Prologue

Earlier this summer, I was lazing on the back porch with the dogs, watching Stellar’s Jays pitch and wheel around the bird feeder, screaming as they jockeyed for seeds. The dogs tracked the Jays with their eyes, not bothering to get up. The heat of the day had just broken in the wake of a brief and violent thunderstorm, and we were all still listless. Except for the Jays; they were as swift and argumentative as ever. 

The storm had left the sky sullen, and the clouds simmered and boiled as they pushed eastward toward the plains. A Jay swooped in, clutching at one of the feeder’s slim metal perches meant for smaller birds. She tucked her tail feathers under the feeder, scrabbling for purchase, screeching and flapping until she pulled up triumphant, a sunflower seed snatched in her black beak. 

Across the canyon, fading sunlight hit the western flank of Porphyry Mountain turning the slope gold against the dark clouds. “Love you, dad,” I said out loud, drawing looks from the dogs. It's an old habit, calling out to my father every time the mountains light up, even though he’s been gone more than twenty years now. My dad was a well-known landscape photographer and as far back as I can remember he taught me to pay attention to the changing light, to welcome the wild beauty of a brewing storm and the moodiness that follows.

A finch darted through the circling Jays. He landed easily and began pecking at the seed mix with messy abandon. The evening was still warm, and I felt sleep tugging at me. I had almost drifted off when a thought startled me awake: I am the same age as my father was when he received a devastating cancer diagnosis—stage four, metastasis, one year to live. 

It was 1987, and I was in fifth grade. 

Call it good medicine or faith or stubbornness, but my dad shocked his doctors by surviving another eighteen years, long enough to shepherd us all to adulthood. Still, I’ll never forget the preciousness and uncertainty of that first year, and how, in spite of worry and sorrow and fear, my dad lived even as he thought he was dying. 

This age milestone has snuck up on me, but it feels like a wakeup call. A reminder that time is dear and far from guaranteed. And let’s face it, I could use a kick in the ass. As I wade deeper into midlife, I notice myself increasingly choosing familiarity over curiosity, comfort instead of growth, scrolling before creativity. I didn’t grow up with a terminally ill father, only to squander my own days. Since that evening on the porch, I’ve hatched a project I’m calling One Wild Year. It’s a simple idea and not necessarily a new one. For the next 365 days I am challenging myself to put down my phone and pick up living.

I’m taking a lesson from my dad. I will live this year and fill it with what matters most to me: time with my daughters and husband, family and friends; hours outside in the garden and on the trails; honest work; and being of service. I’m drawn to reviving my Appalachian upbringing that was full of old-time porch sitting, wild food foraging, baking, visiting, storytelling, and unhurried meals. I’ve signed up for ultramarathons that terrify me and quiet rambles in the woods that don’t. A wild year doesn’t have to be grand or expensive, just meaningful. So here’s to One Wild Year ahead—mine and yours.

I’ll be documenting the year through writing, photography, and film because here’s the thing about a Wild Year … you never know where it will take you or how it will change you along the way.