Can Vulnerability Make Us Safer?


Above: Fire in a fallen snag, West Stewart fire, Colorado 2016.

(Note: This blog entry was originally written for and published on October 25th over on the Wildland Fire Leadership Development blog. I’ve made a few minor edits for typos that I missed the first go-around.)

A coworker recently shared a podcast with me that sparked some interesting thoughts.  The podcast was titled “The New Norm,” and was an episode of the NPR “Invisibilia” series. (link to the written story here and the full podcast here)

As I listened to it, I was skeptical of how it might apply to wildland fire organizations and operations. After all, smiling Russians and teary-eyed oil rig workers aren’t normally associated with fire leadership. But then I heard something that stopped my thought process dead in its tracks: by going through an admittedly rough and unpopular process, the group of oil workers reduced their accident rate by 85%.  All of the “fluff” aside, that’s remarkable, and sparked my interest.

To summarize the podcast, it’s a mini-case study of how a group of oil workers on the Gulf Coast faced the challenge of developing, constructing, and operating a new, larger oil platform using some extremely unconventional methods. Not only did they become better workers, but they became better individuals outside of work as well. How they did it is best understood by listening to the podcast, but it involved a lot of vulnerability, some new ways of thinking, and a lot of uncomfortable, unpleasant group sessions.

I found a few things that I could relate to, especially with respect to how we operate in wildland fire. First was that there were some cultural similarities – firefighters tend to be rough and gruff, or at least more so than most people.  We tend to be self-protective in that we usually prefer to hide vulnerability, fearing the perception of weakness, or incompetence. I’ve seen and done it myself.  I’ve often seen it manifested as a reluctance to ask questions, or ask for input from coworkers, or expressed as the “shut up and dig” mentality from leaders and followers alike. As it’s pointed out in the podcast, asking for input or advice can actually result in safer, more productive workplaces. Sometimes having a crewmember ask an honest question can bring an “ah-ha” moment to something an experienced leader (or follower) missed… As strange as it seems, being “vulnerable” with our coworkers can lead to a lot of positives, including better team cohesion, better communication, and better self-improvement.

But here’s the catch – being vulnerable sucks. You take a very real risk in a lot of ways. None of the men in the segment said they enjoyed the process.  None of them said it was easy. A few said they didn’t even do it. Yet those that went through it said it made them better people. That’s part of being a leader, of choosing the difficult right over the easy wrong… Sometimes it’s really challenging. Sometimes you need to “embrace the suck” and go through a tough, uncomfortable process to emerge out on the other side a better person. The same goes for organizations… Sometimes it’s a really not-fun experience, and sometimes what you’re going through doesn’t directly appear to be related to the mission of your organization. The oil rig workers in this story undoubtedly asked themselves “why are we doing this” more than a few times.

This is what I took away from the podcast – every culture has norms, behaviors that are accepted as “right” and “normal.”  Sometimes these norms get in the way of organizational and personal growth. In the podcast example, the “tough guy” norm was getting in the way of safely developing and operating larger and more complex drilling projects. In fire, I see many cultural norms that could potentially be getting in the way of improving how we do business, especially as the business we do has slowly but surely changed over time.

What norms would you be willing to challenge if it made you a better leader, better supervisor, better follower, or simply a better person?  Would you be willing to show vulnerability in front of your squad, your crew, your FMO? Give it some thought… The answer, and the reasons for it, might surprise you…

Until next time…

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Better lucky than good (when it comes to trip plans), Part 2


Above: My tent camp at Turquoise Lake in the Mission Mountains Wilderness.

Note: As always, all of my photos can be found at Flickr.

(Part one of this story found here)

Here’s the setting: It’s late September, 3 am, dark and windy, and I’m putting on boots and a jacket in my small tent after surviving close encounters of the oreamnos kind earlier in the night. I’m high-ish in the Mission Mountains of Montana, under a clear night sky, happy to have been nowhere near a television for the first presidential debate, and wondering if there are any mountain goats bedded down nearby. All is good.

I crawl out of the tent, shining my headlamp around, looking for but not expecting to see any luminous eyes in the darkness. I strain my ears for unusual sounds, but all I hear is the wind rushing through the trees and passes around me, and the lapping of the waves on the shore from the lake below. I notice it’s a bit lighter in the east than I expected it to be, and I absentmindedly wonder why that would be as I gather my camera gear and walk the short distance to the rock outcropping where I’m going to start taking pictures.

I start the process like I always do, setting up the camera on the tripod, pointing in the general direction, pairing the camera to my iPad so I can view the raw images on that screen rather than the small camera back, and start shooting. In this case I’ve set up the camera to look over the lake, toward the sliver of the Milky Way that’s visible to the naked eye. I snap a few shots, make some adjustments, look up, down, and around for shining eyes – I am in grizzly country after all, and I don’t know what’s out in the darkness – and snap a few more images, making adjustments as I go.


Above:  The Milky Way above Point Saint Charles, and something else…

After one adjustment (above), I noticed something strange in the image… a green glow to the northeast in the corner of the image. That’s strange, I think to myself. There’s only one thing I know of that would do that… the aurora borealis. Getting pretty excited in a hurry, I quickly pointed the camera towards the lighter grey glow on the northeastern horizon, and fired off a few exposures to see what I could capture in the images. Sure enough, it was the Northern Lights.


Above: The aurora seen from Turquoise Lake, over the Swan Valley.

This is where lucky stroke number 3 comes in… For a few years now I’d idly daydreamed of seeing and photographing the aurora. Where I live Idaho, the Treasure Valley along the Snake River Plain, the aurora only makes rare appearances, and is usually low on the horizon and drowned out by light pollution from the greater Boise area. During most of the powerful magnetic storms that could send the lights dancing this far south, my view has been blocked by cloud cover. In the depths of winter, when skies are darker (longer nights) and I’m visiting family in Montana, it’s typically been cloudy and snowing or clear but extremely cold when the lights appear, so I’d never really gotten out to see them. On this trip, it never occurred to me to check the potential for aurora activity. Like they say… better lucky than good. I’d personally prefer lucky and good both at the same time, but I’ll take whatever I can get.


Above:  When you get the chance to take a selfie under the stars with the aurora on the horizon, who can say no?


Above: Stars and the aurora over the Swan Valley, with a whitebark pine snag silhouetted against the sky.


Above: Closer look at the Northern Lights, with a 50mm lens of all things.

I spent the better part of an hour and a half taking pictures of the aurora, moving around, trying to remember all the tips and tricks I read about over the years, and experimenting with various exposures and lens combinations. I even tried a few shots with my “plastic fantastic” 50mm f/1.8 lens, and the result was one of my favorite images from the set (see above).


Above: Turquoise Lake under the stars, with a bit of the Milky way on the right side, and what I think is some auroral activity in the center.

After I spent a fair amount of time goofing off with the unexpected gift of the Northern Lights, I snapped a few images of what I’d actually came up here to photograph, Turquoise Lake under the stars. While the new moon made it a bit difficult to pull off quite what I’d envisioned for the past few years, I still managed to come pretty close, as you can see above.The wind kept me from getting any images of stars reflecting in the lake, but I’m happy with the results.

After doing most of what I wanted to do, and not really feeling like wandering around too much more on the steep rocks in the dark, I called it quits around 4:30 in the morning. As I crawled into my sleeping bag I felt pretty satisfied with myself, and pretty blessed to have been lucky enough to have not one but two unexpected bonuses – mountain goats and aurora –  on this trip.


Above: Fall colors in the morning, Turquoise Lake.

After waking up around 7 am, I wandered around a bit, taking some pictures of the fall colors and the sun hitting the far side of the lake. After a few hours of that I packed up, said goodbye to the lake and the goats, and headed down the trail. It had been a good trip. No bear sightings, no people at the lake while I was there, some mountain goat encounters, and an unexpected opportunity to photograph the Northern Lights. While I’d like to take credit for some extraordinary trip planning, sometimes it all just comes together, and you really are more lucky than good.

Until next time…

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The end of another fire season (for me anyway)


Above: Burning snag on the West Stewart fire, Northwestern Colorado.

As usual, time has been flying by and I’ve been in a non-writing mood for whatever reason. Time to address that I suppose.

This was a different fire season for me in a few ways. It’s the nature of the beast that no two seasons are the same, but for the most part they tend to follow a general trend, a predictable flow. For me, this year was a bit of a departure from what had previously been my norm. I spent way more time in an office, and way less time in the field, than I have in the previous 15 years of working in fire. In some ways that’s good, for as good as time in the field is for my soul, it isn’t typically so good for the back or the knees. Although to be fair, office chairs aren’t especially good for the back either…

This was the first year since 2003 that I didn’t get a helicopter ride during fire season. Since I took my first flight to a fire in 2004, I’ve always had some flight time in the summer. Even in southeast Alaska I managed a few fire-type flights each season, mixed in among the many non-fire flights that were the bulk of my workload. Last year it came down to the wire, but I snuck in a mapping flight toward the end of my single, abbreviated helibase manager assignment in mid-September. This year, however, there was no last second reprieve, and the season ended (for me) with zero flight time in a helicopter. I did manage to stay current as a manager, but it was on a restricted category (no passengers) helicopter, which meant no flying for me.

That’s not to say that I didn’t fly this year – I just didn’t get any helicopter time. I did a fair amount of flying in our Agency-contracted King Air, but that’s a whole different critter. Most of the time my view of the fire  and surrounding terrain was an occasional glance of the column out the window as we circled at 12,000′ AGL, or through the 9.7″ screen of my iPad, wirelessly connected to the sensor package mounted to the bottom of the airplane. Pretty neat for sure, and different from the views that most people see, but lacking the same meaning to me. And of course, in the early parts of the season, I spent a lot of time on commercial jets, traveling to and from the southwest.

When a person spends a decade largely identifying (in the professional sense) as a “helicopter guy,” it kind of hurts when you lose that identity. I knew when I left helitack for this job that I risked not being a “helicopter guy” anymore, but somehow it really didn’t sink in until this year just how much value I placed in that identity, and how much it would hurt to lose it.

It’s also the first season since I started fire in 2001 that I didn’t dig any line or contribute directly to suppression or prescribed fire efforts in a real boots on the ground fashion. Sure, I’ve a few seasons where I didn’t dig much line, or spent most of my time on helibases or helispots, but this year marked the first season that all of my fire time was either as “overhead” (helibase work) or a “curious non-producer” (data collector). Not that I’m too concerned with that change, but it’s a change that I’m acutely aware of. I still have a role to play in wildland fire, but it’s a stretch to say I’m still a firefighter. I’m still capable and qualified to spend time on the line, grubbing with a hand tool on a hillside in the middle of nowhere, but it’s no longer my primary role in the greater fire organization.

All things must end, however, and like this fire season, I think I’m at a transitional place in my career as well. As the leaves turn color on the brush, the larch start to paint the hillsides yellow and orange, and snow starts to dust the mountain tops, I too must weather the changing environment in which I reside professionally. The only constant is that it all changes.


Above: Bull moose in the Twin Peaks Wilderness outside of Salt Lake City, Utah.

All in all it’s been a good season, just different. I did a lot of traveling for work, spending time in Arizona, Utah, Montana, Colorado, and of course Idaho. I put in a lot of hard work which felt rewarding at times, and I know I gave it my best effort, even if it was quite a bit different than how I expected the year to go. I learned a lot, saw some new country (including some of the high country in the Wasatch and San Juans), and met a lot of new people. I feel like I made some good strides, personally and professionally, and while there’s always work to be done on that front, at least I weathered the stress of fire season reasonably well.

For now I’m looking forward to a quiet fall and winter, and enjoying the start of the “off season” here in Idaho. I’ve still got a lot on my plate for work, but at least the near-constant travel is mostly over for now.

Until next time…

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Better lucky than good (when it comes to trip plans), Part 1


Above: Mountaineer Peak in the Mission Mountains Wilderness, seen from my “base camp” in the Swan Valley.

Note: As always, all of my photos can be found at Flickr.

It started out as a vague idea of how I was going to get some much-needed time off after a long summer that followed a long spring and a difficult winter. For a while now I’d wanted to try an overnight backpacking trip to do some “nightscape” photography, but other than a quick car-camping trip to Stanley Lake last fall, a combination of busy work schedules, smoky forest fires, and uncooperative weather kept it from happening. So when I scheduled a week off at the end of September, I kept my fingers crossed that things would line up.

My initial plan had been to head into the Sawtooths for a quick overnighter, and then make the day-long drive to visit my parents in Montana, and try another quick overnighter into the Missions while I was up there. As the time approached for the Sawtooth portion of the trip the weather quickly changed that plan. While I personally don’t mind seeing a little rain and snow on a hike, the accompanying cloud cover really puts the brakes on the type of night photography I was trying to do. Plan “A” was a no-go, so on to plan “B.” The forecast called for a swing to Indian Summer conditions after the fast-moving rainy and snowy system moved through, so I bypassed the Sawtooths and headed to Montana with photography equipment in hand.

My plan was to hike into Turquoise Lake in the Mission Mountains Wilderness, a place I hadn’t visited since I was in college. I’d started thinking about trying a night photography session there a few years ago, and had to wait for things to line up to give it a try. I’ve had an idea rattling around in my head for a while now that I could try night photography at some high country lakes that most night photographers really don’t visit, and this would be a shakedown trip for that idea.

When I got up the morning I’d planned my quick hike, there was some cloud cover that I hoped would burn off by that evening. The forecast was for clear and cool, so I thought I’d be okay. When I arrived at the trailhead I was a bit concerned about the number of vehicles in the lot… 4 small SUVs with out of state plates, and a truck with horse trailer. I had hoped that a Monday start in the fall would be “off-season” enough to avoid congestion at the lake, and I was a bit bummed out by the number of rigs at the trailhead. Not to be deterred I shouldered my pack and set off… after all I told myself, most of the people probably went to Glacier Lake (at about a mile hike in, it’s a very popular day hiking destination), and the horses were probably with hunters heading up another drainage.


Above: Fall colors in the subalpine larch stands high in the Missions.

As I huffed and puffed my way up the trail without seeing another soul, I gradually started to relax a bit and take in the scenery. While the larch in the lower elevations hadn’t really started to turn color yet, the subalpine larch up high were in full display, as were the various kinds of brush on the hillsides. The warm but not hot sunny afternoon was great for hiking, and while I was sweating buckets like I usually do, I was having a pretty good time. Even better, as I neared the lake itself, I ran into the horse folks, heading out after turning around at the steep sections of slick rock around Lagoon Lake. When I finally arrived at the Turquoise and did a quick recon of the area, it appeared I would have the lake to myself for the evening. Turquoise sits in steep bowl of rock, with very few flat spots to set up a tent, so not having to compete with any other backpackers for space was just what I’d hoped for.


Above: View over Turquoise after sunset.

As I sat overlooking the lake, drinking a cup of coffee and enjoying the view, I realized I wasn’t alone. Looking upslope a few hundred yards,  I noticed a fluffy white head poking around a tree, watching me. As I slowly walked over to my tent and grabbed my camera, I noticed a few more white spots in the rocks… mountain goats.


Above: Ever feel like you’re being watched?  How many goats do you see?

Apparently all the goat hair on the trees, goat prints on the trail, and goat scat in small piles around the outlet to the lake wasn’t all that old. I’d always heard of people having close encounters with goats in the Missions, but I’d never seen them myself. Now, as I watched the hillside above me, it appeared I was camped in the median on the goat trail highway to the outlet of the lake. That’s lucky chance number 2. (Number 1 was being the only camper at the lake, for those keeping score at home.)

As I watched the goats above me, I also kept an eye on my immediate surroundings as well, and on one glance behind me I was startled to see another white head and shoulders darting out of site behind the rocks standing over my campsite. Not only was I camped in the trail, it was rush hour at Turquoise.


Above: Mountain goats climb the rocks after circling around me.


Above: Mountain goats at Turquoise. I thought I counted 8 at one point, but only saw 7 in the images.

For the next hour or so until dark I watched as most of the goats filtered through the rocks, obviously wanting to get past me, but unwilling to wait until dark to do it. One nanny and kid pair was especially curious, and wandered around my campsite until well after dark trying to get a better look at me. It was amusing to be getting ready for bed, hear a hoof click on the rock above me, and shine the light to see a pair of white heads, one big and one small, peering over the rock ledge at me like kids looking over a stairwell before turning and running a few feet out of sight.


Above: The curious one pauses on her slow stalk closer to my campsite.

The next few hours after I crawled into my tent were spent listening to the sounds of goats walking past, to and from the outlet of the lake.  A few stopped and sniffed, snuffled and snorted at the tent and Jet Boil stove as they walked through. One must have been nosing the pot I used to heat water (some distance away from the tent), as I heard a clang of metal against rock right before I heard the snort and clattering hooves of a startled goat. It was well after midnight when the last of the group finally made its way back up the hill, leaving only the smaller creatures to scurry around the campsite making noise.

As I finally drifted off to sleep, snug in my small tent, I couldn’t help but smile… Not a bad day, hiking the Missions and being surrounded by mountain goats.

Until next time…


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Late August Musings


Above: Sunset on the Thompson Falls helibase, Copper King fire, Lolo NF August 2016.

Time continues to fly by at a rate that would be alarming if I wasn’t in classic “heads down” mode trying to power through the remainder of fire season. I haven’t been busy in the traditional sense – I’ve been on fewer fires and worn my yellow less than last year – but somehow I’ve been busier than I have been for the past couple of fire seasons. I’m still on the road more often than not it seems. Such is life in the wildland fire game. Winter will come eventually, and with it a slowing of pace.

As August was getting started I found myself heading to the Copper King fire near Thompson Falls, MT, on the Lolo NF as a helicopter manager.  As assignments go it was a bit different, with a lot of down time as unusually cool and wet weather set in for the bulk of my two weeks there. Regardless of the tempo, it was a good assignment all around… I spent a few days as a trainee, a few days as a trainer, and a few days as helicopter manager on a UH-1H. I saw people I hadn’t seen for a few years, worked with some familiar faces, and met some new folks from near and far. Getting back out on a fire in an aviation role is always good for my outlook on life. Somewhat ironically, fire behavior picked up not too long after I left, making me wonder if my oft-joked about bad (or good) timing with favorable fire weather (rain in particular) is still in effect.


Above: 1929 Travel Air, a sister ship to one used in the early days of smokejumping in Montana and Idaho, Thompson Falls airport, MT, August 2016.

After my assignment I was able to take my R&R days in the Swan, at mom and dad’s, which was also good for my outlook. Mom was out on a fire assignment of her own, on the California coast of all places, but dad kept me busy, running errands, splitting wood, and helping with some house painting. Getting out of the city (if you want to call Boise a city), both for my assignment and the R&R days that followed, was good for me. While I can survive in the urban wild, it’s not where I feel most at home.


Above: Tanker 160 dropping retardant around a structure, Pioneer fire, Boise NF July 2016.

Earlier, July went by in a blur of activity, with a few road trips to the right place at the wrong time (for fire activity) and a little bit of work on the Pioneer fire up by Idaho City. That fire is still burning as I type, and it grew quite a bit since we were there a month ago. It was kind of interesting setting up our main observation point at Pilot Peak, as we’d collected data on a fire there the previous year, and you could still see the retardant on trees in some places. On the Boise NF fire is a frequent visitor on the landscape.

So I stroll into September, not quite sure of what the rest of this strange fire season will bring. Nothing thus far has gone quite like I thought it would, so I have no doubt that the trend will continue. In the meantime I remain hopeful that I’ll have more opportunities for spending time with friends and family (on the fireline and off), and writing, and if I’m lucky, some photography as well.

Until next time…

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Independence Day


Above: Sawtooth Lake on a late June day.

I mean to write updates more frequently, I really do. The past 6 weeks or so have been quite the hectic ride on the work front, however, which has led to a longer gap between posts than I’d like.

I’ve spent the better part of the last two months in central Arizona, and I’ll admit I’m a bit burned out on the Southwest after my winter detail to New Mexico and now 5 weeks in the greater Phoenix area. I like visiting the Southwest from time to time, but I’m a lover of green mountains and water at heart, and lately I’ve been daydreaming of the tall trees and salmon-filled streams of the Northwest. It’s awfully easy to long for fog in the trees and an ocean view over a cup of coffee when it’s 113 degrees in the shade, and the greenest thing in sight are the wispy palo verde trees planted everywhere in the seemingly endless suburbia around Phoenix. To add insult to (non) injury, the two times I’ve come back to Boise for days off it’s been record setting heat here, while it’s been cool and rainy when I was gone. On the positive side, I’m pretty well acclimated to the heat now, and that means I pretty much have my neighborhood streets to myself for biking and walking in the mid-mornings and early evenings.

It’s been an interesting year so far for travel. Since the New Year I’ve spent more time in hotel rooms than I have in my apartment. At the end of my last work trip, I’ve spent 97 nights on the road for work, and another 7 for family visits outside of work. That’s a lot of time, especially considering that today is the 186th day of the year. I’m anticipating a lot more nights on the road as fire season in the Great Basin, Northern Rockies, and the Northwest begins to heat up… and there’s always California, which will likely burn late in the fall, as it does almost every year.


Above: Mount Regan and Sawtooth Lake.

It’s not a surprise that after my long stint in the heavily populated Southwest, I made it a priority to head into the backcountry when I got back to Boise, even if it was only for a day. I decided to take an early day hike into Sawtooth Lake near Stanley, mainly because I wasn’t sure what the stream flows were on the other hikes I enjoy, and I’m not a huge fan of fording streams filled to overflowing with snowmelt if I don’t have to. They feel great on hot days in late summer, when the water levels are quite a bit lower, but not so much in late June when the high country is still holding on to the snow left from the depths of winter. And holding on to snow it was, as the upper sections of trail on the shady sides of the slopes still had quite a bit of snow in places. That didn’t stop me from enjoying myself at the top of the hike, in fact it made for a bit of a nice treat when I stashed a water bottle in a shady snowbank for a few hours while I scrambled around the lake being a photographer. It was nice being back in the high country after a winter spent mostly in the urban areas, and I’m hoping to sneak in a few more trips later in the summer and fall if time allows.

That’s about all that’s worth updating now… my nice little stretch of time off after a mini-marathon stretch at work comes to an end today, and I’m not sure what the next little bit will bring. In the meantime I’m taking it one step at a time, trying to make the best of the busy season, and hoping it brings me to cooler, greener places than it has so far this year. A guy can dream, right?

Until next time…

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May updates… a long time coming


Above: Sunset over Tucson in March, through a hotel window.

Good morning internet!  Yet again I find myself sitting at my keyboard drinking coffee and wondering how on earth it’s been two months since I’ve written a post for the blog. In my defense, I have written a leadership post or two for the Wildland Fire Leadership Program, but that’s a marginal excuse at best…

So what have I been up to during the past two months?  Well, quite a lot actually.  I spent February and March on a detail (temporary work re-assignment for those not familiar with government-ese) to the USFS Southwestern Region in Albuquerque, NM.  I’ll say that even after two months there, I still have to stop and think about how to spell Albuquerque.   My time there was kind of mixed… I had a great time learning a challenging job (I was the acting Regional Aviation Safety Manager) that ties in perfectly with my passion and skill sets, and I got to work with some great people.  But I also had some not-so-good experiences while I was there… I got sick with the worst upper respiratory bug I’ve ever had, which knocked me out of commission for the better part of two weeks; I came up short on yet another attempt to get a helicopter job back in Montana; my truck was broken into and some miscreants stole a pair of hiking boots and a work coat out of the covered (and locked) back; and my parents had to put down one of the family dogs while I was there.  Sad to say, I was not a real happy camper for a good part of my time in Albuquerque, despite it being an amazing opportunity and experience professionally.

Above:  Yours truly at Frijoles Canyon, Bandelier NM.

While I was in AQB I managed to explore a little bit, when I wasn’t sick and stuck in a hotel room.  I went up north and explored around Los Alamos and the Valles Caldera one weekend, and checked out Bandelier National Monument.  I’ll freely admit that the forester/ecologist in me got a bit excited to be driving around at 8 or 9 thousand feet elevation and seeing the same tree species that I’d see at 3 or 4 thousand feet back in Idaho and Montana. I also made the short drive to the Sandia Crest (I was too cheap to pay for the tram ride), and saw the views from 10,600 feet at the top.  I made in-town trips to the National Nuclear Museum, the ABQ zoo, the aquarium, and the botanical garden, which were all interesting in their own rights.  I did my best to explore the town itself, although being a rural gringo, I wasn’t too keen on heading into the sketchier parts of town on my own, without a local guide.  I can’t say as I enjoyed living in Albuquerque, as it’s an extremely rough town with a lot of crime, but at the same time I did develop an appreciation for the good things there.  At the end of the day, I’m still a mountain boy from the Northwest, and the deserts of the Southwest, especially the urban communities, just don’t hold that much appeal for me.

After my Albuquerque experience I went into a month-long whirlwind of travel for work, hitting Missoula for two different weeks, and Tucson and Denver for a week each.  Needless to say, I was, and am, pretty close to being burnt out on travel, and it’s not even fire season yet.  So far I’ve spent 67 nights on the road, and it’s looking like the roadshow for fire season is going to be starting very soon.  I’ve only started to feel caught up in the past few days, after basically spending all of February, March, and April away from home.

That, in a nutshell, has been my life the past few months… lots and lots of travel, and lots of work.  I really haven’t had a lot of time or opportunity for photography, reading or writing, or even visiting with family.  It’s been a challenging year so far, and I have no doubt that it will continue to be a challenge going forward.  I also have no doubt that I’ll continue to power through it, taking one small step at a time to move forward.

Until next time…

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