A perpetually unraveling pilgrimage in search of a life less poisoned by the ordinary.

With concrete crawling fast across canyon country and Moab swallowed whole by speculators and second-home saints, we did what any sensible desert rat would—we bailed. Built out a Ford Transit with just enough room for three half-wild dogs, a tangled mess of art supplies, notebooks, mountain boards, and too many damn boots for too many damn terrains.

We chase what’s left of the unclaimed wild, skating the sandstone like it’s holy, scribbling stories before the silence forgets us. Somewhere between outlaw freedom and the echo of something sacred, we’re still out here—living, losing, writing, riding.