Short Stories
Some moments stand out from the rest. These retellings describe extraordinary experiences and unforgettable characters from my travels across the globe.
Trouble at the Creek
Strangers made a fishing trip take a dangerous turn.
“The evening started off well enough. My son and I were fishing on a secluded creek bank not far from the Missouri River, and we already had a channel catfish on a stringer. The sun was low on the tree line behind us, casting a crescendo of reds and oranges over the tranquil landscape.
I had made a fire ring near the water’s edge a few summers prior, and flames danced inside the circle as a soft breeze made its way through the brush. My son, around eight years old at the time, stoked the coals with a stick as we both waited on the next bite.
The low hum of an approaching car snapped me from a trance…”
That Damn Dakota Blue
This was the bull ride that nearly ended it all.
“There wasn’t a cloud in that South Dakota sky. Peering over my black boots and silver spurs, I studied the blue canvas as I flew through the air, cartwheeling toward what I was certain would be a horrific landing.
It was a summer Sunday afternoon, and my friend Luke and I had made the drive up to a bull riding practice pen just beyond Nebraska’s northern border. To be bluntly honest, both of us were rank amateurs when it came to rodeo’s most famous and notoriously dangerous event. I had ridden some in Kansas several months prior and more recently logged a few rides at another practice pen near Omaha. Luke was even more inexperienced.
Most all of my previous rides gave the strong hint that maybe this wasn’t the sport for me…“
Spirit in the Sky
An encounter with a hawk changed the course of my life.
“I still remember that hollow feeling like it was yesterday. When I topped a low ridge and saw the same stretch of Koger Creek before me, I knew I was walking in circles.
It was one of the first times my parents had allowed me to wander off alone into the forest behind our house in the Appalachian foothills. I pushed the boundaries of where I should have traveled and managed to get myself lost.
Heart racing, I tried to keep calm. I couldn’t have been more than nine years old at the time, still a tenderfoot in so many ways. Lessons come fast for a country boy at that age.
Most were courtesy of my own foolishness…”
Ghost in the Well
There was something at the bottom of the well.
“… Besides a heavy coat of dust and a copious amount of spider webs, furniture was just as the house’s mysterious occupants had left it. Who were they? What happened to make them leave all this behind? These questions flashed through my mind as we surveyed each room.
Squinting against the sun, we eventually stepped back outside. I spotted the foundation of what was once likely a barn on the outer edge of the clearing. It didn’t seem worth investigating; the blackened plane where it stood suggested it had burned long ago. Walking around the house from the front door, I looked over the yard. There was a young tree growing around back, the only one in the brief opening of the forest.
Underneath its shade was the well…”
Beer in Old Mexico
The former Aztec Empire casts a spectral shadow over present-day Mexico City.
“As the sun set on Mexico City, the moon began to rise over the Palacio Nacional. Or was it rising over the Templo Mayor? Sitting with a beer in hand and one arm dangling over the railing of the Balcón del Zócalo, I wasn’t so sure.
I had seen a lot over my last few days in Old Mexico. The first day ended as I watched the sun drop behind the Pyramid of the Sun, the mysterious structure in Teotihuacán that borders the Avenue of the Dead. I know that’s where it set, even if no one really knows much about who built the pyramid.
The Nahuatl name for the place translates to ‘the place where men became gods’…”
Standing on Sacred Ground
Thanksgiving is the National Day of Mourning for Native Americans across the country.
“… My feelings are further confirmed today as the sun fades low in the Nevada sky and the desert shadows – the eternal companions of the rock – dance across the rugged terrain.
American poet Walt Whitman wrote, “I contain multitudes.” While I am not part of their bloodline, the Ancients, whose tragic riddle of existence is diligently preserved by the rock, and I, the culmination of the thousands of generations that preceded me, are together in the twilight…”
Coconut in a Tree
A homeless man's selfless act fed his less able counterparts.
“He was a young man who greeted the day with a warm smile and a gentle gait. Wearing only shorts and a hat, the backpack in his hand contained everything else he owned.
It was early in the morning in Port Antonio, Jamaica. My family and I had just bargained for a breakfast of fruit and vegetables at the local farmer’s market. A short walk later, we were relaxing at Neville Antonio Park next to the Errol Flynn Marina, munching on our meal in the Caribbean breeze. I was working on a carrot when the young man made his way under the coconut trees.
He stopped to talk to a gentleman nearby, and their voices were within easy earshot. After a few minutes of banter, he got around to telling his story, the one that left him sleeping under those same trees…”
Three Crepes in Paris
A nondescript food stand held an extraordinary surprise.
“In the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, he held court like a Parisian royal of yesteryear.
It was Christmastime on the Continent, and my family and I were backpacking across much of Western Europe. We were halfway into a week-long trek that took us through seven countries, including stops in major metros like Amsterdam, Brussels, and Luxembourg City. Paris was our final continental destination prior to making the short air hop over to London.
After a day touring essential landmarks such as the Louvre, Notre-Dame Cathedral, and the Arc de Triomphe, we arrived at the Eiffel Tower hungry and dead on our feet…”
My Hat Pulled Low
Framed against the immense backdrop of the Andes, a Brazilian hiker had a lot to say.
“It was a sun-drenched high noon on the remote Choquequirao trail in the Peruvian Andes. I pulled my hat low against the arid spring wind as I approached the área de observación de aves (bird observation area) not far from the Quechua outpost of Capuliyoc. I was on my way back to civilization after spending days walking one of South America’s most daunting hikes. The area’s shaded bench offered a welcome reprieve before my final push to the terminus.
Not a soul was in sight when I sat down. I could see for well over half a mile to the southeast toward the village. Looking down the trail to the west, the valley opened up to the horizon…”
Bargain in the Kasbah
An age-old human practice that took place in Morocco.
“He was an elderly Berber gentleman, no doubt born in the time when Tangier was an international zone.
He welcomed us to his small shop in the city’s ancient medina. My wife was looking for a souvenir, and his collection of ceramics had caught her eye. Stepping out of the alleyway of the market and through his door, our eyes adjusted to the dim light of the shop’s interior.
In a land where the term “old” is measured in millennia, the friendly shopkeeper was part of a bloodline that preceded even the Arabs. Berbers are indigenous to North Africa, and they have called Morocco home for thousands of years…”