Adventure

Before I learned to drive a tractor, play football, or grill lamb like an Aussie, I learned how to get lost—in the best way possible.   It started around second grade, not long after my family moved to our Indiana farm. My dad had a pond dug out on our land—a man-made slice of heaven carved into a grassy corner where cattails grew, frogs chirped like opera singers, and the water was always just cold enough to keep you alert.   But it wasn’t the pond alone that captured my heart. It was the woods that surrounded it. A tangled, whispering cathedral of trees, vines, animal tracks, and possibility. Becoming Tom & Huck (In My Own Backyard)   At some point during a family trip to Disney World, I wandered onto Tom Sawyer Island. That fake frontier, with its barrel bridges and tree forts, unlocked something in my imagination. Soon after, I devoured Tom Sawyer and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.   The Adventures Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn were two books that had an impact on me in my early youth.   Those boys weren’t just characters – they were kin.   Reckless. Curious. Always plotting something.   Back home in Indiana, I didn’t need a raft on the Mississippi. I had something better: a stick, a pocketknife, and a few hours before dinner.   I’d leave the house with a “don’t be late” warning from Mom, and disappear into the trees. My dog sometimes followed, but mostly, it was just me, my thoughts, and that pond in the woods – shimmering like a mirror for whatever kind of boy I felt like being that day. Wild Adventures & Serious Business   Out there, I wasn’t a farm kid. I was a frontier scout, mapping out new trails. I was a pirate. A spy. A survivalist tracking game (read: squirrels and imaginary bears).   I built forts out of fallen limbs and abandoned fence posts. Named trees. Wrote secret codes in the dirt. Caught frogs, skipped stones, and had long, meaningful conversations with myself—usually about how to convince my parents to get me a mini-bike.   The thing about woods like those is that they teach you how to be comfortable being alone. Not lonely. Just with yourself.   Even at eight years old, I understood that silence wasn’t something to be feared. It was where ideas bloomed. Where questions echoed. And where you could try on new versions of yourself without anyone watching. The Pond That Reflected Everything   The pond was the centerpiece. I remember standing at its edge, imagining I was on the bank of the mighty Mississippi. I’d practice skipping rocks like I’d seen on Little House on the Prairie or toss acorns at imaginary enemies across the water.   Sometimes, I’d lie on my back and just look up—at clouds, leaves, birds—and wonder about big things: Why do some people live in cities?What makes a good man?Why does pond water taste so weird?   Looking back, those weren’t just idle thoughts. They were the early stirrings of philosophy, curiosity, and the kind of introspection that still drives me today. A Boyhood That Built a Man   That little pond and the woods around it shaped me in ways I’m only now beginning to understand. Honestly, I still see Tom and Huck in the mirror some days—older now, with less hair and a few occasional twinges – but just as curious, still barefoot in spirit, still chasing the next hidden trail. Still Wanderin’   I think we all need a stand of woods in our lives.   A space to step away from obligation.   To wonder again. To explore not just the world—but our place in it.   So if you’re reading this and feeling like life’s gotten a little too paved, maybe it’s time to find your own woods. Or maybe, if you’re like me, the trail you’re on today was actually forged long ago… barefoot, muddy, and humming with the sound of cicadas. And One More Thing…   If you’re ever standing near a pond, and you hear a faint voice yell “Last one in’s a rotten egg!” – that might just be me, still out there somewhere.   Livin’ best life, one barefoot step at a time.   —BrianExplorer. Lambassador. Slightly Sophisticated Farm Boy.