The Long Trail Home: Writing Through Uncertainty, One Step at a Time

I’ve spent most of my life not knowing what the hell I was doing.

I don’t say that for sympathy or to romanticize chaos—I say it because it’s true. I’ve wrestled with when to act, when to wait, who to trust, when to go it alone. I’ve stood at trailheads, both literal and figurative, with no map and no compass, only the vague hope that forward was better than stuck.

That uncertainty? It’s in every one of my characters. Sky in Memories of an Ash Covered Sky doesn’t know if she should go home or stay gone. Murphy doesn’t know if forgiveness is even possible. Mitch Wilde runs around cocky and confident in The Rogue River Incident but he is scared of losing everything he cherishes. Heck, even my antagonists—especially them—are usually people who took the wrong path trying to understand and fix something broken. I get that. I’ve lived that.

And I’ve written my way through it.

What the Trail Teaches You

I grew up in Southern Oregon, and I’m still here—not because I got stuck, but because it

keeps calling me back. The jagged ridgelines, the rivers that cut through basalt and memory, the smell of juniper, pine, campfires, and alfalfa fields waiting to be cut and bailed—they remind me who I am. Or maybe, who I’m trying to be.

The outdoors has always been my church. I’ve found clarity in the mountains, solace in the pines, and peace sitting on a rock somewhere with no reception and nothing but wind for company. And yet, even with that grounding, life still throws me off-balance. I’ve failed. I’ve fought. I’ve started over more times than I can count. Sometimes with help. Sometimes alone.

There is no single right path. That’s a myth we tell ourselves to feel safe. Life is more like a wilderness trail with washed-out signs, side routes, and switchbacks. Just because one road closes doesn’t mean the journey ends—it means you decide you'll find another way through.

What I Ran From, and Why I Came Back

Part of my journey included running—from the kind of past you don’t put in photo albums. The kind wrapped in silence, shame, and the aching weight of not knowing how to face what you’ve done—or what’s been done to you. Running felt necessary. Easier than sitting with quiet pain. But distance doesn’t always equal healing. It changed me, yes—it gave me perspective, grit, a kind of survival instinct—but the shame never disappeared. It just waited.

And like a salmon pulled upstream by something ancient and unseen, I felt the tug to

return. To home. To memory. To reckon with what I left behind. Writing became part of that understanding, reckoning—the journey.

Why I Write the Way I Do

My fiction is personal. Always has been. I don’t write characters who have it all figured out. I write the ones who are lost, confused, grieving, angry. The ones who make bad choices, say the wrong things, and still keep going. Always hopeful. Always looking for an understanding of who they are.

Because that’s me. That’s most of us.

And I don’t write from some polished version of my life. I write from the mess. From the times I got it wrong. From the moments I hurt someone I loved. From the nights I lay awake wondering if I missed my chance—or if it was still waiting just around the next bend.

Writing helps me make sense of it. Of myself. Of this strange, beautiful, complicated world we all live in.

No One Right Way

Here’s something I’ve learned—the hard way and the real way: there’s no universal blueprint for becoming who you’re meant to be. And honestly, is there even such a thing? Maybe it lives somewhere between a path already formed and one you choose to carve out with grit and desire. You won’t always know what to do, or when, or how. You’ll screw it up. You’ll leave people behind. And sometimes, you’ll circle back and try again. But hell, that’s the good stuff—figuring it out as you go. The path ahead is what matters. Leave the shit behind, look forward, keep moving, and learn as you walk.

And sometimes, you’ll look up and realize you’re exactly where you need to be.

That’s growth. That’s life. That’s the trail.

What I Hope You Remember

You are not your worst day. You are not the path you didn’t take. You are not alone.

There will always be another option down the trail.

Learn from what came before. Embrace the challenge ahead. Let yourself change. And when in doubt, choose kindness. That’s the one choice that’s never wrong.

"We wander. We screw up. We start over. And if we allow, we find a way home—to who we really are.”

For me, I write. I hike. I bike. I take photographs. I soak in the outdoor air. I get stuff wrong. But I always try again. And I keep telling stories—about people still finding their way through the smoke.

— Mike