Embracing Rookiehood
I came to the high desert in hopes of finding a potential missing piece of myself. I also arrived with a boatload of insecurities (per usual) and even a wrong motive or two. But I left the wild lands of southern Utah with a sense of accomplishment, a filter for looking at my spiritual community back home, and tons of pictures I didn’t take. (We had to surrender our phones for 3.5 days. Wilderness Collective wanted us to be fully present—to absorb our surroundings and conversations without the pressure of trying to capture them.)
Other than a few minutes in my church’s parking lot, I’d never ridden a motocross bike until a four-day trip across southern Utah. In the first day, I logged 91 miles as we escaped a sun-baked desert up into the mountains. Our trip photographer, Madi, snapped this image of me about halfway through the ride—about an hour after one of the riders in front of me wrecked and about two hours before we would ride into camp in the dark. My first day on a motocross bike wasn’t technical, but it was quite the adjustment from riding my bike back home.
My fellow motocross riders and even some of the UTV drivers were surprised I chose a four-day gauntlet as my introduction to riding dirt bikes. If you have my number in your phone, though, you know I chase experiences that scare me, stretch me, and force me to face my insecurities. This trip did all of those. A lot.
I’ve never worn body armor or heavy-duty boots like these to ride. As I walked into the shop from the shuttle van, I found my name on a tag hanging from the bike along with a satellite tracking device with my initials on it. This adventure that I had signed up for last year instantly became a reality.
I was assigned bike #16. In addition to the number, Wilderness Collective had mounted some sage advice that I repeated to myself over the following days: “Ride your own ride.” The “magic and mayhem” took care of itself.
My pants and jersey are stained forever with mud I couldn’t get out. Believe it or not, though, I stayed relatively clean compared to the 23 UTV drivers and passengers on the trip with us.
Over the past three years all of my off-road friends have told me I need to get comfortable riding while standing. It was counterintuitive to me that it’s smoother and safer to lift your center of gravity, but I’ve learned that those advisors were correct. I spent hours standing up on over the 300+ miles I put on this Husky. I still haven’t changed my (wrong) instinct to slow down instead of throttle up when the terrain gets wonky. Thankfully, the images Madi captured weren’t snapped on the technical climbs and descents that slowed me to a crawl.
I’ve ridden amongst western aspens in Polaris & Can-Am UTVs over the past five years—including trails not too far from where we were riding. But it felt very different to experience these landscapes on a motorcycle.
We covered 139 miles on the last day back to the shop. As we dropped elevation, the temperature transitioned from the high 50’s to the high 90’s. While the riding was far less physically demanding, the heat compounded my exhaustion from staying around the fire hours past my bedtime. After experimenting with some sand riding, I invited the sandman into our lunch break.
We bathed in mountain creeks and reservoirs. Cold! After doing some laundry in the same creek, I hung my gear to dry in the arid mountain breezes while I napped until dinner. I found some prime real estate for my tent—waterfront property.
I let one of our chefs, Ryan, ride my bike on the third day—the most technical trails of the trip—while I jumped in an empty passenger seat with one of the Can-Am drivers. So, I rode the bike only three of the four days. To commemorate this adventure, I asked the other six guys on bikes and Ryan to sign their names on my jersey.
I don’t think I’ll ever wash it. The blood and dirt on the front and the names on the back will take me back to a challenge I accepted, an anxiety I disobeyed, and an adventure nobody can take from me.
I spent almost all of my time on the bike at the back of the pack with the rear guide trailing behind me. But lots of people around me were encouraging. After one of my fellow riders had to lay his bike down and got bruised ribs, he told me I actually kept a comfortable pace. Since I was going to be back there anyway, I let the other riders get some space in front of me. So, I didn’t eat as much dust as others. I paid for that with the shortest rest stops, but those comprised a fair trade.
My sisters and I wore out Disney’s animated Robin Hood back in our homeschool days. One of the most memorable lines for me to this day came from Lady Kluck, observing Maid Marian and Robin. “Ah, young love!” Madi and Alex, our photographer and videographer, respectively, made me think of that love. I enjoyed my conversation with this couple during rest stops and in camp under the stars. They didn’t know they inspired me to book an adventurous weekend with Crystal when I got home.
Stories Covered in Dust
Robert Edison Fulton, Jr. claimed, “The desert tells a different story every time one ventures on it.” I’ve found this to be true. Along with that, I always come home from a desert with different stories to tell. While my expedition through the public lands around Bryce & Zion National Parks and Dixie National Forest looked a lot different than I had imagined, I came home with a sense that I’d found some facets of myself to explore back at home.
My driver, Ethan, avoided the mud holes where possible and slowly crawled through the ones for which he couldn’t maneuver a sneak line. But others in our group dove right in. WAVES of mud splashed over our fellow adventurers. At one point, half of the machines were so throughly covered in mud (1) they looked like they’d been painted desert camo and (2) we had to use water jugs to rinse their radiators to keep the units from overheating.
Ethan and I had the jack in our back seat, but we were near the tail of the line. Rather than wait for our arrival, several of the guys just lifted the Can-Am for the guides to swap out the old tire for a new one.
I was blown away by how uninterested the cattle were in our big, loud UTVs and on our goat-sized dirt bikes. I lost count of how many cattle grates we rode over during our trip. It was wild to me how remote and sparse was the land where these big ladies roamed.
Big circle time. After dinner each night, Bob Goff offered reflections on lessons from the day’s happenings with applications for life back home. After breakfast each morning, he’d challenge us with a question or concept to mull during our hours of “helmet time” throughout the day. He gave everyone in the circle “the gift of going second.” He told us how the realization, paradox, tension, or question had intersected with his life in short, colorful stories. He asked for volunteers to chip in their anecdotes or answers. 15 minutes twice a day to prime hours of introspection. No notes. No bullet points. No references to “the original Greek text.” Several of these circles included some red letters of Jesus or quotes from his friends, but the profundity came from simplicity most church services miss. I won’t soon forget some of the stories. I’ve already been retelling them to friends and family.
This was my tent on the last night. After all but a handful of us went to bed, I turned off my tent light; someone turned off the propane fire ring; and we let our eyes adjust to the Milky Way overhead. We counted shooting stars, one of which had the thickest shimmering tail I’ve ever seen. I was again reminded of the humility of the origin poetry at the beginning of the Hebrew Bible. No matter what you think about the origins of the universe and of earth’s inhabitants, you can appreciate the lack of vanity in the author’s succinct description of the cosmos: “He made the stars also.”
Circle Time
Circle time is a priority in my life back home. I plan my vacations around the rhythms of my faith circles. So, it made sense to find a vacation that valued circle time as much as I do.
On our first night, Bob Goff shared with us about what he’d been learning about the 7 Primal Questions (a framework created by counselor, Mike Foster). I had listened to the entire book in one hike back in July and came home to buy print copies for me, my wife, and my counselor. It has given me a better framework than the Enneagram or Myers-Briggs for understanding my mental loops, motives, and actions. The premise is that all humans ask seven questions of the world around us. When we are kids, one or more of those foundational questions was answered with a no or transactional/conditional yes. That question becomes the primary question you ask of the world into adulthood, especially in close relationships. And the gift of that question is that you work hard to answer that question with “yes” for others in your life.
Well, it turns out, Bob and I share the same question; and I was one of the few in the circle who’d been introduced to that framework. So, when Bob asked for volunteers to share about their respective questions, I looked around at almost 30 strangers and talked about my journey with that question. I held back tears as I talked about the wrestle to get and accept a yes and the reward of giving that yes to others.
When I leave on a big trip, I promise Crystal that I’ll return home a better man than the one she kissed goodbye. It’s ironic that I went to the desert to be nourished. I’ve been working 6-day weeks for months on end now with the exception of the weekend of this trip (Labor Day). I came to these arid mountains hoping for a new way to endure the months-long slog that awaited my return to my office. I came home physically tired from the exertion and the short nights of sleep. But I carried home a sense of accomplishment for enduring a challenge and a clearer picture of changes I wanted to make in my life.
Part of that came from a story Bob told about a rancher who didn’t build fences. When asked how he keeps his cattle on his property, he answered, “I build wells.” Cows gravitate to where they’re nourished. I’ve worked so hard for decades to convince people I’m a fun hang. I’ve strived to attract people to serve with me, participate in my faith circles, and listen to my stories. I came home from Utah more driven to just help the people I care about feel refreshed by their time with me—to be a watering hole in a world that dehydrates our hearts.
I’m fascinated by others’ life stories. I enjoy hearing how people have transformed over time and where they’ve recently been shaped and influenced. I like asking people what they’ve overcome, what they’ve learned about themselves or God from their life experiences. Our creek time and fire circles gave me lots of chances to ask people with very different lives from mine how they got to the current version of themselves.
One of the gifts of my big adventure trips and international travel is the opportunity to zoom out, to get a different perspective on the life I’m reading with my nose against the paper. One morning, I got carried away during journal time. I couldn’t hear that the group had mustered for Bob time over the gurgling of the creek. I just kept journaling. By the time I made it back to the group, Bob was wrapping up his talk. I don’t know what I missed, but I know what I didn’t. And I’m grateful for that time transcribing what was happening in my helmet and around the fire on the days prior.
On Sunday mornings, I wear a neon yellow parking hat with my name on it—whether or not I’m in a Blue Ridge Community Church parking lot. I tell my teammates that—no matter our location—if we’re representing Jesus well, we’re serving together. Wearing this hat reminds me of the circle that has supported and encouraged me now for 18 years. I’m grateful Madi obliged me and captured this ongoing tradition.
Most of the people around the circle have more decimal places in their net worth than I do. (After I returned home and Googled my fellow travelers, I learned the CEO of Moderna rode in one of those Can-Ams.) I had the least amount of dirt bike experience of all of us moving on two wheels. It was obvious many of these people had much closer relationships with Bob than I do.
As we broke into smaller groups around the propane heaters, I found myself uncharacteristically anxious about joining conversations. Thanks to generous hearts, I continually found the chair meant for me which came with the stories I needed to absorb and the questions I needed to be asked.
For years, I was enamored by the voices that came from stages: TED Talk red carpets, Global Leadership Summit platforms, and church lecterns. Over the years, though, I’ve been most influenced by the shepherds who quite literally walked, backpacked, canoed, rafted, rock climbed, and rode motorcycles with their sheep. Every time I’ve hung out with Bob Goff, I’ve ended up around a fire with him and sitting on the ground with him. No raised voice. No system to pitch, no solution to sell: just mutual curiosity.
Dude. We ate so freaking well on this trip. I ate dishes I don’t normally eat and enjoyed dishes made in ways I’ve not previously encountered. Ryan and Matt created all of those incredible dishes out of portable grills and the coolers in the back of their F-250. So. Very. Good.
I probably annoyed the chefs. I was so fascinated by their work, and they engaged with my questions. I don’t go on a lot of guided trips. When I do, I find myself hanging out with the guides and staff a lot. You can imagine how cool is the kind of dude willing to live out of a tent without Internet, cell service, or a bathroom for days on end week after week year round to make artistic, yummy food.
When we got back to camp each evening, the boys filled a camp tabletop with some sort of appetizer while we waited for the main event. My favorite night was a cool take on bruschetta. Oh, my gosh. I could’ve eaten until I exploded. Charcuterie night wasn’t half bad, either.
I left my lamp lit only one night on this trip, but Madi made sure to grab cool shots of it.
We found this spot in the creek where a little pour-over created enough hydraulic action to pulse tired muscles. Unlike a hot tub, the water was as cold as a mountain’s breath. But several of us from the group took turns resting our tired muscles in the afternoon heat. Our head guide and Wilderness Collective’s founder, Steve, decided to test it out with the sleeping pad from his tent
I came home with a beanie, a tee shirt, and a camp mug with this slogan on it. I’m looking forward to transitioning back into a rhythm where I can get into the woods and mountains here back home on a more regular basis—because it’s not just Labor Day tours that’ve proven this slogan true in my heart.
Adrenaline-Laced Reflections
I’ve not traveled as much or as far this year as I typically do. So, this trip probably carried more expectations than it probably should’ve. Crystal asked if I had fun, and I told her that wasn’t the point of the trip for me. I came to stretch myself, to explore a part of the map I hadn’t previously seen, and to get to know new people. I arrived home having done all three. Don’t worry: I also had lots of reasons to hoot, holler, laugh, and feel fully alive.
I arrived southern Utah absolutely smoked, exhausted from redlining for 6 weeks in the office and knowing I had a tidal wave of work waiting for my return. The morning before I left, I had 80 auctions on my desk—more than at any point in Biplane Productions’ 22 years in business—and a family emergency we’ve kept offline. I was hoping for a refueling in the mountains. Candidly, I’m not sure I got that. For sure, I have new memories, new friendships, and new accomplishment. But I came home with the realization that I need to carry my own fuel, that I need to maintain the healthy habits that keep my gauge above empty.
Wilderness Collective makes a commemorative video of all of their trips and posts the ones for their public trips online. Before I left for Utah, I watched HOURS of these videos—including multiple views of my favorite ones. In one of them, there was a dude just sitting here by himself apart from the group. So, when I realized where we were, I made a beeline to this cliff and sat near the edge. Its views proved as beautiful as advertised.
The Pink Cliffs, like most geological features, arrive at their shapes from a combination of time and weather. Wind, sand, rain, and sun constantly alter their appearance—and even stability. As I reflected on this trip, I realized that I’ve let multiple external elements erode parts of who I want to be and how I want to be known. I came home inspired to choose as many of those influential elements in my life as I can, to invite accountability around the forces I don’t choose, and to pay attention to the warning lights on my heart’s dashboard.
I don’t know how your memory works. Mine fades, and I wonder sometimes if I can trust the items on my mental hard drive. That’s why I journal and blog. Sometimes, though, words aren’t enough. Songs, photos, and physical items work as mnemonic devices for me, instantly taking me back to views, sounds, smells, and conversations from mile marker moments.
I’ll pass this helmet every time I enter my garage; it might be a while before I clean Utah’s dust off all of its nooks and crannies. I’ll think of this trip every time I hike in this hat. No matter what I view through these goggles in the future, every time I wear them, I’ll think about the first time I wore them—and what I absorbed through them.
This collection of knuckleheads tore up somewhere around 400 miles of desert in our long weekend together. Each day, soon after our machines stopped vibrating, conversations started buzzing. Our pit stops, meal breaks, circle times, and dips in the creek always held the electricity of traded stories. I don’t know if I’ll ever bump into any of these souls again this side of heaven, but I’ll have even more people I’ll be excited to talk to when I get there.
I generally avoided pictures with Bob. I paid extra to do this trip with him than it costs to do with strangers, and he certainly added value. But I didn’t want him to feel like I was using him to score points online. My favorite encounters with him over the past decade haven’t been when he’s on stage or in the front of a retreat room. It’s the stories around a fire, the moment he silently laid his hands on me to pray for me (and never told me what he prayed), the time he laid on a floor with me to answer big questions about our shared proclivities. And that’s what everyone else says too. His radical availability blows my mind.
Bob’s books have been part of my spiritual formation, and his conference talks are fun; but my time with him at retreats has given me the confidence to trust his public words. When the mics are off, his stories are even more vulnerable. His voice grows quieter like a grandpa making s’mores while telling you tales you can’t believe he somehow never told you before.
This trip only accentuated that. Together, we navigated mud holes, waded into a chilly mountain reservoir, and used a shovel for bathroom visits. Our clothes and beards were utterly infiltrated by dust. I caught a glimpse of what adventure might look for me in 20 years. And if it includes muddy faces, dirty sweatshirts, and hot cocoa around a fire, I’m looking forward to it.
Wilderness Collective trips require all customers to surrender their phones for the entirety of their expeditions. (Don’t worry: all vehicles have GPS trackers; the guides have satellite communication devices; and emergency contacts can reach them if needed). They do this to keep us from trying to capture moments ourselves and instead to just be present in them. “Don’t worry, our team will be taking pictures.” They also do this to help participants disconnect from the sense of urgency, the addiction to digital dopamine, and the stress of a false sense of immediacy.
The hardest part for me was not having photographic evidence to confirm or enrich the stories I shared, but even that was a challenge I welcomed. I bet you can guess which of these phones was mine.
As I write this caption, I’m on my way to a beachfront resort with my wife. If the pictures hold up, I’ll be sleeping in relative comfort and bathing at will. And I won’t complain about it one bit. But we won’t be anywhere as near the water as when I slept in Utah’s high desert.
I’ve slept atop the snow in Antarctica and under the snow in Finland. I’ve spent the night in camper vans and mountain huts, hostels and lighthouses, AirBnBs and the back seat of my MINI, tents and a portaledge hanging 90 feet off the ground. I burn my American Express points on the flights, because I’ve learned that I can sleep wherever my next adventure requires.
