There will always be a million reasons not to go. Go anyway.

A long time ago, the day after I’d left grad school to go wander across the country in my car and figure out what I wanted to do with my life, I had doubts. Mostly rooted in the objective stupidity of that decision.

Then I had this moment when I was scrambling up this waterfall in Colorado, and I looked back a crowd of retirees, snapping photos of the waterfall, and me, from the path, behind a guardrail and I realized, going was risky, not going was a mistake I’d never have been able to undo.

It worked out. I sent a bit of time poor. Then a bit more time poor. But I ended up becoming a writer, loving it, and somewhere along the line, fairly successful at it. Now I’m going back on the road, but I’m going to try it as someone who’s not poor. Might be fun.

It’s hard to know just where to start something like this. But in writing, like travel, there’s always reasons not to start, other things to do, doubts, questions, uncertainties, and on, and on, and on. The only thing to do is start.

It has to start somewhere. It has to start somewhen. Might as well be here and now.

The trip starts tomorrow. A shakedown cruise in search of wolves in Eastern Arizona. All things are