A EULOGY IN REMEMBRANCE OF A GOOD TRUCK

Well, they towed away my truck today. It was a good truck. Losing a good truck is never easy, but this one hit pretty hard: as it left my lot today, one more connection with my dad was severed.

My mom bought the red Ford F-150 for my dad as a gift some number of years ago. The picture of him standing next to it on that day reveals a man that is deeply uncomfortable being in the spotlight (even if it’s just his wife taking a picture of him in his own driveway), yet very excited about his new mode of transportation.

My dad the day he got the truck.

He put tens of thousands of miles on that truck; his job towards the end involved driving all over the state while working for a Dakota Access Pipeline contractor. Being a former railroad man, he often pulled over during those work trips to take pictures of the graffiti that decorated freight cars sitting idle on the tracks along his route, before posting them to his Instagram account (I believe I had a hand in pressuring him into signing up for that particular social media platform). He was proud of the long hours he spent on the road though, because his measure of a man was how hard they worked. He was proud of those Instagram pictures too, carefully composed while leaning up against his truck (if you’re interested, it’s still up @skovlundsr.marty).

The truck itself isn’t luxurious by any stretch. Certainly no leather seats or back-up camera, but it has four-wheel drive and the air conditioner works — which is more than he could say about the majority of the vehicles he piloted during his life. Red seemed a bit flashy for my dad, but then again, underneath his humble, hard-working facade, I believe he was a bit of a showboat when given the opportunity: He drove a Z-28 Camaro before I came along.

I remember when my wife, newborn daughter, and I were living in Colorado shortly after I left the military. It wasn’t an easy time for us on many different levels. But my parents had six chairs from the old railroad round house my dad spent 14 years working in, and asked if I wanted them. Of course I did, but didn’t have a way to get them from Huron, South Dakota all the way down to where we were in Colorado Springs. My dad hopped in his red truck and drove 13 hours to get them down to us. A long way to go just to deliver a few dilapidated shop chairs, but then again I don’t think the chairs were the reason for the trip so much as they were the excuse.

That wasn’t the only time he drove a long, lonely trip by himself just to see one of his sons. He once drove thirty hours, straight through (only stopping for gas), after missing his flight due to weather, so that he could see my brother graduate from Ranger selection. He missed the ceremony by only thirty minutes — maybe an hour at most, due to gridlock traffic in Alabama just shy of Ft. Benning. Upon seeing the complete exhaustion in his eyes as he pulled up in the parking lot, I don’t know if my heart hurt with pride at how motivated he was to make it; or hurt with sorrow that he just barely missed the ceremony after working so hard to get there on time. As I sit here now, my heart hurts at the thought that maybe he felt that he disappointed my brother and I by not making it on time.

My dad may have been the most stubborn man to bear the weight of ALS since Stephen Hawking himself. He wasn’t a helpless man — never was — and had no intention of becoming one, so he fought the progression of that awful disease every step of the way. He held off on using a walker for as long as he could stand on his own, and he held off on getting into a wheelchair for as long as he could still use a walker. And of course, he kept driving that truck until he could no longer physically get into it. Hell, he even picked me up from the airport, two hours away from home, just so we could go get a burger at Five Guys together and spend some time talking uninterrupted on the drive back. He wasn’t moving as good at that point, but I cherish the memory.

He didn’t want to hear it, but at some point I talked to him about taking the truck off his hands. He eventually agreed; It’s not that he couldn’t drive anymore — he’s not helpless, remember — it’s that his son needed a good truck. Or something like that.

And It is a good truck. I drove it back over to my parents’ house, the home both my dad and I grew up in, just a few hours after my brother and I zipped up his body bag in the living room. It was the first time I drove my dad’s truck without him alive, and it was on that drive that I consciously thought about how I was gonna keep this Ford for a long time. Maybe my daughter could drive it once she got her license, I thought, trying to focus on anything but the insanity of funeral preparations I was surely about to dive into.

But it wasn’t meant to be. About a month ago, ten months after I carved my dad’s initials into the wooden coffin he occupied, my wife was driving the truck to work. Making her way down our street, a neighbor roared out of his driveway, t-boning the drivers side of our red pickup. Fortunately, it’s a good truck that sits pretty high off the ground, and the offending vehicle sat fairly low to the ground. My wife was relatively unscathed in an accident that could have been much worse if it weren’t for that height difference.

After the insurance inspection, it turned out that the accident was bad enough for the truck to be a total loss.

My daughter watching as the truck is prepared for the tow.

I didn’t intend to watch as the tow trucker conducted his business today, but my daughter wanted to go down and say ‘bye’ to the truck once she saw it up on the flatbed from our second story window. It’s just a material possession; life’s real treasures either have a pulse or aren’t something you can touch at all, but I guess there’s something you can’t quite put your finger on when it comes to sitting in the same spot your dad sat. Gripping the same wheel that he gripped. Driving the last thing he ever drove.

It’s one more thing that connected us, that I no longer have.

It’s a good truck. Someone might buy it at auction, fix it up, and ride it down the road a few more times. Maybe their kid will learn how to drive in it some day. Or maybe, if the universe sees fit, it will provide reliable transport to another humble, hard working man who’s looking for an excuse to go see his kid, all grown up and living far away.

But hell, I don’t know. Maybe it’ll end up rusting out in a scrap yard somewhere. If there’s one thing that watching my dad die taught me, it’s that not everyone or everything gets a fairy tail ending, no matter how deserving. Even a good truck.

Wake The F--- Up!

Every once in a while, when you start to get too comfortable, life has a way of shaking you by the shoulders and waking you the F--- up. 

Today is one of those days for me. I woke up to news that one of my life long friends, who also happens to be my second cousin, lost his older sister in a tragic accident that also resulted in the death of possibly her entire family (there are three kids still unaccounted for in the family of eight). 

She was older than me, so I barely knew her; this isn't a solicitation for condolences or anything like that. This is me talking about how important it is to value what is important in life, and to live every day the best way you know how. We don't know how many years, months, or days we have-- and I know that, personally, I've already had a few close calls in my life already. 

It's imperative to have meaningful relationships with those you value in your life, to try to make your community or the world around you a better place in whatever way you can, to smile, to laugh, and to cry once in a while. Push the limits of what it means to be human, and push the limits of what you are personally capable of. Never pass up an opportunity to tell your loved ones that you do, in fact, love them. Never pass up an opportunity to expand your legacy; after all, that's the only thing we leave behind. 

If you are comfortable, coasting on auto-pilot in your relationships and how you live your life... wake the F--- up. There's not enough time for that nonsense.

The Winter Man

I wrote this short story the morning after a night spent filming a nor'easter (and getting my truck stuck and subsequently un-stuck five different times in the process). I wanted something to match the tone of the short video I was making, and this is what I came up with. I've received some encouraging feedback on the story from those who have watched the video, and figured I should post the text here for anyone interested. Oh, and if you haven't seen the video yet-- check it out below!

The Winter Man

I once met a man

On a last winter’s night

He had leathered skin

And one eye that pierced like a january gale

His heart was cold

It had long since frozen over

He contained a quiet rage

But deep down

I knew there was nothing quiet about it

He hadn’t been given a fair shake

Not in this life at least

He told me, “you gotta live hard”

As the wind whipped around him

Circumstance brought us together

But why without shelter?

Do you have a place to go?

I asked, as snow drove into my face

He replied, “We all do, I hope”

I didn’t expect such optimistic words from a man

that society had long since forgot about

He wasn’t a bum though, he told me, appearances aside

A traveling man, he said, when I inquired about occupation

The wind and the snow and the teenage temperature

Didn’t seem to disturb this stoic of the road

I couldn’t understand him well, but I’m not sure that was his aim

I felt sorry for him, but he knew that look all too well

“My pa and the war did me wrong,” he replied to my gaze

“But the road never has, not once.”

“It’s a cruel bitch, but a fair one,” he went on

“Driving snow, falling rain, hot sun, or scorching asphalt…

The road treats you the same as it treats me.”

It was at that time that my Uber arrived

I felt ashamed to get in, given the circumstances

But the look from his one eye, and the smirk on his face

Told me he felt sorrier for me, than I did for him.

WATCH THE VIDEO HERE:

Thanks for watching! If you want to see more, I'll be uploading daily-- so hit the 'like' button and make sure to subscribe for more awesome content! Follow Me: Instagram: https://instagram.com/martyskovlundjr Twitter: https://twitter.com/martyskovlundjr Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MartySkovlun...

A Decade Ago I Went To Afghanistan As A Soldier. Last November, I Returned As A Journalist

“RS (Resolute Support) will return the deceased or injured media member (after first aid) to the nearest commercial transportation facility, but (INDIVIDUAL MEDIA MEMBER) or my estate will be financially responsible for repatriating my remains.” As I initialed the appropriate space next to that statement, I couldn’t help but think about how the ground rules that I had to agree to before my embed was approved were blunt, if nothing else.

Having to research which insurance company would cover “repatriating” my remains from an active combat zone, should I take a round to the ol’ dome piece during my embed with U.S. and Afghan special operations forces, was the first indicator that this trip would be a lot different than the last time I went to Afghanistan. Which was in 2009, nearly a decade earlier. Back then I was carrying a rifle, not a camera; I was trying to capture terrorists, not a compelling story.

Me with a few guys from our platoon on my last trip to Afghanistan as a soldier in 2009.

I was also in a very different stage of my life back then, and this trip was a stark reminder of how much had changed for me, personally.

Journalists who go over to cover a war usually haven’t also been an armed combatant in that same war, and most armed combatants in a war don’t usually go back as journalists. There are notable exceptions, of course, but it isn’t normal by any stretch of the imagination. Going back as a journalist proved to be a completely different experience in both good and bad ways for me though.

The Stuff You Need Before You Even Leave

You take for granted how much the military actually takes care of you during the pre-deployment process. Most service members see SRP (soldier readiness processing) as a cumbersome event that takes away from precious time with family and friends before an upcoming deployment. But when you “deploy” as a journalist, you have to figure out not only what you need for every contingency, but also how to get it.

For starters, standard health and life insurance won’t do the trick. I needed to find a temporary policy that covers high risk areas around the world, as well as medevac in case of injury or repatriating my remains back to the U.S.—  if it comes to that. Of course, whatever unit I would be with would conduct any lifesaving measures needed (can you imagine a platoon medic asking about your health insurance policy in the middle of a fire fight?) and get me back to the CASH, but after that it’s all on me. And that includes any follow ups or rehab I’d need once I got back to the States.

After taking care of my health and life insurance, I had to go update my immunizations to cover any third world diseases I might encounter. Then, find a ballistic helmet as well as plates and a plate carrier, and since I’m embedding with SOF, I also had to find a SOCOM-compliant safety lanyard for any missions I might be on that involved helicopters.

My passport and tickets to Kabul. Arguably the two most important things to remember before heading to the airport in New York City.

Navigating the bureaucracy of the Afghan Embassy in Washington D.C. was no easy task either, especially since I wasn’t, you know, in Washington D.C. I had to acquire a media visa so that I could actually get into the country (unlike in the military, you actually need the host nation’s permission before entering). Pro tip: They don’t actually list a media visa as an option on the embassy website, you’ll have to ask for it.

All of this is taken care of for you when you deploy in the military. Hell, I don’t think I even had a passport for the majority of my deployments. But if my publication or I neglects any of this when embedding as a journalist, it can completely derail the trip.

Fortunately, one thing about pre-deployment prep doesn’t change as a journalist: I still drank my weight in whiskey the night before my flight.

On Hailing A Taxi In Kabul

My prior experience in traveling to Afghanistan involved ingesting copious amounts of ambien, stretching out on the floor of a C-17, waking up for a footlong cold cut from the Subway in Ramstein, Germany, then more ambien and maybe a benadryl thrown in for good measure for the last leg. Upon landing in Afghanistan, all I had to do was walk off the bird and stroll into the relative safety of a well established major military forward operating base. Nothing to worry about, except maybe flushing those sedatives out of my system.

Getting ready to board my last flight-- which would take me to Kabul-- at the airport in Dubai.

As my commercial Emirates flight descended from the sky on the final approach to Kabul, I watched as the women donned their scarves and the men, mostly government contractors it seemed, donned their game face. A rapid descent led to a rough landing on what felt like a very exposed runway at Hamid Karzai International Airport, where we then taxied and eventually deplaned right onto the tarmac. As soon as I stepped into the airport, I was immediately hustled by local do-gooders who wanted nothing more than to help me with my bags… and a twenty dollar bill.

From there I boarded a bus that would take me to parking lot C— the only place taxis were allowed on airport grounds. The bus itself was about what you’d expect from public transportation in a third world country; I decided it was probably best if I stayed standing. After arriving at the parking lot, I called a local taxi company and began enduring what would be a significant period of impatience on my part while waiting for my transportation across town to Resolute Support Headquarters.

I tried to reassure myself that it’s not a big deal, that I’m just waiting for a taxi at an airport. No big deal, people do this all the time all around the world. I’ve done this a million times before! Nothing’s different here, right? Right?

Wishful thinking, unfortunately. I’m 6’5” tall and hover around 250 pounds. I’m as white as the refrigerator you grew up with, and I’m dressed in a flannel shirt and khaki outdoor pants. I couldn’t possibly stick out anymore than I did, and unlike most airports, locals loitering was allowed if not encouraged. There were Afghans lounging about on their lawn chairs on the edges of the parking lot, just doing a little afternoon people watching at the airport. Because that’s normal, right? I’ve seen Narcos, they were probably lookouts for the Taliban, at least in my mind anyway. Oh, and those dudes in mismatching uniforms with Ak’s at the ready over there? I’m sure they would probably side with me if an altercation were to arise.

And my phone wasn’t working right. So I had that going for me.

I stood there for nearly two hours. Two hours of me, sans weapon or body armor, just standing around “outside the wire.” Two hours of me thinking about the kidnapping issues in Kabul, about Daniel Pearl and what his family must have went through, and Peter Kassig, and…

I picture I took in parking lot C at Hamid Karzai International Airport in Kabul Afghanistan right after landing.

The taxi finally arrived. The driver was young, spoke decent english, and drove a nice enough car so I didn’t give it a second thought before throwing my bags in the trunk and hopping in. Get me the fuck out of here! was about the only thing going through my head at that point. Then, IED’s be damned, we dodged and darted our way through Kabul rush hour on the way to RSHQ.

I obviously made it to my destination safely, and the cab driver was actually great company for the drive. Maybe I let my imagination get the best of me, or maybe I was just being practical. Most journalists would probably say I was overreacting, but it’s a bit different experience if you look at it all through the lens of my previous experiences in this country.

Journalists Don’t Carry Guns

During my embed, I had multiple people ask (on social media) if I was packing a gat. The simple answer? Nope.

Not only was it specifically prohibited in the ground rules that I signed with Resolute Support, and not only would my high-risk insurance be void if I was found to be carrying or using a firearm in country, but it’s simply unethical for a war correspondent to ever carry a firearm. Don’t get me wrong, I definitely believe in the usefulness of carrying a firearm as a means of protection, but you have to clearly establish that you are an independent third party reporting on war— not taking part in it.

That’s a hard pill to swallow for many, and did I feel vulnerable not carrying in a war zone? Hell yeah I felt vulnerable! I was completely dependant on the servicemembers I was with, and should they fail, my only recourse was hoping that my medium-sized ballistic plates prevented any effective fire from penetrating my vitals. After that… well, I had a couple of tourniquets on me at all all times along with my decade-old training in self aid.

Interviewing the subject of one of my articles at Camp Commando just outside of Kabul. Off to the left of me was a U.S. soldier, known as a 'guardian angel', which was my primary means of protection while embedded. 

I was realistic though. Carrying a firearm over there only helps you in one specific situation: other people shooting at you; and in that situation I should be shooting back with my camera— because that’s my job. But if I am in a vehicle that hits an IED, or we take IDF (looking at you, Bagram), a rifle or pistol isn’t going to do much for me.

If you want to get your man-dance on during a TIC, then journalism isn’t for you— go find your local recruiting station. I knew I wouldn’t be able to carry when I volunteered for the embed, but I also knew the rewards outweigh the risks. Sometimes being a storyteller involves more than sitting in a Starbucks sipping a chai latte while waxing poetic on a macbook.

You Are Now Officially An Outsider

Not long after the initial formalities of assigning rooms and issuing credentials, I soon realized that I was now officially an outsider. It’s not that anyone was rude to me; it was much more subtle than that.

Service members, to include officers, addressed me as ‘sir’—  I was never an officer so that immediately felt awkward. I required an escort everywhere I went on RSHQ, and was always introduced with the caveat that I was a member of the media. The underlying message was, of course, to watch what you say around me. In fact, one of the first interviews that I conducted was with a general officer at Resolute Support Headquarters. There was literally a fire team’s worth of PAO’s in the room to monitor the conversation, and the general himself was very guarded with every word that he spoke.

I couldn’t help but scream, on the inside, I’m one of you! Just relax and be candid!

Of course they can’t, and nor should they. I am there to do a job after all (more on that later), and they knew that. Nonetheless, it was disconcerting to a certain degree to feel like you were no longer on the hometeam. I may as well have been a Yankee fan at Fenway, most treating me politely with a few regarding me as the enemy.

It got better as the trip went on. They figured out that I wasn’t trying to pull a Michael Hastings during the embed, I just wanted a good story and to report what I saw and heard accurately and without bias— as I do in everything I write. But issues would occasionally spring up to remind me I still wasn’t one of the boys.

From my vantage point on a ridge just above Camp Morehead, I had a stunning view of the mountains that surround Kabul.

One chilly evening, I was waiting outside the TOC at Camp Morehead for the PAO I was with to go to chow. A soldier who I became fast friends with over the course of my stay at the camp invited me into the TOC and out of the cold. I declined at first, but he insisted. I walked in so as not to appear rude, but was asked to leave in very short order by another soldier on the grounds that there was sensitive material out. I could hear his remarks after I left, “he’s a freaking journalist, man!” He may as well have said ‘spy’. The one who invited me in in the first place apologized profusely, and I of course didn’t hold it against him— I should have insisted on staying outside.

After all, I’m an outsider now.

I’m Here To Report

I had to occasionally remind myself that, despite how much I was enjoying myself being around like minded folks again, I was there to do a job. You can make friends, be pleasant and all that touchy-feely stuff, but at the end of the day I needed to chase down the story with every bit of resolve I had when I was on my last trip to Afghanistan.

I had to ask tough questions of men and women that I previously would have only spoken to at the position of attention. I needed to establish rapport with folks that had immense multinational responsibilities, folks that would have been extremely inappropriate for me to “establish rapport” with as a junior enlisted soldier.

On a UH-60 Blackhawk flight, going from one base to another. A big thanks to Air Force COMCAM for snapping some baller pictures and making me look way cooler than I am.

I had to remain unbiased, which means I had to approach every event, every statement, every interview with an open mind. I needed to set aside my own biases as a former soldier, and look at everything on behalf of the Americans that couldn’t be in Afghanistan to see how it was going for themselves. As a reporter, my job was and still is to be the trusted eyes and ears on the ground— a responsibility that many Americans think the media is neglecting.

Nonetheless, I embraced my change of hats. I was still wearing a ballistic helmet, but the dynamics of my responsibility to the American people had changed in a drastic way. That may seem over-dramatic, and maybe it is, but my realization of the new job at hand was visceral.

Surf ‘N’ Turf Is Still Amazing

Walking into the chow hall on my first Friday of the embed, I had completely forgot about surf n’ turf being a thing. Fortunately for me, the U.S. military didn’t.

Surf ‘n’ turf in Afghanistan is usually steak and some sort of seafood, generally crab legs or a lobster tail, and it’s typically every Friday evening. Seems lavish, right? I don’t think it would hold up to the steak and crab legs you would find at many restaurants in the United States, but it’s definitely a treat for anyone deployed overseas.

Steaks on the grill at Camp Morehead. Of all the places I have been in Afghanistan, Camp Morehead is by far my favorite. I hope to return someday. 

The contract cooks were grilling outside, the smell floating through the mountain air carried a fit of nostalgia my way. I loaded up with a hot-off-the-grill steak, two ribs, and some corn on the cob before taking my seat in the hall that was filling up with soldiers.

Sitting there enjoying my meal, I couldn’t help but think back to the old days. I could distinctly remember the last time I was in Afghanistan; recently married and carrying the guilt of lying to my new wife about why I needed (truth: wanted) to go on one more deployment with 1st Ranger Battalion.

Life seemed simpler back then. We would wake up around 3 pm for our “hooch”-mandated coffee hour, go to the daily “poop” meeting (a nightly update about the upcoming nights targets) about 4, and then head over to the DFAC for surf ‘n’ turf at about 5 for a good meal before it was time to get ready for a mission later that night. We were “going out” about every other night, trying our best to embrace the new rule about offsetting our infil to a target a minimum of five kilometers. That usually turned into a 10k+ walk through the mountains, much to our disappointment.  

Back then, I wasn’t a journalist, I wasn’t a father, and I didn’t really have much in the way of responsibilities outside of keeping track of a few sensitive items and doing my part to catch the bad guys. I eagerly looked forward to my deployments, and life was measured in training cycles. Fast forward to the present day, as I was digging into my friday night treat, I couldn’t help but think how no combat embed will ever replace that experience, or that time in my life.

I love my job. I love being a reporter and story-teller; a newly minted war correspondent who (this time) didn’t need his body “repatriated.” But no matter how different it was to go back on an embed, certain things will never change— and sometimes that’s a good thing.

Thoughts On New Years Eve

The last day of the year is always a time of introspection for me. I think about all the events that transpired in the preceding year, as well as day dream about my ambitions and goals I hope to achieve during the next trip around the sun. 

2017 was a good year for me, professionally speaking. I started off the year by finishing the filming of my first TV show, JFK Declassified: Tracking Oswald— which would air on History Channel just a few months later. Being a part of this show was an incredible experience for me, and I can’t wait to work on a show or movie again in the future, whether it’s in front of or behind the camera. 

I also finished writing my first original screenplay, a television pilot. This may not seem like a big deal, but anyone who has finished a screenplay knows that it’s an enormous undertaking and an achievement to be proud of (I certainly am!). 

On the journalism front, I broke the story about the first female Army Ranger at The 75th Ranger Regiment, which made nationwide news. I covered the eviction of the Standing Rock protest camp on location in North Dakota, and the long form article that I wrote about that experience ended up being selected as a Medium.com Editor’s Pick. I also was among the first to report on the addition of a military intelligence battalion to the 75th Ranger Regiment, interviewed one of the first female infantryman in the U.S. Army, and traveled to Los Angeles to provide a behind the scenes look at CBS's new drama SEAL Team. 

As many of you know, I closed out the year with an embed assignment with U.S. and Afghan special operations forces in Afghanistan. This was a big step for me as a journalist, and I’m very proud of the dispatches, photographs, and long form analysis that have come from the trip. I’m hoping this was the first trip of many with the U.S. military and their missions around the world. 

I would be remiss to not mention my editors at Task & Purpose— much of my work this year would not be what it was without their help and guidance. I’m a better journalist because of folks like Lauren K. and Aaron. 

It was somewhat of a mixed bag in my personal life this year. We welcomed a new nephew to the family, my brother and his wife’s first; and a new niece from my brother-in-law and his wife— their first as well. 

My daughter turned three years old in August, and I'm happy to report that she is healthy, smart, and growing fast. My sister Molly joined the Army after graduating high school and, in one of the proudest moments of my year, I was able to attend her Basic Combat Training graduation in Ft. Sill, Oklahoma. She’s most recently finished the EMT phase of her training as a combat medic down in San Antonio, Texas. 

I was also able to attend my friend’s bachelor party in Las Vegas only a week after the deadly mass murder that happened there. Of course it was awesome to celebrate the upcoming nuptials of a man I have known since I was a young kid, but it also felt good to go and support the city of Las Vegas after such a horrific attack. 

On a somber note, I lost two old friends this year, Caleb Service and Kevin Ryan. They were young men who devoted their life to serving our country and were taken far too soon. My thoughts have been with their loved ones during this holiday season.

I also said goodbye to my dad, Marty Skovlund Sr., who fought valiantly all the way to the end of his struggle with ALS at the age of 52. This was the third family member I have lost to this disease, and I hope it’s the last. There is no cure for ALS at this time, and the average lifespan after diagnosis is only 3-5 years. My dad made it 10 months. 

Despite my current profession, I am unable to capture how much I miss my dad with words alone. 

After my dad’s passing, Lauren and I made the decision to move back to the northeast to be closer to her family. It was hard to say goodbye to all of the family and friends that supported me through one of the toughest years of my life, but we have fallen in love with our new home town— Portsmouth, New Hampshire. The move has led to my wife Lauren finding and accepting a position at her dream job, where she will be an interior designer for a commercial design company in Massachusetts!

I of course can’t summarize 2017 without mentioning the incredible season the Minnesota Vikings have had. This is the first football season I haven’t been able to share with my dad, but as of today they clinched the #2 seed and a first round bye in the playoffs. That leads me to my hopes for 2018, and chief among them, I’m really pulling for the Vikings' first Super Bowl win (and at their home stadium, no less)!

I’m looking forward to continuing to learn and improve as a journalist, writer, and photographer this year. I’m fortunate to work in a profession that I love and that constantly challenges me, and I can’t wait to see where my work leads me next.

Lauren and I are still getting settled in New Hampshire, and are having fun exploring our new surroundings and catching up with old friends (and hopefully making new ones too!). We are attending weddings in Duluth, Minnesota and the Dominican Republic this year, and I’m looking forward to both. 

After my sister finishes her medic training, she will be heading to airborne school. I can't wait to pinning her wings on, and I hope my dad is able to see that moment and reflect on the fact three of his children became bonafide paratroopers in the U.S. Army. 

No matter the ups or downs, here’s to 2018 and whatever it may bring. Happy New Year to all of my friends, family, and supporters!

Ever send an e-mail to a random person because you typed in the wrong address?

Ever send an e-mail to a completely random person because you typed in the wrong address?

Well, that happened to me recently. 

I sent a revised draft of the original tv pilot that I've been working on this year to a writer friend of mine who's been giving me amazing notes. Except, I didn't send it to him. I sent it to a completely random person who has no connection or knowledge of me.

I received this e-mail response from that random person this morning:

The response completely made my day. Here's a person that had no reason to read the accidental e-mail, never mind a 65 page script. They have no reason to give me anything but completely honest feedback; they don't know me and have no interest in anything I may be doing. They are a completely independent reader. If they wanted to, they could have just ignored it or tore me apart, or any number of other outcomes.

But they read it, and they really liked it. 

Man, as a writer, that feels really good. Made my whole day in fact, and came at a time where I'm feeling like I'm in a rut writing-wise (my Afghan long form pieces are really challenging me right now). 

Thank you, anonymous reader. You can rest easy knowing you made a difference for someone today.

A Message On Thanksgiving Eve

My recent embed with American and Afghan SOF in Afghanistan was an amazing trip, and I can't wait for everyone to read the long form pieces that I have forthcoming. I hope to embed with US forces again in the future, no matter what part of the world they are in.

That being said, I love the line of work I have found myself in. I get to travel to interesting places, talk to fascinating people, and witness history in some cases.

It's taken me a while to wrap my head around what exactly it is that I do, as I've worked as a journalist, a blogger, an author, a filmmaker, a television co-host, and more recently a photographer. I think I can now sum all of that up into one job I am passionate about: Storyteller.

I hope to become a great storyteller some day. Someone who is capable of telling stories through multiple mediums and across a wide variety of outlets. Stories that are compelling, that inform or entertain, stories that maybe even stir the soul.

That's not an easy road; there are very few that can say they have been successful in that endeavor.

But a hard road is much easier to travel when you genuinely enjoy every bump in the road, every turn and every curve. Whether I make it into the same conversation as the great storytellers some day or not, I know it's a pursuit I love and will have no regrets about someday when I look back on what I've done with my life.

This Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for the opportunity to pursue my passion. For the support I receive from my friends and family, readers and viewers of my work, and for those who've taken a risk on hiring me.

I'm thankful that I live in a country that is founded on a free press; a country that largely embraces artistic expression. I'm thankful for those who continue to keep watch both at home and abroad and allow me to live in relative safety.

I don't take for granted the blessings in my life, and after I spend the day with family tomorrow, I'll be back at it pursuing great stories with every bit of vigor I can muster.

Here's to a great Thanksgiving and being thankful for those who make the great pursuit all possible.

Thoughts On Being Creative For A Living

As some of you may or may not have noticed, I have recently delved deeper into the world of photography as a way to further develop as a creative person in general, to learn a new skill in particular, and to diversify my revenue streams (assuming I get to that point). As with almost everything I have taught myself over the past six years or so, I turned to YouTube for tutorials.

That’s when I found Peter McKinnon’s channel for photographers and cinematographers. Boom, right in the sweet spot. The guy is a treasure trove of information, and I’ve learned a lot from his videos already. But this isn’t about him per se, or even about photography. This is about a particular video he put out titled Something Every Artist Needs To Hear. Check it out below:

His commentary really hit home with me. I know exactly what he’s talking about. I’ve had the same thoughts and felt the same emotions. It’s not easy venturing into a creative space; it’s even more difficult if you try to make a living doing it. As Peter mentioned in the video, it’s hard to put yourself out there and be vulnerable. You will take criticism, you will have people that attack your character, and you will have people who make wild assumptions that snowball into… yeah.

I’ve had more and more friends, acquaintances, and random internet connections reach out lately asking for advice on writing and other creative stuff. My general thoughts are that you have to be fearless in the beginning, persistent in the middle, and humble once you reach the height of your success. Oh, and never stop learning, never stop trying to be better at your craft then the day before or the year before.

I’m still in the ‘be persistent’ stage myself, but am lucky to know a few guys and gals who have made it to the ‘be humble’ stage. They are a true inspiration for climbing this mountain and making it to the top.

Everyone starts somewhere though. It’s going to suck in the beginning. Not only will you be highly critical of your own work (as every artist is), but you’ll have people who pick everything you do apart and aren’t shy about reminding you of every mistake (you’ll make them, and a lot of them) you’ve ever made. It comes with the job. Try to handle it gracefully, but most importantly push through it and continue working.

Money might get tight when you make the transition to full time artist. It’ll be embarrassing, it might cause fights with your spouse or family, and you might not be able to live very comfortably. Hell, you might even have to hide your car in random parking lots so that the re-po man can’t find it (2014 suuuuuuucked!). But you have to push through that, you have to believer that you will make it to the other side and once again (or maybe for the first time in your life) live comfortably while plying your trade.

I’m probably babbling at this point, but fuck it, that’s why this is a blog on my own website.

A lot of artists, especially writers, are also introverts. You have to be comfortable marketing yourself and your work though. That’s part of “putting yourself out there.” If you grew up in a humble blue-collar family like I did, it’s going to feel very narcissistic, very grand stand-y (if that makes sense). But you have to do it. If you don’t think your work is good enough to tell other people about, then why would anyone else think it’s good enough? You have to be excited about every creation, even if you know it was a learning experience or that you are capable of better. And you have to take it in stride when people accuse you of self-promotion, selling out, or in the case of many military veterans¾ abandoning the “quiet/silent professional” ethos.

If you’re patient and work hard, the opportunities will come. There is no sure-fire path towards success as a creative person. I’ve had opportunities present themselves because of contacts I made years prior, risks I took that didn’t make sense at the time, or work that I did a long time ago. You never know who will see it, who will appreciate it, or who will reach out. You just have to trust that it will all pay off eventually.

I recently had such an opportunity arise. It’s not the kind of opportunity that will result in a lot of money made, but rather the kind that indicates I’ve been on the right path even though I’ve questioned it many times. It’s an opportunity that very few ever receive in this particular field, but for me it’s validation of the highest order. That means everything when you’ve been grinding for years trying to get somewhere.

Anyway, that’s probably enough for one blog post. Go out and take a risk, chase your dream, and make mistakes. I hope it pays off for you some day. I hope the journey is all worth it! 

Thrills Before Pills: How One Group Of Veterans Is Tackling PTS

According to data from the Veterans Administration, there are approximately 68,000 veterans in the United States that are diagnosed with opioid-use disorders. It’s a deadly problem, with the veteran demographic twice as likely to die from accidental opioid overdose than their non-veteran counterparts.

The problem stems from a system of over-prescription and lazy medicine that starts while they are still on active duty, leaving many veterans feeling as if it is the only solution for the root problem of chronic pain and/or post traumatic stress. But one group of special operations veterans has adopted a “thrills not pills” philosophy in an attempt to address their symptoms in a more natural, healthier way.

So they packed up their mountaineering equipment, skis, and snowboards and headed to some of the most austere terrain on earth. Their goal? To promote healing and document it for others to be inspired by.

According to the Kickstarter campaign for their documentary, titled Big Mountain Heroes, their goal is “to inspire people by capturing a seven-day journey into the French, Swiss and Italian Alps by five United States Special Operations veterans who share a love of the outdoors and adventure.”

Isaiah Burkhart served in the 3rd Ranger Battalion as a sniper, and is one of the veterans who went on the trip. “Maybe there’s other stuff out there that you can do, that can help you with the damage,” he said in an interview. “Every time I go outside, I put one more stitch in the wound.”

The footage itself was captured by a rock star duo of filmmakers. Nick Cahill, an accomplished cinematographer who has had his work featured on the cover of National Geographic, is filming the documentary. Alongside him is Matt Hardy, who is a FAA certified drone pilot and has done work for the infamous adventure filmmaker Warren Miller. With talent like that, the documentary is sure to be as powerful as it is beautiful.

At the time this article was written, they have raised just shy of 10,000 dollars of the 25,000 needed for post-production costs. The fundraising campaign runs through May 1st, and because it is an “all or nothing” crowd funding campaign – they’ll need to reach their goal to get any of the money. To donate, head over to: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/909011398/big-mountain-heroes-documentary/description

A still taken during principal photography for the documentary Big Mountain Heroes. 

History Channel's Newest Show: JFK Declassified

Over the past few months I had the opportunity to do a docu-series for History Channel focusing on the recently declassified government documents concerning the JFK assassination.

This is my debut on a big cable television show, and still can’t believe I was afforded the opportunity. I had a blast working alongside veteran CIA officer Bob Baer and retired LAPD Lieutenant Adam Bercovici, as well as all the crew and producers who brought this investigation to life. Some of you might immediately dismiss the concept of this show as fodder for the tinfoil hat crowd, but I can promise that you’ll learn a thing or two if you tune in for this six-episode limited series.

Our investigative team traveled to Moscow, Mexico City, New Orleans, Miami and Dallas in an effort to chase down every move Lee Harvey Oswald made in the months leading up to the assassination. We walked in the footsteps of Oswald on multiple occasions while shooting this, and as a long time history nerd – it was fascinating. 

I obviously can’t reveal too much about the show, but if you’re a fan of any of my past work then you should tune in to the History Channel on Tuesday, April 25th at 10/9c. We’ll be starting off in the beating pulse of the Cold War during the early 1960’s: Mexico City.

Don’t miss it!