It was a cooooold game, and well, to keep warm during tailgating, we had availed ourselves of a not insignificant portion of Becci’s homemade apple pie moonshine. ASU won the game, and we returned to our hotel, a cheapish place near the airport.

After a long day, Becci was pretty exhausted, but I can’t sleep for several hours after an ASU football game. We were sharing a room with a single queen bed. No big deal, but it also meant that I’d probably keep her up if I stayed in the room. As we were walking into the hotel, I had overheard a few other ASU fans mention that they were heading to the hotel bar, so I decided to let her sleep while I unwound at the bar.

When I walked in, though, I didn’t see any ASU fans. In fact, I only saw two Duke fans; the place was otherwise empty. So, victory in hand, I saddled up to the bar right next to them. I’m a good sport—and also entirely comfortable and proficient in trash talk, when needed—but we had a friendly and enjoyable conversation over a beer. They retired after their beverage, but I wasn’t tired enough to return to the room yet.

So I wandered to the restroom to make some more room, and in doing so, noticed an entirely different half of the bar. It was a split level (huh?), which effectively obscured the two sections from one another. There was a large table of ASU fans, presumably the ones I had overheard earlier. After the restroom, I made my way to the table and asked if I could join. “Sure, grab a chair and hop on in!”

The group was primarily comprised of older band moms—a surprisingly feisty bunch, actually. They had been tailgating together for a few years while their kids were members of the Sun Devil Marching Band. In fact, one of the kids at the table, Rob, was the current drum major. We got to talking and—like fresh meat—all the attention focused on me. They were fascinated by my long-term fandom (I had been a season ticket holder since fourth grade), my job in conservation, and my national parks quest in particular. It was an enjoyable time, and they were much more fun than I had anticipated. When it was time to head back to the room, I thanked them for letting me crash their table and said goodbye. I figured that was the end of it.

A few weeks later, I started noticing some posts from people I didn’t immediately recognize on my Facebook feed. It took me a bit to figure it out, but…it was the band mom crew from El Paso. They had apparently snatched my unlocked phone when I went to the restroom, and each had friended themselves from my Facebook app. I laughed—how sneaky!

The following season—On This Day in 2015—Becci and I, and my other buddy Scott who had season tickets with us, decided to meet up with them for a pregame tailgate at an ASU-sponsored venue. We had a blast, and decided that we’d combine our tailgates.

So this is our tenth year of tailgating with them, always at the same location overlooking the stadium. Our tailgate crew has ebbed and flowed over the years. We peaked around 25 regular participants each week several seasons ago, but it’s shrunk quite a bit since then as folks have moved away, or moved on. And my commitment to college football—which has undergone some disheartening changes in the last few years—has waned considerably recently as well.

Our tailgates are a lot of work, not just in the prep and coordination (which is considerable), but also in the day-of execution. It’s a twelve-hour affair each home game: we prep, pack up the Subaru (we have to add our rooftop bin for the extra cargo space), and arrive five hours before kickoff, the game lasts another 3-4 hours, and then we do a post-game tailgate for another 30-90 minutes to let the traffic pass (we also have champagne toast after wins), plus unpacking when we get home (after our traditional stop at In-N-Out Burger on the drive back, that is). A very full day, often concluding well after midnight.

We considered opting out of ASU tickets this year, as we’re trying to reduce our investment in the team, and in sports in general, to open up more weekends for fall travel. And while I’m far less interested in it these days, it’s also hard to simply walk away from. After all, this has been a part of my life since I was eight.

And since my parents’ bitter divorce back in college, ASU games—including pregame tailgating—had been the only occasions we spent as a family. So, yeah, I have loads of memories; it feels a bit weird to step back.

That said, it’s probably the tailgate that helped seal the deal on renewing this year. With the addition of HD broadcasts, the at-home game watching experience has vastly improved over the years, and is more attractive each subsequent year. But the in-person experience still rules supreme, at least when you can share it with others.

The post How I met our tailgating crew appeared first on rscottjones.

For most of the last five years, whenever a friend asked me how things were going, I hesitated to answer. Because, invariably, it was going to be a negative answer, often revolving around the stresses and toll of caregiving for my dad; or if it wasn’t that, it was trying to get ahead of similar issues with my mom, or not being able to enjoy the travel schedule we previously had, or worrying about how we’d really make all the money stuff work. There just weren’t a ton of positives to gush about. We were even too stressed out to enjoy most of the trips we did somehow manage to squeeze in.

I hated that my answer to that question harkened back to the same ongoing issues, time after time. They had all heard about it enough, I told myself, and I’m sure they didn’t want to hear about it yet again. The problem was, it was the major news since we had gotten together last. Like a new parent can’t not update you on their baby—since that’s now a primary focus of their life—I was stuck giving updates on caregiving and the latest health crisis. That’s what so much of my life revolved around. It was, simply, a difficult time for us. And it felt like a struggle to talk about it.

Fast forward to today, and things have changed.

We’re still tired and stressed out, but that should correct itself this year, as we recover from it all. Our big (somewhat audacious) bets and the hard work we did to enact them have paid off. We’re now in the best financial position we’ve ever been in—by a wide margin. Our financial future looks very bright. While I’m still dealing with the loss of my dad, it’s also a big stressor that’s been removed from our lives. We have radically improved nearly every facet of my mom’s life, and set her up to live independently for (hopefully) quite some time. Our time freedom is about to grow substantially, as will our travel. And, somehow, we’re embarking on a 100-day overseas vacation in two months, and we already have all the vacation time and money to pay for it.

Things are, somewhat suddenly, really, really good for us.

And now we face the exact opposite problem. It’s again hard to talk about what’s new and noteworthy with friends—not because it’s the same old story, but because it’s suddenly too good of a story.

It’s hard to talk about paying off our mortgage with the friend who is months behind on their own because they were jobless for a year. Or the friends who ended up getting shut out of the housing market, just as they put down their first house offer. Or to talk about our newfound freedom with the new parents whose schedule is now severely limited by their newborn. Or even just the friends who, for whatever reason, don’t seem to have any fun or exciting things going on.

I’m really excited about where we are at, and really proud about how we got here. And I desperately want to tell, I dunno, pretty much everyone about it.

But, alas, sometimes that’s hard to do.

The post I hate telling friends how I’m doing 🎤 appeared first on rscottjones.

At some point in the pleasant but forgettably standard conversation, I mentioned that I had a bit of a drive home, as I lived across town. She said that she did too.

I told her that I lived over in the PV (Paradise Valley) area. She said, “yeah, me too.”

I said “Oh yeah? I’m near 40th St and Cactus.” She said, “Me too.”

“Huh. I live in Greenspoint Apartments,” I said after a short pause, starting to wonder if she was just messing with me.

“Me too,” she responded, starting to wonder if I had been stalking her.

“Wow, really??! I’m in Building 8.”

“Me too…”

“I’m in 8102,” I said, somewhat incredulously.

“I’m in 8301!” she exclaimed.

I had somehow met a neighbor who lived two floors above me, and used the stairway that spilled out in front of my door. She and her husband hadn’t live there for long, but we had yet to meet each other at the apartment complex. Instead, it was on a 10-mile hike, arranged by strangers on the internet, on the far side of the Valley a solid 45 miles away.

We exchanged information and ran into each other a day or two later in the complex. I met her husband, also named Scott, later that week. We became friends.

For those who’d like more friends, here’s an important life lesson: if you want to make new friends, you have to go do things with people you don’t already know

Carey ended up joining a comedy troupe that rehearsed on Sunday nights. It didn’t take long for Scott and I to start hanging out on those evenings. We’d often wander a few minutes over to an unremarkable dive bar named Paradise Lounge. It was awkwardly located in an explicable corner of a strip mall, tucked away behind a Baskin Robbins and an alterations shop—a location so obscured that it’s amazing anyone ever found the place.

Inside, it featured…well, just dive bar stuff. A basic bar, random stuff adorning the bar wall, (presumably stale) bags of chips, a Golden Tee golf game, some soft tip dart boards, a few small TVs, some tables. Bad decor, plenty of innuendo jokes scattered about, a curtain separating the bar from the so-called ”kitchen.” It was dark inside, the tables were wobbly, the chairs were uncomfortable, and yet, it was home on Sunday nights for quite some time.

We’d “go for the one” …and leave hours later. Sometimes, many, many hours later. We always started with a pitcher of Kilt Lifter (the local craft beer you could find on tap basically anywhere in the state), occasionally migrating to other options from there.

One of our regular bartenders was in her late 40s, and routinely wore a very loose neck t-shirt with no bra—and whether intentionally or not, gave a complete showing of her significant and sagging boobs every time she leaned over to take your empty glass or wipe the bar top. This was not exactly what anyone wanted to see, it was just part of the required experience—an unavoidable side effect of drinking there.

There were plenty of regulars—really, a place like this could only survive because of regulars, locals for whom this was simply the closest bar. While we would make bar conversation with others, we never developed any lasting bar friendships, probably due to our odd Sunday night timing.

We have many pretty good Paradise Lounge stories, and probably just as many amazing stories that we don’t remember, given the circumstances. After a year or two, I met Jen and moved south to Ahwatukee, and Scott and Carey built a house in the north Valley. Our treks to Paradise Lounge were largely behind us.

We remained friends, of course. A big hockey fan, Scott got a part-time job for the Coyotes as the guy in the penalty box who opened and closed the door for players. Pretty cool if you want to sit up close and personal with some of your hockey idols. Eventually, he parlayed that into a full-time gig with the NHL, running all the officiating cameras and related tech for refs and coaches for several arenas around the West.

He also joined us as season ticket holders for ASU football, tailgating for as many of the games as his hockey travels schedule could allow, and joining us for game watching parties for the weeks the team was away.

We also managed a number of day trips together, camping and backpacking trips, and other adventures. Somewhat infamously, we took a long road trip together to Bighorn Canyon in Montana just so I could mark off that park unit late in my national parks quest.

Amid all these other adventures and get togethers, Paradise Lounge faded into the distance, now just a cherished memory we’d occasionally reference in conversation.

With the Coyotes moving to Salt Lake, Scott and Carey needed to move back into an NHL market. They’re heading to Denver later this month. But before they could leave, Scott and I needed one last visit to Paradise Lounge, the place where our friendship really blossomed.

So on Friday night, we finally made our triumphant return.

A half-decade had passed since I had been to Paradise Lounge, but not much had changed inside. Well, except that they somehow did not have Kilt Lifter on tap anymore, which was disappointing for sentimental reasons. I didn’t recognize the bartenders, or any of the patrons, for that matter. The chairs were worse than I remembered. A few of the decorations behind the bar were familiar, a few were more recent additions. The overall vibe had not changed one bit though.

We spent a few hours there, but were both reminded that there are many better bars out there. In fact, I was a bit surprised that we had enjoyed it so much back in the day.

But it wasn’t the place, of course, that had made it so enjoyable. It was the simple ritual of hanging out with a buddy and enjoying a few hours of carefree chatter over some beers, immune to the stresses of the upcoming work week. Paradise Lounge was not an actual paradise, but it was a temporary escape nonetheless.

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I started by doing some brainstorming and looking back through my various libraries (kindle, audible, library thing, and bookcases). It was a partial list at best, but still brought back many memories. You could also chart what topics I was into at the time. It wasn’t hard to find a dozen or so books that I really enjoyed. I was surprised, though, at how many books I had started but quickly abandoned. I also ran across far too many that still sound interesting, but that I’ve yet to crack open.

But then I sat back and thought more about who I am, what I enjoy, how I think, what I value, what I detest, what interests me, and so forth. This exercise was about impact, not enjoyment, so it should focus on books that had an outcome in my life—it was something that helped me become who I am today.

I came up with a clear “most impactful” book. I started writing a post about it, but didn’t get around to finishing it. Several months later, a few folks I follow online¹ started posting their own “most impactful” book lists. I decided to expand my list to the top 15 instead. This is that list, in no particular order, except after the first entry—my book that impacted my life the most.

The Hiker’s Guide to the Superstition Wilderness: With History and Legends of Arizona’s Lost Dutchman Gold Mine, by Jack Carlson and Elizabeth Stewart (1995)

I don’t think any single book has had a bigger impact on my life than this hiking guidebook. Which is interesting, because I still haven’t hiked all the trails it lists, and I’ve owned some version of this book since high school.

But more than any other book, this is the one that accompanied me as I developed a love for hiking, and by extension, for exploring the amazing landscapes of the West, and by extension, enjoying road trips, camping, and travel in general. Since those things have generally dominated my interests throughout my adult life, it’s hard to pick any other book.

I should note that Sedona Hikes: 135 Day Hikes and 5 Vortex Sites around Sedona, Arizona by Richard & Sherry Mangum should get honorable mention here. I picked up that book (and their Flagstaff Hikes book) early in my hiking career, which resulted in countless weekend day trips north. I even skipped my senior prom and brought my girlfriend hiking in Sedona that day instead. Had I not fallen in love with the Supes first, this book would probably have had the same impact.

The Complete Reference: HTML & CSS

I’m not entirely sure if this was the specific reference book I first bought, but it was something similar. I’ve had a personal website and a variety of web projects since the late 90s, and hand-coded most of those early ones. Without the experience of working on websites, I’m not sure what path my life might have taken. Having a website at that time made me a “guy who makes websites” and opened a surprising number of doors that otherwise would have remained shut. And sharing my national park adventures on those early trip sites helped inspire me to keep prioritizing travel over other expenditures, like, say a working vehicle.

Ishmael: An Adventure of the Mind and Spirit, by Daniel Quinn (1992)

TEACHER SEEKS PUPIL
Must have an earnest desire to save the world.
Apply in person.

It was just a three-line ad in the personals section, but it launched the adventure of a lifetime.

This is the only non-nonfiction book on my list, a philosophical journey into the nature and role of humanity, using a rather unique conceptual device. I didn’t like the main character. I didn’t like the context of the story. But it made me question the societal stories we tell ourselves about humanity, and to view our existence in the world in a much different way. My favorite band wrote a song about it². I bought a dozen copies to give to friends—the first book I had ever gifted. For quite some time, I considered it my favorite book, even though I’ve only read it once and didn’t want to read it again. It was powerful enough the first time. I think this book would have paired very well with Sapiens, had that been published back two decades earlier.

The 4-Hour Workweek: Escape the 9-5, Live Anywhere And Join The New Rich, by Tim Ferriss (2007)

It’s hard to imagine a more cringy-worthy title [gives side eye to Ramit Sethi³], but here we are. Now, many of the ideas in this book are concepts taken to the laughable extreme. You should not, say, outsource your dating—which iirc, is actually something he tries doing. But this book introduced me to the concept of “lifestyle design,” which really just means being intentional about how you structure your life and not accepting societal defaults. That’s proven to be a useful concept in my own life.

Fast Food Nation: The Dark Side of the All-American Meal, by Eric Schlosser (2001)

This book changed the way that I looked at corporate behavior and greed. It was a takedown of the entire fast food industry, from slaughterhouse to advertising strategy and everything in between. In fact, my ex-wife and I stopped eating all fast food for more than decade after reading it, which is quite a feat given our low nonprofit incomes and frequent rural road trips.

Getting Things Done: The Art of Stress-Free Productivity, by David Allen (2001)

Hugely influential, “GTD” served as the productivity bible for many knowledge workers. I loved it because not only did it establish a generally effective system (I love me some systems!) for managing the flood of incoming inputs I suddenly had for my work and side projects, but it also did so in a way that helped set aside all other times for “calm.” The notion of relying on trusted systems so you can let go of background worry is what I continue to strive for in all the systems I build/follow today.

Cadillac Desert: The American West and Its Disappearing Water, by Marc Reiner (revised edition, 1993)

This book details how the West was watered, and the role that several government agencies played in doing so. It opened my eyes to how policy choices, and bureaucratic aspirations, can play a major role in determining how the future is shaped. It’s a necessary treatise on water over-use and the folly of locating too many residents in arid areas, famously encapsulated in explorer John Wesley Powell’s assessment of the region. But to me it also oddly demonstrates what’s possible when policy is directed toward a goal.

There Are No Children Here: The Story of Two Boys Growing Up in The Other America (1991)

This was the first book that opened my eyes to the plight of race in America. For me, it was also a view of poverty and how those two things, intertwined and combined together, fundamentally shape the direction one’s life is often pointed in. You sort of know these things in a broad, intellectual sense, but it was eye-opening to see how it plays out in simple day-to-day ways. These stories were relatable in a way that statistics and dry academic text were not.

Breaking the News: How the Media Undermine Democracy, by James Fallows (1996)

This book substantially shaped how I view the news media, and how I consume the news. It made me cogniscent of how what I consume determines what I think—a concept that many of my friends really struggle with, especially in the age of algorithmic feeds. Combined with later readings of Neil Postman’s classic Amusing Ourselves to Death and Marshall McLuhan’s concept of “the medium is the message,” it’s changed how I try to consume information in general.

Play to Win!: Choosing Growth Over Fear in Work and Life, by Larry & Hirsch Wilson (1998)

This book formed an important framework for a year-long executive leadership training program I attended when I worked in public lands conservation. The training overlapped with the period in which my first marriage was coming unraveled, and I did my best to incorporate many of its ideas into how I thought about interpersonal interactions, how I viewed life events, and the resulting stories I told myself afterwards. Some simple but powerful ideas that have definitely made me a better person.

The Nonprofit Membership Toolkit, by Ellis M.M. Robinson (2003)

This is a technical manual of sorts for running a successful nonprofit membership program. It helped launch me from volunteer advocate to landing my first professional job, running the statewide membership program for the Arizona League of Conservation Voters (and its related organizations), which became a stepping stone towards a career in public lands conservation.

Arizona Strip Draft Resource Management Plan and Draft Environmental Impact Statement (including Grand Canyon-Parashant and Vermilion Cliffs National Monuments), US Bureau of Land Management (2005)

This is an absolutely terrible read—it’s three volumes of technical acronyms and bureaucratic speak and stands about 6” tall. It was released the day before my first day working in public lands conservation, so it served as one helluva introduction into the field (it essentially governed my first 90 days of the job). But it was my first serious policy document, and dissecting, analyzing, and responding to it—administratively, in the court of public opinion, and ultimately, in actual court, too—was a formative experience.

Die With Zero: Getting All You Can from Your Money and Your Life, by Bill Perkins (2020)

I wasn’t sure if this one met the “impactful” mark or not. We read this relatively recently, and it hasn’t changed our behavior at all. Nor has it changed our minds about anything at all. But that’s probably because the philosophy it lays out was already our own personal philosophy, and my wife and I had made several very big decisions around maximizing the book’s core ideas. So reading this was validation of the path we had already charted, one that was met with initial skepticism by some of our social circle.

A Walk in the Woods (1999)

This is another one that I’m unsure makes the list or not. I really enjoyed reading this book, and moreso than other “adventure” books (like Colin Fletcher’s The Man Who Walked Through Time), this one seemed more “average guy does something incredible.” I’ve long wondered if it played any role in me deciding to adopt the (seemingly audacious) goal of visiting all the National Park units. And I’m still unsure. Of course, their journey was a predictable mess, but an entertaining read, and the main takeaway for me at the time was that, at minimum, they got a great story for their effort. I’m not sure that’s bad advice.

The Complete Guide to Kayaking the Salt River: Everything You Need to Know to Paddle the Lower Salt River, by R Scott Jones (that’s me!)

Yeah, yeah, I wrote this guidebook. It was a covid lockdown project (I wrote most of it in two days) and a proof-of-concept experiment for a long-term conservation project that I’m considering embarking on. But it’s not just a cheap plug for my book (don’t buy it anyway, I give it away for free on my kayaking website).

I’m including it because, after kicking around several book ideas for a couple decades, I finally got something “out” into the wild. And I’m hopeful that the experience removes barriers to getting some other ideas published, too.

Honorable mentions:

• Sedona Hikes, already mentioned above
• Wilderness and the American Mind, by Roderick Frazier Nash (2001 edition)
• The Art of Non-Conformity: Set Your Own Rules, Live the Life You Want, and Change the World, by Chris Guillebeau (2010)
• No Logo: Taking Aim at the Brand Bullies, by Naomi Klein
• Organizing for Social Change: Midwest Academy Manual for Activists, by Kim Bobo, Jackie Kendall, and Steve Max (2001 edition)
• How to Write Successful Fundraising Letters, by Mal Warwick (2001)
• Deep Work: Rules for Focused Success in a Distracted World, by Cal Newport (2013)

1. Shoutout to Lou Plummer in particular for getting things rolling, but I’d also include JCProbably, Ben, and Tracy here, too. Lou’s been curating a list of these posts; go check it out. ︎
2. The music video—a rarity for Pearl Jam—is pretty damn amazing. It was illustrated by the famed comic book artist (and fellow Ahwatukee resident) Todd McFarlane. In a weird twist of fate, his wife happened to work for me several years later, so I got a chance to thank Todd personally during a short hike together. There aren’t many times you get to say thanks to the person who made your favorite music video for your favorite band about your favorite book! ︎
3. Look, I’m not going to apologize for Ramit’s book title, “I Will Teach You to Be Rich: No Guilt. No Excuses. Just a 6-Week Program That Works,” which might take the top cringe prize. But I did enjoy that book quite a bit and thought it contained a lot of good concepts. His podcast is a fun listen, too. ︎

Webnotes

(none yet)

The post The 15 Books That Most Impacted Me appeared first on rscottjones.

A couple weeks later, she asked me if I could fill in for her boyfriend on their bowling team for a few weeks. He’s a tax accountant and was in “busy season.” I hadn’t been in a league before, but I’ve casually bowled with friends enough in the past to have my own ball and shoes, averaging ~180, so I agreed.

By the end of the first night, I had permanently replaced the boyfriend on the team (he was happy with this outcome). We’ve been bowling together ever since, perhaps 10-12 seasons now. It’s been an excellent Tuesday night activity with friends.

Our team name is Butter, which is unusual but has a fun backstory. So this friend is a genetic counselor who did her grad work at Stanford—she’s smart. But when we chose a team name—“I Can’t Believe It’s Not Gutter”—she miswrote it, using the word butter instead of gutter. A simple mistake, but the (cough useless cough) bowling alley manager didn’t give a shit notice and so entered it as written. But we embraced it (it’s great to have an ongoing reason to tease a teammate), shortening it the following season to just Butter. We get some quizzical looks when we play new teams, which is an added bonus.

Fast forward a few seasons, and the quality of our bowling league has consistently declined. Not in the participants, but in the bowling alley itself. Apparently, it’s part of the monopolization and ensuing enshittification of bowling.

This included suddenly not adding our names to the league trophy the year we won (well, twice actually), or providing any personal awards, either. Now, the league is named “Here for the Beer” so it’s not like we all needed awards. It was a fun, generally non-competitive league, one where you high-five your opponent when they get a strike. But it miffed my friend (damn millennials!) that she didn’t get awarded for best female bowler of the season (she’s a bit more competitive than most).

We did earn some money for the win, though, which we traditionally used to celebrate out together. So we set a happy hour date for ten days later. But I wasn’t going to use my portion of the winnings for the happy hour. The next day, I headed to the trophy shop I’d noticed next door to where I often get Chinese take-out for lunch.

I perused the offerings, then explained what I was looking for—a goof trophy, as big and gaudy as my meager winnings budget could afford. She loved the idea, and let me into a backroom with a bunch of used trophies that had been donated. She said I could take any one trophy I found as the main base, for free, and that she’d help me add additional accessories that I’d pay for. That sounded more than reasonable to me.

I quickly picked out a purple four-foot tall trophy, which was the largest one they had, and also would work great with the gold accessories. We cleaned it up, I ordered some pins and bowlers, added a 2022 topper, and a very basic custom title plate that simply read: “Bowling Trophy.” I picked it up a week later, in time for happy hour, just as I had I found the crucial centerpiece, a Christmas ornament of a stick of salted butter.

I arrived at happy hour much earlier than anyone else, bringing in the finished trophy and awkwardly covered it with a black sheet and set it aside nearby. After our first beer, I unveiled the surprise to my friend—the bowling manager called, she finally got the trophy you earned. Enjoy!

She would now have to have this thing in her house. At least for the next season. After that, we agreed that it would go to the teammate who had the lowest score in a game compared to their average. Because, again, it’s a bit of (fun) shame trophy…

She could barely get the trophy into her Jeep for the drive home. They bought a house soon after that, and I was pleased that it was one of the first items they moved over (unintentionally, as it was always just in the way in their rental and not something they could easily pack).

Since then, the first thing my wife asks me when I get home from bowling night is, “Did you win the trophy? I sure hope not!”

My friend was able to transfer ownership of the beloved trophy after that following season to another teammate, who has maintained control of it ever since. He since missed two half seasons for paternity leave for his two recent family additions, which has ensured that he couldn’t get rid of the damn thing. Gotta be in attendance to note who scored badly enough to be in contention. Of course, in his absence, the team has simply voted to permanently award it to him. Gotta honor our absent teammate in some way, right? I think he’s been too busy to notice; we’ll see when he rejoins in the fall.

We always take the summer league off, as my friend and I are usually off traveling too much to make it worthwhile. But I’m looking forward to getting back to it. I enjoy the fun traditions we have, whether it’s the trophy of shame, our bowling poker games (a card game we play during each game, based on how many strikes/spares we earn), or the blue pin routine (if you roll a 9 and leave the 5 pin standing alone, the entire league keeps their arm raised…if you fail to knock it down, you earn a blue bowling pin that you keep until someone else earns it—a play off our own trophy, in a way).

Having a standing weekly social activity is great, especially when it involves both a group of good friends plus the bowling acquaintances we see often. And I like that it’s one of the increasingly few shared activities, these days, which involves an absolute a mix of America.

1. Her and her then-boyfriend actually flew up to surprise me for my last two park units in Alaska when I finished my quest in 2019. A couple years later, we were in their wedding. Making friends online can be very rewarding! ︎

The post The bowling trophy appeared first on rscottjones.

Looking back, the camera probably played a surprisingly outsized role in sharing my enjoyment of the outdoors. Prior to that, I had an entry-level SLR camera, which had started to get me interested in photography. I also had access to lots of free film rolls from my dad’s office. Unfortunately, they were all 12-exposure rolls, which meant I’d be paying a substantially higher per-shot processing fee than the standard 24 or 36 shot rolls. Given my meager finances during college, this was not ideal.

And because it was easy to shoot photos, but not to process them, I routinely took trips to exciting places…but couldn’t afford to process the resulting film for weeks or months later. Infamously, it once took us an entire year to finally process all the photos we took on a two-week national park road trip, given the high cost.

But this digital camera changed that.

Everything changed. But I just didn’t know it then.

Suddenly, I could take as many photos as I wanted because I could afford to “develop” them afterwards. Sure, I had to bring my laptop on our trips to download photos from the low-capacity compact flash cards, but we were running Microsoft Streets and Trips to plot out driving directions and gas station stops anyway. This was, after all, before the time of smartphones and data coverage.

And because downloading the day’s photos to make room for the next day’s adventures became an evening campsite routine, I developed a lifelong habit of reflecting on the day around the campfire. Perhaps that’s played a role in my ideas on reflection as a component of maximizing one’s Return on Adventure.

Planting the seeds for today.

Having digital photos also inspired another longstanding tradition: sharing my trips with others. 

Back then, since we only took 2-3 “big” trips a year, I’d hand code a new HTML website for each major trip we took. This was a time-consuming endeavor, especially for someone with only a passing knowledge of HTML and CSS. But also made the trips feel extra special.

We could show off the cool places we visited, both to our coworkers at Staples and to out-of-state family. It was pretty cool, and it absolutely inspired us to travel further and more regularly. By 2000, I was posting a few select trip photos on rscottjones.com, and a couple years later, even tried my hand at launching a hiking website called GreatTrails.com (without a budget or social media, it didn’t go far). 

I started blogging about my trips on rscottjones.com, and eventually launched ScottsPics.com to use a fancier php gallery script to showcase my hiking and travel photos.

After my (now) ex-wife and I got engaged in 2004, we launched scottandkimmie.com where we started posting some of our bigger trips, along with regular travel blogs (side note: Jen and I have similar plans). By the time 2005 rolled around, I had started my Flickr account, using it to re-post photos of our weekend dayhikes and national park travels—and well, occasionally some political cartoons lambasting Dubya, too.

Getting social.

But Flickr wasn’t just a place to host your photos, it was a social media network for photographers. I graduated from posting photos to conversing with others—people I didn’t really know—about the photos and the places they depicted. It was great; I still have some friends today that I met through my first few months there. I started slacking on posting to scottspics.com, preferring the easier uploading interface and resulting social feedback of Flickr, so it became my default photo repository.

Within a few years, though, Facebook and Twitter had arrived, and they generally replaced my social time on Flickr. Around that same time, my then-wife and I divorced—and I suddenly spent a lot more time interacting with new friends I made in those early days of Twitter, tweetups, and Foursquare. Would I have put myself out there the way I did without those first few months on Flickr? Perhaps not.

Remembering where the first seeds dropped.

Somehow, over the years, I’ve gotten pretty bad at posting trip photos, especially now that I’ve generally abandoned Facebook. And I’m even worse about blogging about my trips.

But I’m social with many travelers via social media, nearly every single day. And like before, I’ve made some really cherished friendships out of it. And even though I often don’t post full albums of my travel photos, or write detailed blog posts, or even considerhand-coding an entire website to commemorate my last snorkeling adventure, I still regularly share my trip experiences with you all.

We post photos of places we’ve visited. We share a story about our recent travels. We daydream about our next adventures. We converse during twitter chats. We share a virtual happy hour. We make plans to join each other at a destination. We learn real names, not online handles; we meet wives and husbands, dogs and cats. We sleep in guest rooms and living room floors, and vote in binding polls on one-year anniversary trip destinations. We befriend, celebrate, support, tease, and treasure each other.

It’s not hard to walk backwards through the threads that connect these experiences, all the way back to a day when I opened the box of that Kodak digital camera—totally oblivious that it might start me down a path that connects directly to today, to me writing this very post to my adventuring friends on the internet.

And that, my dear friends, answers the question I posed in the title.

The post How can a digital camera from 1999 change your life? appeared first on rscottjones.

I’m flying to Portland tomorrow to spend the weekend with one of my favorite people, Lucie.

Over the years, we’ve had a number of grand adventures, some great conversations over pitchers of Mr Pineapple at OHSO (ok, and some shitty beer at Larry’s Cocktails)…

…some memorable celebrations, and some rough moments when we turned to each other for support. I even had the privilege of walking her down the aisle at her wedding.

In short, LOTS of treasured memories.

She’s awesome, one of the travelers that most inspires me, and a…

…cherished friend.

And we met because I decided to be a bit uncomfortable by attending a Meetup—a backpacking trip to Havasupai—with strangers.

I know many people are nervous about situations like that, but boy, if you’re open to it—you’ll be rewarded with good friends

End notes

• Here’s the post of the resulting adventure we had in Portland.
• Here’s a related post about making adventure friends

The post A thread about treasured memories appeared first on rscottjones.

In the vastness of space and the immensity of time, revel in the joy of sharing a planet and an epoch with your friends and family, with neighbors and strangers. With wistful clouds and chirping birds; with streams and rock and dirt.

Because with great fortune, you have the serendipitous opportunity of inhabiting, for a brief moment, a tiny fraction of a speck on our insignificant pale blue dot—a faint pinprick of reflected light suspended in an incalculable vastness. Cherish it. Hold dear the only home we’ve ever known, that solitary mote of dust.

The background

The first two minutes of this video explains how and why this photo was taken.

The photo

The text

The post …on a mote of dust, suspended in a sunbeam—our pale blue dot. appeared first on rscottjones.

Yesterday was my last day at the Conservation Lands Foundation.

In my nearly six years on staff, we quickly built an effective national organization, developed and supported a vibrant network of grassroots advocates across the West, helped set a strong policy vision for system, and elevated the profile of the National Conservation Lands, among many other hard-fought achievements. And while it required a lot of hard work, it’s impossible not to smile deeply when I think back over how far we’ve come; it’s truly been a remarkable ride. I’ve had the privilege of working with some amazing colleagues and partners—most all of whom I now consider friends—on this century’s greatest public lands conservation opportunity…all while having some good fun along the way, too.

Moving on is always bittersweet, but an exciting opportunity also lies ahead that will let me harness and better focus my passion for the Conservation Lands here in Arizona. I’ll have more to announce in the near future.

In the meanwhile, I’m on sabbatical through mid-April, so if you have some free time and want to get together, go for a hike, or take a daytrip, send me a note and get on my calendar.

The post Leaving the Conservation Lands Foundation appeared first on rscottjones.

I’m not usually a fan of corporate behemoths, but there was always something special about the way Apple—no, make that Steve Jobs—went about changing the world. You don’t need much more proof of the impact he had on the tech industry, or the last generation or two, or the world today than the overwhelming outpouring of emotion after his death. If you were online, you knew. He was the entrepreneur of our generation, and one of the all-time great innovators and visionaries. The 60s/70s had NASA, and the 80s/90s/00s had Steve Jobs.

No matter whether you’re a fanboy or a hater, it’s hard not to argue that Steve’s passing leaves a huge hole in our culture’s soul. Steve and Apple certainly left an indelible mark on my life. He will be missed.

Perhaps one of his more poignant moments came during his Stanford commencement address. I’ve watched this video at least a dozen times over the years. The advice he gives is even more moving today than when I heard it last.

Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life.

Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure — these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important.

Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose.

You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.

Watch the entire speech above (or read the transcript). Either way, I promise that it will be well worth your time.

So let’s go make sure we all have our “one more thing” moment. There’s no sense in waiting.

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