older scout is to help clean up and run the camp. My friends and I stayed up late to inspect the camp and take the food back to the bear-safe trailer. (It didn’t all fit in the boxes)

It’s a fun job, but walking through a haze of chilled darkness to the other end of an empty scout camp brings an eerie feeling.

Luckily nothing happened. Now we are just trying to calm down before we go to bed for the night.

Just Kyle and I standing in the dark, brushing our teeth, almost ready to find refuge in the canvas tent.

But then…

An unearthly growl cuts through the silence.

The sound of a broken twig rattles our ears!

A guttural snort rumbles through the bushes!

My stomach drops and the trees disappear. The world no longer exists. It’s just me, my brother, and a hidden creature ready to pounce.

I am brushing my teeth no longer. The foldable tooth brush is frozen in my open, stunned mouth. Colgate foam lingers on the corners of my lips.

I look at Kyle and he looks at me. (We’re so scared that the headlamp flashbang doesn’t even bother us)

As I stare back into the woods with my light, a memory comes to my mind.

2 years ago we were in this same site, on our first day at Camp Loll. The birds chirped, the flowers danced, we were restless with excitement. We stood in a circle on the warm summer morning and got a welcome speech from our assigned commissioner.

Right as he got to the point in the presentation when he’d talk about bear protocol, my scout master raised a finger and pointed.

“Like that one?”

Sure enough, there he was. A juvenile black bear.

I remember the patches of dark and golden fur glistening in the sun. His mouth was open and his sharp teeth peaked out at us. His wide and muscular paws stepped along in the dirt—claws flashing in the air with each step.

He was just a young bear looking for food, but I knew that he was capable of ripping my arm off or breaking my neck if he really felt like it.

Image from National Park Service

So I know bears are real. They’ve been to this exact camp site before, and we just heard animal noises from behind the bushes.

CRACK!

My heart is beating so hard I think I’m gonna puke. My stomach flips again and my body fills with butterflies from head to toe. My chest tightens and I have to force my lungs to breathe.

“Here it comes!”

The bushes shake and rumble, each disruption getting closer and closer.

This is no deer stumbling into our camp. It’s coming for us and it’s loud and it’s big.

My eyes feel heavy. They’re watering like crazy. My skin feels cold. It’s covered in goose-bumps.

I have no weapon. No defense. Nothing protects me from the impending doom.

One last crack in the bushes. One last shake of the foliage…and it appears.

Its huge feet stomp in the dirt. Its legs, covered in brown, stand still before us. Its large body camouflaged against the barely visible forest. Its hairy face and dark eyes stare back at us.

For a moment, we stand there in mutual confusion.

“Hey guys. Is everything okay?”

My shoulders drop. It’s just Brother Zimmerman.

“Yeah. We’re good. We thought you were a bear.”

“Sorry, fellas. Just choked on my toothpaste.”

We laugh and the butterflies linger.

Time to stare at the roof of the tent until I recover from my “near-death” experience.

All art in this article is done by Brett Smith Sporting Art

I blinked my eyes awake. The sun was already bright and hot on my face.

I sat up and folded over the wool blanket that was in my lap.

The sun was setting when I had arrived, so I happily looked around to remind myself of the surroundings.

The light breeze blew the white ash from my long-cold fire. It blew over the rocky alpine meadow and into the patch of trees to the west. The yellow flowers danced happily as their stalwart pedals smiled in the sun-soaked morning air.

The birds whistled and worked; their blue feathers fluttering and sweet songs a-warblin’.

I wiped the sleep away and turned to make sure the Subaru was alright.. We got a little adventurous the night before. Definitely a few scrapes and bumps, but it looked okay that morning. Hopefully everything was still working mechanically. (I had checked everything like 10 times already)

As I evaluated the noble steed that had carried me into my wild campsite, I noticed a figure moving along the road. It was too small to be a car, but too fast and nimble to be a four wheeler or side-by-side. As it got closer, I saw a glint of light reflecting off its windshield. Then another from the rider’s helmet.

Motorcycles are sick. I thought. I wonder where he’s going…

There were a lot of random trails on this public land, so he could have been going anywhere.

Over the next few minutes, my mind realized what was happening and I groaned.

He wasn’t just passing through. He was headed straight toward me.

There was no pretending to be asleep now. I was awake and my dazed, upright glaring didn’t hide that.

The shocks of the bike bounced as the rider took it off trail toward my camp. He rode it slowly and carefully to a stop, flipped down the kickstand, and let down the heavy weight of the bike.

There he sat, 30 yards from me, and took his helmet off.

He looked at me and said nothing. He had a scruffy face and wrinkled cheeks. They looked worn and tethered. His eyebrows, along with his scruff, were peppered with black and white. The wrinkles and shadowed face would leave you to believe that he was old.

But he didn’t seem that way to me. Weathered and tired, but not old. No, something in his dimples seemed more childlike. His headscarf/bandana headgear blew in the wind, which only added to the aura of whimsy that the stranger exuded. His eyes were kind. He still said nothing.

One thing about me is that I hate these moments of social standstill. Seriously, get me in an awkward stare down and I will always make the first move.

I pulled one arm out from under the blanket, raised it, and waved once. (It was really more of an open-palmed flick than anything.)

“Mornin’” (Can you imagine my passive aggression?)

“Good morning! Pretty good spot.” He said as he finally got off his bike. He turned his back to me and unzipped the green and black biker jacket. The leather squeaked and groaned as he laid it down on the seat. His grey t-shirt had a sweat spot from his backpack. It hugged his body closely. He hung his helmet on the handlebar.

“Yep. Thank goodness for public land.” I said. That was a pretty good reply, I thought. Relevant to what he said while also addressing the slight fear I had that I wasn’t actually on public land.

He walked closer. His biker boots clomped through bushes and his pants creaked.

“Where are you from?” He asked.

“Logan. So not too far from here.”

“Very nice. You a student?”

“Yep. What about you? You from the area?”

“Just up the road a ways. You know Kemmerer?”

“Sure do. I usually pass through there on the way to the Windrivers.”

“Very nice. Lots of fun up that way.“

He stood in the sun with his hands on his hips. There was a slight awkwardness in the way he waited there. It was happy and chipper, not malicious or unkind.

He continued.

“Welp. Mind if I take a little wander?”

“Go ahead. There’s a little path that way.” I pointed with still just one arm out.

His pants creaked and boots clomped as he made his way over to the trail. His head-scarf still blew in the wind. (Picture Ebeneezer Scrooge’s night-cap)

As soon as he was out of sight , I slipped my other hand out and found my socks, pants, and a new shirt from my pack. I wanted to be more presentable (and more clothed) when he came back.

A few minutes passed and there he was.

“It’s a really beautiful area up here. What else have you got planned today?”

“Just a service project. Near Cokeville.” I replied.

“Very cool. Good luck!”

Something told me I needed to return the inquiry.

“What about you? Just a quick morning ride?”

He had put his jacket back on and was sitting on the bike once again. His helmet sat upside down in his lap. His thumbs grabbed the sides. His head-scarf still blew in the wind.

“Yep. That’s all I wanted for my birthday.” He was still awkward and twitchy. But he was content.

“Well happy birthday!”

He smiled and put his helmet on.

“Thank you. Enjoy your service project. Be safe.”

The bike’s motor lit up again with life. He let out the clutch, gave it a little bit of gas, and rolled back towards the dirt-road. I watched him drive right back out the way he came.

And just like that. As mysteriously as he had arrived, the man was gone.

I was as happy as I was bewildered. It wasn’t how I pictured my morning when I woke up, but I’m so glad I got to wish him a happy birthday.

I feel my chest muscles contract and squeeze. My biceps harden as the handles of the wheel-barrow rise high above my head.

I give a few gentle taps on the bottom of the scoop and snow falls from my sopping boots. I can’t be too thorough.

This is about my 200th time performing this dumping movement. I do it with routine perfection, but each muscle fiber groans and aches.

I’m on hour 10 of dumping horse crap into the manure pile, and my arms are feeling it.

Nevertheless, the job must be done. I move the wheel-barrow backward off the concrete pad where the pile is. The ledge always sneaks up on me. The 2-inch drop into muddy, icy, stinky wet slush makes my frozen teeth chatter.

I take a deep breath to ward off the fatigue.

I push the barrow across the barnyard to the covered pavilion with new stable bedding. I scoop the soaked and frozen saw-dust into the barrow to bring back inside for the horses.

After a full day of scooping, the tiredness lingers. The freezing air makes it even harder to catch my breath. A hay bale sits a few feet away. It’s the perfect spot to catch my breath.

I think back to that first day at the horse farm. Late September I think?

Ashley, the head ranch-hand, had just given me a demonstration on what a clean stall looks like.

“It’ll probably take you some practice, but you’ll get the hang of things.”

Oh boy, I couldn’t wait to get into each stall (with the horse mind you) and experience farm work for myself.

I had labored on a produce farm before, but this was the first time being up close and personal with horses for work.

It was hard work. I’d scoop and rake out the waste from each stall (with the horse still in there mind you), go outside and dump the smelly stuff, scoop some fresh bedding, bring it inside and dump it into the stall. Lather, rinse, and repeat until my section is done.

There were about 10 stalls under my stewardship, and it took me 5 hours on my first day.

As gruelling as it was, I was excited about the new job. “It’ll build character”

Famous last words.

Now, on New Years Day 2022, I sit on this hay bale, my cheeks red and burnt from the chill. I open and close my hands a few times. I can feel the dry, tight skin crack.

Building character sucks.

I remember that first morning of my Christmas break shift. December 26th, 6:00 am. Half the students were home, and the rest of us had to cover for them.

This means that the usual responsibility of 10 stalls became 24. You do the math. That’s a lot of horse-sh*t.

Oh it was so bad. I remember getting back to my apartment after work each day and taking my boots off. My hands would shake and my voice quiver. I would call that girl in Maryland and let her know how overwhelmed I was. How badly I didn’t want to get up and do it again the next day.

But now I sit on this hay bale and tears run down my face.

I let the full force of my emotions hit me and something compels me to take out my headphones. I comply.

The silence overwhelms me as I become deaf to the music. Only the sound of wind hits my ears now, the howling of airborne ice crystals as they rush by.

I look up to the recently-set sun, its yellow glow peaking up over the white majesty of the Wellsvilles. Its light sweeps over the blue, snow-covered twilight. A subtle yellow reflects off the rock-hard grooves of ice left behind by the farm trucks.

I turn my head to the east, the first stars begin to appear in the swirling blues and purples of night.

The wind continues to howl, void of any interruptions. It soothes me. The very wind that cuts through all layers to take my breath away, takes my breath away.

This is a beautiful place. I’ve never noticed it before, but it’s just heavenly.

“I better get back to work”, I say.

I slap my hands down onto my thighs and push up, feeling freshly invigorated.

I take a deep breath, grab the barrow and head back into the cold barn.

“I’ll miss this someday, I’ll bet.” I say to myself.

Yes. Yes you will, Mr. Bryan

“It is both a blessing and a curse

To feel everything so very deeply.”

—David Jones

I dedicate this essay to a stallion named Whip.

You sure pissed me off…but I miss ya, pal.

“That looks like Mr. Conner’s son.”

“You’re right.”

A few minutes later, the man stood up to conduct the church meeting and introduced himself as Brother Conner.

Kyle and I chuckled as his original guess was confirmed.

As I processed who I was looking at, I thought about the way that things just happen.

A month earlier I felt moved to write a tribute to an old scout hero of mine, Delose Conner. I hadn’t thought about him in a long time but I couldn’t shake it.

So I wrote about him. The words came out like they were begging to be read. It felt like something else was guiding my fingers as they typed.

Accompanied by quite a few butterflies in my stomach, I hit publish. It was an irregular piece… but I was proud of it.

So it went out.

The reception was humbling. Friends and family of Delose sent me their gratitude. They shared it on Facebook. One that was particularly impactful was from Delose’s son.

And here he was in front of me, bearing his testimony of what he believed in.

And I couldn’t believe it. Not only did I happen to write about his dad, but he also happened to be in the ward that I was visiting.

“Are you going to go meet him?” Jenna asked.

My mind said “No, that’s weird.” But my heart knew that I had to.

After the meeting was over, I went and shook his hand, introduced myself, and thanked him for letting me write about his father.

We took a selfie and I let him get back to his church ministry.

Now there are two things that were on my mind that morning that are key to this experience.

1. We played with suction darts with the fam the night before and I of course put one on my noggin.
   
   After a few hours a nice little hickey showed up. I woke up to red spot smack dab in the middle of my forehead.

2. During the events that followed our family party that night, I remembered that my white shirt was all wrinkled and not at all ready for church on Sunday.
   
   So I unfolded the screechy ironing board and got to work on my preparations.
   
   I am a pretty good ironer (doesn’t sound like a real word), but I guess I got really caught up in the conversation because I only did one half.

   
   So Mr. Bryan put on a half wrinkly shirt and only realized when it was too late.

That’s how I looked when I met Mr. Conner the younger.

Hickey on my head and half wrinkled shirt.

But in that moment that I was talking to him, it all went away. I didn’t care about any of it. I just spoke to a man that I respected.

As I think about this experience, I of course went back to Scout Camp and where I first encountered the Conner legacy.

One moment in specific feels relevant to this experience, and that’s the Environment Science Merit Badge.

One of the requirements to get it was to observe nature. We had to sit on a log and stare at a patch of grass, flowers, dirt, and rock, and just watch.

Pretty tall order for a 13 year old, wouldn’t you say?

But I was blown away. After getting out my wiggles, I was amazed at how alive the forest was.

The flowers waved back and forth in the cool breeze. Their romance with the sun was apparent in the way its rays bounced off the pedals.

A nearby bee took note of the delicious flowers and hovered nearby.

It could hardly wait to get it’s bumbly body to that sweet pollen. The flower twitched slightly as the bee’s full weight was on the pedals. A fuzzy caterpillar, with its orange band around a black body, held tightly to the shaking stem.

As my eyes focused on this mini creatures, the song of a bird hit my ears. There’s a lot of yelling, laughing, hootin’ and hollerin’ at scout camp, and this was the first time I was quiet enough to hear the blue bird in the trees.

It was beautiful

So what does this scene have to do with red-faced, wrinkly Bryan? I don’t know exactly.

I guess I relate to the little critters. They’re all doing their thing as individuals, but are part of a grander ecosystem. They make up just a little spot of the wilderness and wouldn’t be there without the other.

As I stood in front of Brother Conner, I was doing my part and he was doing his.

He wasn’t worried about my appearance in any way, just grateful that I had introduced myself. And I was grateful to meet him.

Without his kindness and support, I never would have met him. And it certainly wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t written about his dad in the first place.

So next time I feel pushed to act, I’ll trust that I’m playing my part. I’m moving pollen, spreading seeds, or making the forest more beautiful—even if I don’t understand how it all works.

The truth is, we’re all pretty small. We’re a beautiful collection of people and head hickies and wrinkly shirts aren’t going to ruin it.

So let’s relax a little bit and allow ourselves to live the way we’re meant to live.

Love,

Bruno

We were battered and bruised and just wanted to get home. Everything was wet, and for the first time ever, our backpacks weighed more on the way out than they had on the way in.

The original plan was a 3 day trip up to King’s Peak. The first day was up to base camp, the second would be the summit, and the third was the way down.

That was the original plan.

Instead, this trip would last less than 24 hours

Long story short, we were not interested in summiting after the coldest, wettest, longest night of our lives.

We didn’t even make it to the base camp the night before, so we decided to pack up camp, leave our stuff, and take a little walk up to Dollar Lake just to say we made it.

As we went up the trail, we got a lot of looks.

I was in socks and sandals, trudging through the mud. My boots were stowed safely back at our camp, with an extra 10 pounds of water soaked into them.

Most of the folks that passed us on their way out were young men’s groups.

With youth groups you can always tell whose idea it was to go backpacking. There’s the adult leader with trekking poles, REI hiking pants that zip off to become shorts, a fitness watch, and the nicest internal frame bag that money can buy.

This character is usually caught behind a group of worse-for-wear scouts that had no idea what they were doing.

Picture a kid with miscellaneous accessories attached to an oversized bag, a crooked baseball cap, a sports (or minecraft) themed t-shirt, sweat pants, and untied steel-toed boots.

The look on his face just screams “I’d rather be playing fortnite.”

He and his buddies are miserable, but they’re having fun in the mud. They’re experiencing less-than-ideal circumstances, but communal misery is a recipe for some type-2 fun.

On the other hand, there’s a scout or two who walk in silence, their pace somewhere between the go-getters and the stragglers.

They walk with their tied boots and compact (still oversized) backpacks. They, too, experience the less-than-ideal circumstances, but their fulfillment comes from the completion of a challenge rather than companionship.

Dollar Lake was underwhelming, which just added insult to injury. The weekend did not go as planned, and it was time to go home.

So we started on our journey back to the car.

Now one of the only words to describe our state at that moment is the Colombian word “Corroncho”. I’ve searched far and wide for a direct translation, but there is none that does it justice.

They’d use it to describe somebody who showed up to church with a crooked tie and half-tucked shirt.

Or it was somebody who showed up to a party and did not catch the vibe at all. Loud, boisterous, loco.

It’s somewhere between haggard and janky. And that’s about where we were.

Nothing more corroncho than backpacking in chacos.

As we continued down the trail, we continued to get funny looks. All sorts of grimaces and eyebrows contorted from confusion.

The kind of look that can only mean “what happened to them?”

Many of those looks came from the aforementioned scouts.

When we encountered the young-men, we realized we had more in common with the scrappy youth than the experienced leader.

Everybody understood our situation when we explained it, but deep down we felt insecure and embarrassed that we didn’t make it to the top.

Nevertheless, we trekked on. Overtaking, and getting overtaken by the spread out scout groups.

(Don’t worry, I washed them in the river before the big hike)

As we came around one corner, we saw one of the lone-wolf scouts clomping along up ahead. He was a small kid, with his tightly loaded orange pack just about doubling his height. His whole body bobbed back and forth with the signature gait of a tuckered out little guy.

As you would expect, the little dude’s pace was much slower than ours. It was time to pass him just like all the rest.

We got closer and he politely stepped off the trail. The soreness of his muscles was apparent in the way his body rotated stiffly to let us pass.

He nodded awkwardly and we were on our way toward the next group to overtake.

We continued a ways longer and needed a break. Not the sit-down kind, more of a quick breather to refocus and check in.

I leaned forward and braced my hands against my knees. This was the signature pose to get the weight of your pack off your shoulders and onto your legs, inherited from my dad.

As we looked at each other and helped get our waters out, we realized that we were not alone.

Right behind our trio was that same orange-backpacked, small-framed, sore and awkward little scout.

He had been keeping up with us since we passed him about 15 minutes earlier.

He explained that his name was Sam, from Bountiful, Utah. He and his ward had summited King’s Peak the day before, and had barely gotten back to camp before the rain hit. The very same rain that soaked us to the bone.

He told us about how hard of a hike it was to the top. About how long it took them and how steep the trail was.

Some of the boys in Sam’s group were not up to the challenge and decided to go back to camp before the final summit.

But Sam, despite being one of the younger and smaller boys in the group, pushed through and made it to the top.

We of course congratulated him and complimented his tenacity.

He let us know that he was an experienced hiker. Of course he made it. Sam and his grandpa had apparently climbed Ensign Peak before. He told us lots of stories about his adventures.

There was something familiar about this boy. Something about his tales of hiking with Grandpa.

Something about his shyness and the way he spoke, at first hesitant and guarded then becoming a waterfall of self expression and trustful sharing.

The way he tried to convince us of how tough he was, even though we knew how much he appreciated the companionship.

Sam ended up sticking with us the remaining two miles to the parking lot.

When we’d stop for a breather, he’d stop too.

When we checked in with each other, Sam spoke up too.

When I held up the group to take a picture, Sam watched too.

We finally made it to the car and Sam found his group.

We waved goodbye and I realized how important this little scout was.

Before we found him (or he found us), I was stuck boo-hooing about our current situation. After Sam, it was laughs and smiles.

That’s the thing about service, charity, and being a friend. It’s not one way at all.

Sam was flattered that three grown men would let him join their crew. We were grateful for the joy that he brought along with us.

So next time I’m wallowing in self pity, I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for any Sams.

And next time I’m in need of service, I’ll give back as much as possible.

Love,

Bruno

(Photo taken by Kyle)

In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of every glove that laid him down
Or cut him ‘til he cried out
In his anger and his shame
“I am leaving, I am leaving”
But the fighter still remains

- Simon & Garfunkle “The Boxer”

The trees were covered in a thick fog and the gravel driveway glistened.

The rich, sweet smell of wet earth wafted into the house as I watched the water streak down the windows.

The fire warmed my toes.

It was hard to look away from the rain outside, but I had work to do.

My gaze returned to my laptop screen and I took a breath.

It was my graduation trip, and Jenna and I were having a great time.

On the first day, we drove down to our AirBnb and stayed the night.

The next, hikes and sights and tours and sandwiches.

Mesa Verde National Park was a treat and we had more planned for day 3.

The weather had something else in mind.

Our original idea was to do a slot canyon, but after seeing the forecast, we decided we were not interested in being swept away in a flash flood.

So we went into town, did some shopping, and came back for a night in.

Even still, we were having a good time.

We played board games and watched shows and just relaxed.

But it was not all zen for Mr. Bryan.

In the back of my mind, I worried.

It’s Tuesday. Tomorrow is newsletter day and I have no idea what I’m going to write about.

Here’s what was on my mind:

2 weeks before, I wrote a special newsletter for Easter. And it bombed. A seriously terrible reception.

1 week before, I waited too long and sent out a silly little update piece. I was not proud of it. Short and rushed.

3 days before, I had a public speaking opportunity that did not go as well as I’d hoped. It was decent, but I had higher expectations for myself.

So there I sat, across from my wife as she placed her next game piece.

“Hey, Jenna. I really don’t want to write my newsletter today.”

I was hoping for some sort of validation. “That’s okay, Bryan. Do whatever you want.”

That’s not what I got at all.

Ohhhhh no.

She looked back up at me.

“Why not? You should do it anyways.”

That made me a little grouchy, I’ll admit.

As we finished the game, I kept brooding over the aforementioned disappointment. The disappointing newsletters, the underwhelming speech.

I wish I would have done x differently, I thought.

Or maybe I should have worded this part a little differently.

How can I possibly write something when I am so fixated on my failures.

The game finished. Jenna won, of course, and I was still ready to give up on the newsletter.

Instead, she invited me to get to work while she read upstairs.

I obliged and sat down with a blanket, warmed up by the fire.

I opened up my speech document and thought about everything I would have done differently.

And then I realized something.

I could end Bear-Bait and forever think about being defeated by expectations…

Or I could fix them.

There’s something that happens when I’m writing something that really matters.

The world around me seems to go quiet, yet loud at the same time. My focus comes out of my body and buzzes around me. My perspective zooms out and I can see the words coming out of my fingers. The click-clack of the keyboard doesn’t feel separate. It’s no longer a transition between my thoughts and words on a screen. It all comes together to form a beautiful synergy. It’s like the words are begging to be written and I’m just a guy delivering them from somewhere beyond.

Whenever this happens, I have to keep going. Keep writing.

And there in that AirBnB, I felt it.

Instead of sulking about what I would have done differently, I rewrote the story. Literally. I went back to my speech document and tore it all down.

I started from the beginning, keeping the original message, but letting the otherworldly words flow freely.

And it healed me.

I thought of junior high, when I wrote an essay without much hope of success. It came back with a 96/100, compliments from the teacher that I admired, and a feeling that my words were powerful.

I thought about when I left for my mission and spoke in front of hundreds of saints, friends, and family. As nervous as I was, I felt the words come through me to the hearts of the people I care about.

I thought about Bear-Bait #001, where I wrote about my desires to do something.

And here I was, doing it.

The result of this experience was an article that beat a personal record (stats wise). More importantly, it reminded me of what I love and am meant to do.

I don’t share this story as a way to fish for compliments or flex on how good of a writer I am. (That’s for you to decide)

I write it to express my gratitude.

I’m thankful for the readers.

I’m thankful for the teachers and mentors.

I’m thankful for the earth and her wonders that have given me so much to write about.

And I’m thankful for the words, wherever you believe they may come from.

You’re telling me that this is issue #40??

The good news is that I’ve still got a lot more words to say, so here we go to #50.

And after that? Oh I’ve got some something planned that will definitely shake things up.

Until then, keep reading and keep sharing if you enjoy.

I greatly appreciate it.

Love,

Bruno.

Weep for yourself, my man
You’ll never be what is in your heart
Weep, little lion man
You’re not as brave as you were at the start

- Mumford and Sons “Little Lion Man”

At the age of 25 years old, I’m officially an old man.

Okay, okay! Out of respect for my more “experienced” readers, I’ll admit that a quarter of a century isn’t actually that long. I’m still a young fella with much to learn.

But I have learned a lot so far!

The plan for this week has been to write about it; all the lessons I learned over the last year or something.

I tried to, but I couldn’t crack it.

For some reason, as I reflected on my latest lap around the sun, I couldn’t stop thinking about a dream I had when I was a kid.

Not the kind where I had a giant LEGO set or met Iron Man or something.

This dream was different.

It repeated, it reocurred, it reitereated.

If you’ll allow me, I’d like to tell you about it.

Bryan & The Wolf

As I stepped out of the doorway, the heavy door swung shut and I was stuck.

Turning around, I realized that I was in the middle of a beautiful mountain scene. Wherever I came from, whatever that magical doorway was, it disappeared.

I looked around. A rocky path layed before me. It sat on the side of a steep, green hill.

On my left was a dramatic descent into a river-cut valley.

The rushing water was white and fierce, but too far down for me to hear it.

I’d love to check it out, I thought.

But it’s so steep.

The flowery hill continued on my right, but a rocky ridge interrupted the lush landscape a few yeards up. I could see the green ascent continuing, but this shelf of granite made it difficult to go up any further.

My eyes chased its line, following it along the hillside. The wall was long and tall, with trees growing out of it in some places.

It seemed to go on for hundreds of yards until finally there was a break clear enough for me to pass through.

As I squinted toward the clearing, I spied something even more fascinating.

Another doorway.

No walls, no structure, no cabin.

Just an open door way with a light shining out so brightly that I couldn’t tell what was inside.

Something deep within me knew that it was good.

So I continued straight on the path, forgetting completely about the river below and the rocks above.

After a moment of peaceful travel, right as I neared a patch of wildflowers, the hair on my neck stood up. My breathe got quick and my heart beat became rapid.

An unmistakable feeling washed over me.

I’m being watched.

I forced a deep, shaky, unsatisfying inhale.

My head turned with trepidation to where I sensed the spectactor.

And I saw him.

At my three o’clock, walking along the rocks, was a wolf.

He was big. Very big. Almost like a bear in size, but his canine snout and triangle ears were certainly wolf-like.

His coat was black and shaggy. Unkempt and mischevious.

We made eye contact, and as strong and loud was my fear, his malice and hunger was stronger.

A long red tongue licked snarling lips and I thought I would die.

I continued my trajectory toward The Door, glancing back to check on my enemy.

He maintained the same distance as before, with that same mischevious grin and impatient teeth.

As I got within a few yards of The Door, my blood pumped two hundred times faster.

I stood before it and my tight chest forced another breathe.

But in the moment I stepped forward, The Wolf jumped down from the rock wall and blocked the way.

He just stood and growled, looking directly into my fear.

All I could do was raise my shaky hand and guard my face.

Without warning, he lurched forward and bit down hard on my arm. His jaws sank deep into my wrist, and pain enveloped me.

Then things went dark.

I must be dead

As I stepped out of the doorway, the heavy door swung shut and I was stuck.

Turning around, I realized that I was in the middle of a beautiful mountain scene. Wherever I came from, whatever that magical doorway was—

Wait. Wait. I’ve been here before.

The river… the rocks… The Door of light… The Wolf.

THE WOLF!

I remembered the pain and terror of his attack, but I was still in one piece somehow.

As I frantically looked around to find the hunter, I realized the story had restarted. I was exactly where I stood last time this all went down.

But something was different.

“Hey, let’s get going.”

A friend.

I was relieved to not be alone. It didn’t feel like they were familiar with the path either, but their presence was comforting nonetheless.

(In each occurance of this dream, The Friend was different. Sometimes it was my sister, sometimes my dad, sometimes somebody I didn’t recognize but still felt safe around. But they always came.)

Together we continued down the path just like I had done before.

When we got to the wildflower patch where I had felt The Wolf before, I hoped things would change this time around.

But I still felt his glare.

He watched me. His same giant paws. Same rugged fur. Same sharp teeth that had already killed me once before.

Panic set in, but The Friend didn’t flinch.

“Let’s keep going. We’re making good progress.”

My own fear grew stronger with every glance back. This time I knew what was in store. I knew that awful bite was coming.

“What about that wolf? He’ll stop us from getting to The Door!”

“Don’t worry Bryan. We’ll just keep moving.”

I was not convinced, but I trusted The Friend.

We were almost there. My blood pumped fast and panic overcame my breath.

There, under the perfect blue sky and surrounded by green, I had never felt closer to death.

A blur of black fur jumped down, just like before.

His growl was deep and piercing. His teeth were shiny and sharp. His stature was giant and omonious.

Exactly. Like. Before.

“See! I told you! You were wrong about me and about The Wolf…”

I was histerical.

“…It was always going to lead back to this. He’s gonna kill us! You’ll see. You’ll see.”

Tears streamed down my face.

And then The Friend spoke, their eyes staring into mine.

“It’s just a wolf. He can’t hurt you. It’s not up to him.”

Their gentleness overpowered the fear that held me still.

My wet cheeks twitched with a faint smile.

I moved forward toward The Door, still bracing for the horrible bite.

But it never came.

The Wolf flopped over, wimpered, and rolled onto his back. His eyes looked away in embarrassment and weakness.

And I walked past him.

And that’s where the dream ended every single time.

The wolf powerless and me victorious.

The other side of the light door still a mystery.

With every new occurance, I was still scared of The Wolf, still felt the bite, relieved to find The Friend, and eventually empowered to overcome my enemy.

And I still walked past. Every time.

This last year, I’ve thought a lot about those three figures.

Every version of me—six-year-old me, eighteen-year-old me, twenty-five-year-old me—hits the same place. The same rocks. The same Wolf.

And every time, I swear he’s finally got me.

But he never does. I always walk past, The Friend always pushing me.

Our struggles, our doubts, our demons. They’re scary.

But they’re just a wolf. They can’t hurt us. It’s not up to them.

We must press forward, our friends beside us, into that bright future.

Well that was an odd one, wasn’t it?

Obviously there are a lot of meanings to derive from this story.

I know what I think, but what’s your guess?

Feel free to share if you think it’s a story worth telling.

Thanks for taking the time to read it.

I know I had a lot of fun writing it.

Love,

Bruno the Defeater of Wolves

“Want to catch the sunrise?”

“Sure,” He shrugged as he took another bite of our blooming onion.

So, we finished our meals, grabbed an extra order of rolls to bring home for Jenna, and went back to my place for an early sleep.

Tim slept on the couch. Its inaugural weekend visitor.

Me with my wife of 1 month.

That 4:00 a.m. alarm came quick for both of us.

Groggy and quiet, our squinting eyes found the hiking gear.

Then the two of us piled into Tim’s car and took off toward the mountain.

The night seemed heavy and cold. The walls of the canyon loomed over, ominous and dark.

For SOME REASON, he felt like it was a good time to talk about cryptic creatures and monsters of the night.

Usually those things don’t bother me, but 4 a.m. in the forest is a different thing.

The tall rock walls made me feel trapped. The forest felt mysterious. It seemed to be hiding evil eyes and dangerous monsters.

I knew there was nothing out there, but you know how the darkness tricks you.

I mean I wake up at least once a night when I’m backpacking and think a bear’s trying to get me.

Luckily we made it without incident.

The air was chilled and dewy.

A whisp of faint yellow lined the treetops, still overpowered by the dark blue and purple of shades of night.

As we started the hike, the colors grew brighter.

Our eyes began to detect the deep orange of wildflowers.
The early birds warbled softly.

The sun was rising, and we were nowhere near the top of the peak.

So, we looked up at a nearby hill, did some mental calculations, and called an audible.

We climbed up the steep and rocky hillside, anxious to catch the first view of the sun.

At the summit, we perched ourselves on a the perfect sitting log and watched the summer sun peak over the evergreens.

It was a peaceful scene.

Until the twig snapped and our heads jolted toward the shadow.

It was no creature of the night. No scary thing with claws or teeth or talons.

Nope, she was just a little thing.

At first we could only see her silhouette, but she came further into the clearing and her tan fur came into view.

Her hooves moved gracefully across the hill side.

Her head bobbed back and forth, stopping to chew on a broad-leafed shrub.

I remember when I would go camping as a kid. Seeing a deer, it was….spectacular.

Their big ears attent and listening. The glow of their eyes in the dark. Their ability to disappear into Dry lake as soon as I thought of getting close.

It was kind of unsettling to me. Almost alien.

A real life creature staring at me, registering me as clearly as I did it. It was different than the taxidermy at Dick’s sporting goods. Even different than a house pup.

No, I remember feeling mutually surprised, scared, and in awe with the creature before me.

Like neither of us could believe what we faced.

Now as a grown up husband, with a grown up friend next to me, it wasn’t unsettling.

No, it was comforting. A feeling of mutual respect, appreciation, and kinship.

I didn’t feel like an intruder in her land. It felt like we were both enjoying our creator’s wilderness.

In that quiet, it felt like she was thanking us for being there. And I found myself silently saying the same.

We watched, and she watched back.

And after a few moments, she turned her head, and left. She continued across the hill; down, out of sight.

Tim and I sat for a few more minutes, just enjoying the sun.

I will not lie, amigos. I wrote this piece about a month ago and decided not to send it out.

I loved the story, but the ending was awkward to me. Plus, I had no clue what it any of it meant.

I toyed around with different words and endings, but I nothing really fit.

Sometimes it included more about the hike, the snow, and the ice.

Sometimes more about Tim.

In one of them, I had a telekenic conversation with the deer and it told me to live in the moment.

But it just didn’t fit.

So, one month later, I decided to keep it where it sat.

You get to figure out the rest. ;)

Love,

Bruno.

There we sat, on the ancient logs of the amphitheater, overlooking The Lake of the Woods.

It’s aptly named, with a sea of pine trees starting right at the water’s edge.

The surrounding clouds glowed a deep orange. The last of the sun’s rays reflected on the far bank.

The wind blew across the clear water and rose up to chill our faces.

It was perfect setting for a campfire program.

I had heard about Camp Loll for years, but I was finally sitting there and experiencing it for myself.

It exceeded every expectation.

The cold water, its remoteness, the bears (ohhh yes).

…and the camp director.

Delose Conner

His large leather hat was tipped back on his head. He wore his glasses low on his nose, with his sharp eyes peering over the lenses.

Pacing with purpose, His small frame carried him into the center of the wooden platform. Slightly hunched over, arms crossed behind his back.

The fires, a few feet from either side of the stage, reflected orange and hot in the man’s eyes.

As soon as he opened his mouth, the roar of the wind became irrelevant.

Director Conner’s voice boomed across us.

His raspy words carried farther and louder than I expected from a man of his age and stature.

We leaned forward on our logs as he began a story.

With just the first word, we knew we were in for a treat.

And the longer he talked, the more entranced we became.

With each inflection, we sank deeper into the story.

When we were all sufficiently locked in, and the tale was reaching its climax, Delose and the camp staff let out a screech.

It was a roar so loud that I found myself on my feet without warning.

After a keeled-over laugh, he stood back up and wished us a good night. We closed the program with a song or two and went to bed.

Never had I been more intimidated by a 61 year old.

Scout camps came and went.

And then, 5 years later, I stood before the bear-chasing botanist.

Mr. Conner was a history teacher at Layton High School.

I never took his class, but whenever you were on that side of the school, you could hear him teaching.

At the end of my senior year, I decided to audition to speak at graduation,

Guess who was in charge of the process.

Standing there on the stage in front of him, I swallowed nervously and began my speech.

His eyes peered at me the same way they had at the campfire years before.

He pursed his lips and bobbed his foot.

His dimples froze as he listened with blank emotion.

At the conclusion of my recital, I heard that familiar confident rasp.

“Thank you! We’ll let you know!”

I ended up getting that opportunity, but I never fully knew what he thought of me.

Shall we jump forward in time?

3 years later, I walked into the Scout Office on a crisp June morning.

Typical tasks were bringing trailers to different properties, performing maintenance at the camps, and assisting rangers when they needed a hand.

My boss had something different in mind that day.

“I’m sending you to an address in Layton. Bring a truck down and grab some camp supplies from a past director.”

I combed through my memory. Who lives in Layton?

Jeremy answered my question.

“Did you ever meet Delose Conner?”

I pictured the man at Camp Loll, his oversized jacket and green scout shirt. I remembered the legend at school, his neat bow tie and cozy sweater.

“Yeah I know Mr. Conner.”

“Oh, good.” He said.

Then a somber look glazed over him.

“Make sure you’re extra respectful and don’t let him help you lift anything. He just got diagnosed with cancer. ”

When I got to their house, his wife let me in.

He’s probably sick in bed, I thought.

She led me down the stairs and around into a small storage space.

I couldn’t believe what I saw.

There he was, hunched over and moving boxes.

He greeted me warmly and confidently, his voice as strong as it was 8 years before.

I tried to get him to stop and let me do it. He quipped back and declined.

We took several trips up and down the stairs, lifting boxes and cans of supplies into the truck.

We spoke the whole time.

Before long, though, I was all ready to go.

He adjusted his belt and rested the backs of his hands on his hips.

“Before you go, would you please come look at my library.”

He led me to his front room and sat on the couch. It faced a giant book shelf.

He must have been amused by my amazement, because he got up and started to show me his favorites.

His intelligence and wisdom was apparent. The way he spoke of books, it put me in a spell. History, nature, classical literature…. He had it all.

And then he asked what my favorite was.

I scanned, squinted, and pointed.

“The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.” I said, hoping for the approval of this giant of a man.

“Oh yes. A classic.”

He thought a second more.

“We could all do a little better at understanding one another, couldn’t we?”

That’s the last thing he said to me before I left.

And that would be the last time I ever saw him.

5 months later, on November 29th, 2022, he passed away.

The truth is, I didn’t know this man very well.

There are family members, friends, and scouters who know way more about him.

I’m not even sure he remembered my name.

But somehow, years later, I still feel the strength of his voice, the spring in his step, and the confidence that held the wind.

And I still picture him with those books.

“We could all do a little better at understanding one another.”

Funny how a person can take up so little space in the timeline of my life and leave such an impact.

Is that what legacy is?

Delose and his wife holding the sign to the newly named “Conner Lodge” in 2021

I sat on the row machine at the gym and had no idea what to write this week.

To get the thoughts flowing, I asked myself the question:

What do I want to tell the world this week?

I combed through the options and somehow Mr. Conner popped up.

Once he showed up in my brain, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. and his library, his enthusiasm, his patriotism, and love for the outdoors.

It just really makes me think,

“How do I want people to remember me?”

Hope this helps.

Love,

Bruno.

We leaned over to check it out.

Sure enough, a hundred little warrior moving a million tiny grains of sand. It was a pretty sizable mound too.

There was only one thing left to do.

Throw rocks at it, of course!

(Hey, I know. It wasn’t the best call, but a 14-year-old can’t help himself.)

We were having a great time goofing off. What a time to be alive.

Then came the scream.

As the alarm reached our ears, our bodies were charged with excitement. It was like electricity.

“Excited about the terrified cry? Weren’t you afraid?” You may ask..

Are you kidding me??

Something was happening, and we had a slight idea of what it could be. We just had to be there for it.

With the giddiness of a kid on Christmas, our legs carried us over the sagebrush and through the trees.

We leaped and bounded toward the cabins, bursting at the seams to understand the scream.

As the dust settled, we saw it.

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

There it sat, on a bed of dirt, in the shade of a Juniper.

A forked tongue flicked back and forth.

A keratin-tipped tail shook loudly. It’s hard segments creating a noise much louder than even the ATVs we had been riding earlier.

A Great Basin Rattlesnake.

Not the actual snake

We looked at it. It looked back at us.

Only a few yards of air separated us from this killing machine.

He was mad. But, he was majestic. Powerful, almost mesmerizing. But deadly.

Adam’s dad brought the shotgun and moved us to a safe spot. He aimed down sight, squeezed the trigger, and that was that for Mr. Snake.

It laid there, headless.

With courage only explained by adrenaline, someone picked up the carcass.

The snake’s nerves still contracted and squeezed.

It’s muscles sparked to defend itself with post-mortal aggression.

It struck Kyle’s leg, leaving a bloody spot from where the head (and fangs) used to be.

That rattlesnake spot stuck around on his shorts for a long time.

We cleaned and ate the fallen beast, and Adam made a hat band that he still wears 10 years later.

Now the title of this tale is “Rattlesnake Summer”.

You don’t get that nickname from just one snake story now do you?

Rocky Pass

A playground of rocks, boulders, and huge granite walls just asking to be climbed.

It was the perfect place for a bunch of boys to hangout.

As we explored the many layers of climbing rocks, I watched some of the guys scurry up a steep incline.

I wanted to get on top where they were at, but no way was I doing it like they did.

There had to be another way.

Maybe around the back?

Nate, Kyle, and I went around the of the rock formation to find a new way.

With a rising fear of missing out on being at the top, we explored for other options.

The space between boulders was small, sometimes only big enough for one person to walk through.

A nice natural ladder looked like a perfect way up, just around a boulder.

We followed Kyle around it.

Then time stopped.

I didn’t hear a rattle. No, the sound was other-worldly. Alien.

Almost like a scream. A hiss that causes your ears to ring.

“It’s a Rattler! A snake! A Rattlesnake!”

As fast as he was around the corner, he was back.

He leaned on the rock with his hands in his face; his voice quivering and knees unstable.

“I…I…I stepped on it. A baby rattlesnake.”

“Did it bite you?? Are you okay!”

He looked up and his eyes were red and swollen.

“No. No, it just slithered away.”

Thank goodness.

We all, including Kyle, thought he was a dead man.

He really should have been…stepping on a venomous snake like that.

Liam looked down from his place up top and laughed.

So did we.

And we made it up the rock, finally.

Thank goodness, because that’s where we took a picture that defined an era. All of the homies still somehow alive.

Most of these pictures of The Ranch are from later trips, but this one is of that exact day.

That was July of 2015, and deforestation led to a more concentrated snake population.

Since then, they’ve all but disappeared from the camp. Adam’s family has only ever seen a couple of snakes on the property since then.

These experiences maybe were a little scary (sorry Grandma), but I look at this memory with fondness.

The good old days.

But are they gone?

I don’t think so.

Last year, Jenna and I were hiking at sunrise and we found an old friend of mine.

A loud, almost alien rattle came from the bushes.

I got so excited.

I kept a little more distance this time around, but it was still such a cool experience to see it.

Good to know that little boy Bryan is still alive deep down in there.

I hope that doesn’t go away anytime soon.

It’s not time to make a change
Just relax, take it easy
You’re still young, that’s your fault
There’s so much you have to know
Find a girl, settle down
If you want you can marry
Look at me, I am old but I’m happy

- Cat Stevens “Father and Son”

It’s fun to think on old times, isn’t it?

We were crazy, dumb, and dangerous, but we had fun.

I’m grateful to them Ranch boys who I still horse around with, 10 years later.

Stay wild. It’s more fun that way.

Love,

Bruno

The mountains do a funny thing to us.

On a sad day, you drive up and down a mountain road. Through the dancing shade of aspens and beneath the towering pines.

You turn on your favorite sad music and play it loud.

You look through the vast forest and think of simpler times.

You see the rushing river and think about how cold it is.

You reflect on younger years when you rode this road in the backseat.

But now, with big adult worries and big adult dreams, you drive them alone. You drive them as you seek repose.

You drive them because what else are you going to do with those big feelings.

As good as they are at handling those emotions, sometimes the mountains preceed (and even cause) the ushy gushy.

Like on the drive back up to school after visiting family. You’re just enjoying the music and solitude of a sunday evening drive.

Then a light catches your eye. The last rays of the day persevere over the peaks of Sardine Canyon. They break through the purple haze and warm your heart.

You remember younger years—when you walked through crunching leaves and the chilly breeze.

“Gosh dad used to walk so fast.”

Those majestic mountains give you a shift of feeling.

You turn off the Ariana Grande and have Siri change it to Caamp.

You think about how much you missed your mom and how big Oliver is getting.

It’s officially “sad-boy hours.”

Now you’d think I’d be writing about how powerful the mountains are. How nature heals us.

That’s a little too low of hanging fruit for me.

No, I’m thinking about another force that’s almost as miraculous as a person’s random desire to summit a mountain.

Music.

In both of aforementioned scenarios, it’s an integral part of the experience…almost as powerful as the looming granite.

It helps us express feelings that are usually frustrated through clumsy speech.
Music validates, music empathizes, and music understands.

There’s something universal about it.

Picture a Lakota warrior, stomping his feet. Ducking and diving with the drum to tell the stories of his great planes ancestors.

Picture an African man, humming as he cuts his hands picking cotton.

A paratrooper, flying over normandy, singing to make it all seem less scary.

Big feelings. Music.

Picture a runner, blasting her pump-up song before a race.

Picture a grandmother, “youtubing” songs she used to hear on the radio way back when.

Picture a child, afraid of the dark. Singing, “Whenever I hear the song of a bird, I know My Heavenly Father Loves Me.”

Big feelings. Music. Understanding.

Humans really are funny creatures. We need to eat, sleep, and breathe like every other living thing.

But we also climb mountains for fun. We get in cold water just for the heck of it. We travel great distances just for the love of the game. No grizzly bear would ever do that.

We also feel big. We feel left-out. We feel lonely. We feel overwhelmed. We feel joy and gratitude and love.

We write sonnets. Compose music. Paint pictures.

With these big brains of ours, we struggle to express.

Maybe that’s why we sing in the dark, climb mountains when we’re tired, and cry at songs we’ve heard a hundred times.

I think we need to be more okay with that.

Recently I stood in the office of a friend’s dad. He showed us a treasured gift—one that was given to him by his best pal.

This grown man told us how much he missed his buddy. How weird it will be to go hunting without him.

He wasn’t afraid to express sadness over his friend’s passing.

I was moved.

The truth is that a lot of us walk around with terrible tension in our throats and burdens on our shoulders.

We make ourselves crazy fighting off our feelings.

It’s been a big problem lately, especially among men.

My challenge for you today is to be a little more willing to feel. Sing a song. Look at the leaves.

Accept that to be human is to feel.

I was truly humbled by all the encouragement I received after last issue. I’m grateful to have people that stand by me like that.

I’m also grateful that I get to help you all in some way by writing these.

Back to this week’s issue, there really is a problem.

In my position at my church, I’ve seen first hand how lonely the men of this generation are. They don’t know how to cope and it’s dangerous.

So, men and women, we can’t afford to pretend.

If you’re reading this, work to let yourself feel. Be willing to ask for help.

And let others feel safe the same to you.

Thanks,

Bruno

It’s no small thing to look in a mirror.

It takes courage to look at yourself with utmost scrutiny and curiosity.

To really measure who you are.

I’m not talking about a critique of your appearance.

No, not an evaluation of the marks on your nose or an unaligned mustache hair.

No, a deep look into your own eyes. The caramel tie dye of brown and copper, aqua and green, or amber and emerald.

Feeling into your heart and soul.

We justify, we bury, and we lie to ourselves and to others.

But deep down, we know.

One time I came face to face with this on a muggy July day.

The sun was hot and the air was thick. The bare skin on my chest was crawling and irritated. My muscles ached and quivered. My breathe, shaky and quick.

My shoulders were raw from the quarter-mile rock carry.

My wrists and biceps were weak from the 2-minute tree hang.

My back was scratched from crawling backward through the brush.

I climbed a tree.

Most of the Wild-Man Workout requirements were met, but still one remained. The big ugly.

1 mile walk…

…without shoes.

It was the last thing on my list.

So I parked my carcass and untied my boots. I pulled of my socks and watched the dust spring into the air.

I felt the mountain grass, intrusive and cool on my bare feet.

The laces of my shoes were tied together in a ‘that’ll do’ knot and I placed them over my shoulders.

As I stood and put my whole weight down, my determination faded to doubt.

Nevertheless, I tried to stay positive.

“That doesn’t hurt too bad,” I thought.

“Forward march!”

With just one step onto the actual trail, it became apparent how bad my lie actually was.

The gravel, which felt smooth and stable beneath my Merrill boots, was sharp and uneven with no support.

Each step contorting me into scrunched shoulders and flailing arms.

I would step every hundred yards to stretch my back, fix my posture, and reset my balance.

A few slow breaths and another lie, and I’d be on my way.

“You can do it. You can do it.”

Justification and settlement crept in by the minute.

“I probably don’t have to go an ENTIRE mile, right?”

“Nobody’s tracking me. How would anybody know I ended early?”

‘‘I’ve tried my best. I can probably just call it.”

It would have be so easy! I was doing it by own free will, I could just quit if I wanted to.

But I couldn’t stop.

Even when I was just standing there, something wasn’t complete.

Somewhere deep inside, I knew I had to finish the job.

You know the feeling.

Like when you’re waist deep in cold water.
You just know there’s no way you get out of it with dry hair.

Or when you’re washing dishes on a backpacking trip.
As much as you try to avoid it, you know you’ll have to use your fingers at some point.

Or when you’re riding in the car with a friend, and you feel like you should tell them how important they are.

When you should tell someone, “I’m sorry”.

When you should tell someone “I love you”.

So I continued on. One labored step after the other.

At the end of the path, at the completion of my challenge, there was no prize. No applause. No parade.

But dang it, I could look myself in the eye when I said I did it. I could look myself in the eye and know that I did my best.

I drafted up a sad post yesterday.

I was ready to pull the plug and call it quits on the Bear-Bait Newsletter.

But I went to the bathroom and washed my face. I looked up and remembered the last 8 months of writing.

I remembered the Gobi Bear.
I remembered the long day on Timp.
I remembered my love letter to the Windrivers and to scouting.
I remembered Darrell Clare.

I remembered Fiji.
I remembered the Frogs.
I remembered my shelter and the long rainy night.

I remembered my Dad, my Grandpa, and JT.
I remembered my nephews around the fire and Jenna’s dad as he read stories from those before.

The sunflower seeds, the wildflowers, the bears, the cowboys. The bison, bugs, and the blood.

“I’m not done yet.” I thought

“Better get to work.”

I opened this letter talking about how we make ourselves sick trying to be perfect; trying to live up to expectations.

Now I’m saying we should keep trying even when it hurts.

So what gives, Bryan?

The truth is, there’s no absolute here.

There’s no quick answer or consistent rule.

You just have to ask yourself,

“Am I doing the right thing?”

I’ve been in a little bit of a funk, but each time I press on I feel so glad that I did.

So thanks for cheering me on.

Looking forward to what the future holds.

Love,

Bryan.

The sound of rushing water found her ears.

She wanders through the trees toward it and steps down from the moss onto the shining pebbles.

A busy scent finds her nose and, after quick glance, she counts a dozen others in the same spot.

Usually she’s wary of the neighbors, but this is a special circumstance.

It’s late summer, and winter is fast approaching.

She’s come to the river in search of rich, fatty, giant chinook salmon. It’s what she and all of her friends do year over year.

Deep in Katmai National Park of Alaska, there are 2,200 brown bears thriving on the heavy salmon population.

They dip their snouts into the rushing water and catch over 30 fish every day.

We’re looking at like 120 pounds of salmon.

Only that amount of food can draw in these lone rangers from their solitude

I mean it’s paradise.

If you were a grizzly bear, that would be the place to be.

Fish and water everywhere, berries and roots as far as the eye can see, and endless green terrain under a crisp grey sky.

Now let me tell you about the antithesis of this bear’s paradise.

A placer where, in the summer, the temperature hits triple digits. I’m talking like 113F*.

And in winter, it’s cold…but equally unpleasant. Wellll below freezing.

And, it’s dry.

Picture tall dunes, fields of sharp rock, and wind gusts so dusty that your eyes would fall out.

Even when there is an oasis, it’s just knee high grass surrounding a pathetic pool.

It’s name comes from a Mongolian word that means “waterless place”.

That’s the Gobi desert.

But even there, in the harshness of desert living, there’s life.

The sandy wind blows against the blonde highlights of a fluffy ear.

The arid air fills a snout searching for food.

A paw scratches the loose dirt.

Giant lungs sigh in disappointment when no grasshopper can be found.

Ursus Arctos Gobiensis.

The Gobi Bear.

He travels the desert, looking for water. He squints his eyes as the sharp wind scratches his face. He covers serious land.

But he can’t count on anything.

Not food. Not water. Least of all, companionship.

And when I say he’s lonely, I’m not exaggerating.

He’s got 9,000 sq miles of habitat and there are less than 40 bears like him.

It’s a vastly different life from the aforementioned Grizzly.

But they’ve got one thing in common.

Literally as we speak, both the Grizzly and the Gobi are searching for a place to rest.

Winter is coming and hard times are ahead.

Just imagine what these bears would say to each other.

The Gobi probably thinks the Grizz has life eazy, with her plentiful fish and endless moisture.

The Grizz would feel jealous of the Gobi’s solitude and safety.

But the Gobi doesn’t see the scars that the Grizzly has sustained over the years.
He doesn’t feel the weight of losing cubs to the dangerous boars in every valley.

And the Grizzly doesn’t see the dry eyes and loose skin of the Gobi.
She can’t feel the frustration of never finding a mate.

But both, come winter, will be holding themselves tight. They’ll be enduring every storm; hoping the next day will bring spring.

We’re all a little mean to each other.

We look at the folks on the left or the right, the red or the blue, and point fingers.

We see groups with differing views and declare “You’re not Christian!”

We stare at others with jealous obsession. “I wish I was that pretty”

We hear sermons and speeches and think, “Boy, you know who needs to hear this?”

It’s wrong.

“Are we not all beggars?”

Don’t “we all fall short of the glory of God?"

We all have times of winter. It would be a lot easier to get through if we could stop looking so hard for differences.

Life’s hard enough. Let’s help each other through it.

I’m sure you noticed (hopefully) that there was no story last week.

I really tried to write something, but there was a lot on my mind and I needed some time to myself.

Well this week there’s still a lot to worry about, but there’s so much to love.

So, you get the allegory of the Gobi and the Grizzly. Hope you liked it.

See you next week.

Love,

Bruno