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Journeyman, rucker, storyteller, watcher, and rascal describe me in five words. I maintain an outpost in the Clatsop Coastal Range, Oregon, from which I launch adventures in rucking and seek enlightenment that lie beyond the gates of discipline. Retired and answering to nobody is how I like to operate my life, according to a creed that my ancestors followed in journeys through their times in Feudal Japan and Ancient Europe. My bones and soul are old, and I don’t belong in the mainstream of society, I’m a manifestation of a Ronin navigating in times of precariousness and discord. I have no heirs of my making to bequeath my estate and legacy, but I do desire to be remembered as someone who gave a damn about humanity. In lieu of heirs to receive my remains and possessions, I will scribe a legacy of words formulated to document my experiences, meanderings, and observations consistent with the journeys of a man who communes with Gaia, drinks with rapscallion characters, and spins a yarn or two. And that is about it.

Birkenfeld, Oregon